Chapter Text
Act I
“Who knows? Perhaps your love will make me forget all I wish not to remember.”
Alexandre Dumas - The Count of Monte Cristo
How many seconds does it take for a life to end? How many minutes must be exhausted to drive the pain so deep within, to the very core. How many hours are needed until the noxiousness of insufferable poison overtakes the mind? How many days until everything that ever mattered, fades to worthless dust? How many weeks until all is forgotten, all is disremembered, no longer given even a sideways glance? And how many years does it take for a once loving heart to be hardened into raw, unadulterated hate.
A hate so strong, so pure, that it overpowers everything. Overpowers the senses, overpowers the body, overpowers logic and sanity, forsakes that of wisdom and compassion, and fuels the mind with welcome toxicity.
Harry knows that hate. He knows that unbearable feeling of loathing all too well. In fact, at this point of his life, that is all he knows. All his mind can process; all his brain keeps reverberating back to like a moth drawn to a much needed, unavoidable flame.
As Harry sits, his hardly clothed, mutilated back curled up against a cold stone wall, as his grimy bare feet dig into the dirt ground beneath him, as his heavy tired head lulls to the side desolately, he dwells on his hatred, meditates on the profound acrimony within himself.
These four walls, four cold stone walls, not wide in diameter or vast in width, having only the light the creeps in from the lone barred window near the ceiling, have become his home. Not much of a home, in the true sense of the word, but more of a hellish dwelling he is dismally confined to, indefinitely. With mildew droplets trickling from the rusted rooftop, and the pungent smell of drying blood plaguing the air, despair and suffering palpably thick in the atmosphere, this place can be nothing but a nightmare, nothing but hell.
It all started ten years ago. The unfortunate series of events that cascaded downhill in Harry’s life, eternally etched into his acrimonious mind, never to be forgotten, never to be elapsed from his scarred memory.
Ten years ago.
The downfall of his hopeless life may have began ten years ago, but Harry can remember it all so clearly, still see it all so clearly, still hear it so clearly, as if it began ten minutes ago.
“I'll miss you.” Louis had whispered softly against Harry’s cheek.
“I'll miss you too.” Harry answered, burying his head in the warmth of Louis’ neck. “But it's only for the summer. I'll be back before you know it. I promise.”
They stood wrapped up in each other’s arms at a private gate at Heathrow airport in London. Harry was all set to fly off to California for an internship at Blackstone Trust LP, a multimillion investment firm, accompanied by his best friend, Zayn. As it so happened, Zayn’s father owned the company, and his family had made all the arrangements and accommodations for their exciting internship summer together.
“That doesn’t matter.” Louis sighed, pouting his lips slightly. “What am I supposed to do for a whole summer? I’ll probably drive myself mad with sheer boredom.”
Even at the young ages of eighteen and twenty, Harry and Louis couldn’t have been more codependent if they tried. Not wanting to ever be too far from one another, not able to bear the strain of distance. They’ve known each other practically their whole lives it seemed, destined to be friends, untimely fated to fall hopelessly for each other.
“I wish I had something to give you to remember me by.” Harry mumbled, pulling back to meet Louis’ eyes.
“You think I’m going to completely forget you over a summer!?” Louis gasped theatrically, a single hand flying to touch his chest. “Harold, babe, you wound me. I’m not that forgetful.”
“Of course not.” Harry giggled, pressing his lips to the tip of Louis’ nose. “But still…it’s the thought, Lou.”
“I love you, and you love me so…isn’t that all that matters really?”
“Mmm, maybe.” Harry hummed, holding his own hand out to Louis. “Here give me your hand.”
Louis presented his right hand silently, offering it to Harry.
“No, no!” Harry shook his head, grinning to himself. “Your other hand, babe.”
Louis smiled fondly, exchanging his extended hands. “Here, love.”
Harry yanked a stray thread from the hem of his oversized brown jumper, tying it in a perfect knot around Louis’ left ring finger.
“There.” Harry grinned, extremely pleased with himself. “So we'll always be tied to each other.”
“Oh my god! You're such a sap! That is so beyond corny!” Louis giggled loudly, looking at the tan thread coiled in a knot around his ring finger. “I can’t believe you just said that out loud and then proceeded to tie a shitty string around my finger with absolutely no shame whatsoever!”
“Fine, Louis.” Harry huffed, crossing his arms across his chest defensively. “Don't wear it, whatever.”
“No, wait love, don’t be like that.” Louis laughed, grabbing hold of Harry’s hand. “I’m just curious as to how am I going to explain why I have a random string tied about my ring finger.”
“It’s not random if it has meaning.” Harry grumbled petulantly, furrowing his eyebrows together.
“Alright, alright…I’ll wear it! God!” Louis sighed dramatically, smoothing his fingers over the deep undulation of Harry’s brow. “Stop frowning, you’ll get wrinkles long before your time. And I refuse to be with someone who has a prune face.” Louis teased, moving his fingers from Harry’s brow to caress his cheek. “Even if it is a cute prune face.”
A wide smile slowly spread across Harry’s face, eye lightening up. “You’ll wear it?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Louis rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. “I’ll wear the damn string from your jumper and it’ll never leave my finger.”
“Promise?”
“Yes, I promise, love. I promise.” Louis repeated, using his right hand to properly position the twine ring at the base of his finger. “No matter what happens, you’ll never see it off my finger.”
“Harry, come on mate! The jet is ready to go and I want to land at a reasonable time in L.A.” Zayn strolled over to Harry and Louis, slinging his arms over each of their shoulders. “It’s only three months boys, don’t be so dramatic.”
“I’ll be fucking dramatic if I want to.” Louis pinched Zayn sides playfully, wrapping an arm around his waist. “You’re not the one that is being left to fend for themselves.”
The three of them had been friends for ages, as tight knit as they come. After the unfortunate passing of Harry’s family from a catastrophic car accident when he was only ten-years-old, Zayn’s family took him in. Harry’s father was a dear old friend of Zayn’s father, so they embraced him without a seconds thought, essentially adopting him. Harry was always at Zayn’s estate anyway and the Maliks were by no means wanting for money, far from it in fact. The Malik family had a true legacy, a high level of class, rooted in abundant wealth and insane riches.
Harry and Zayn were brothers from the start, always linked and side by side; inseparable and close as ever, bound together by a bond that surpassed blood, overruled true familial kinship. There was absolutely nothing that came between them.
That was until…Louis came along.
Louis was a misfit, a conundrum really. He was paradoxically of extraordinary wealth, but acted as though he had not a penny to his name, avoiding the prestige and affluence at all costs. Louis came barreling into the private academy Zayn and Harry were enrolled in, causing trouble, gaining attention and reeking havoc.
For some odd reason, Louis instantly clicked with the likes of Harry and Zayn, drawn to them both for different reasons. Zayn and Louis had much in common, both sharing sentiments about the prisons and idiocy of the rich, both trying so desperately to be menaces in their twisted high class societies, forever ride-or-die troublemakers at heart.
While Harry on the opposite spectrum, well…Harry fell for Louis instantly. He was enraptured by Louis’ boldness and driven tenacity, enthralled by his audacious persona and witty humor. Harry didn't know what love was, how could he at such an adolescent and extremely young age when they met? All he knew was that he was held captive by Louis’ attention, that he was hopelessly spellbound by his charm, that he would do anything for Louis if he simply asked.
And Louis soon felt the same towards Harry, endeared by his innocence and charismatic fledgling awkwardness. Truly, they shouldn't have fallen for each other, opposites in almost every way, from two completely different worlds, two extremes on the spectrum, two contrasting poles of magnetism.
Louis came from everything, same as Zayn, but Harry came from nothing, ironically thrown into their posh and privileged world by chance, by a tragic freak accident.
Despite all that, despite their opposing backgrounds and their contradictory heritages, and despite the incompatible difference in the value of their last names, they gave into their unforeseen pull towards each other. Harry and Louis gave in to the mutual feelings they shared, casting Zayn as the third wheel to all their adventures together.
And adventures they had. The three of them grew more inextricable day by day, undividable and thick as thieves.
“Why you both refuse to take me along, is beyond me.” Louis scuffed, casting his eyes back against their sockets dramatically. “It’s bloody rude.”
“Um…maybe because you have literally no interest in business or marketing or accounting or anything else besides writing.” Harry reminded, grinning fondly at Louis. “Which is fine, of course…lovely even.”
Louis pompously tilted his head up, jutting his chin out. “A sound writer cares not for the desires of modern man, my soul isn't sourced with money or riches or even positions of power, only by priceless, invaluable librettos.”
“Always speaking in riddles and poems.” Zayn chuckled, eyes crinkling in a sincere smile as he squeezed Louis’ side. “Absolutely brilliant.”
“Limerick is my native tongue.” Louis grinned proudly. “And a true writer can compose artful masterpieces anywhere, whether that be here in England or in America. You both are just trying to get rid of me.”
“Not true.” Harry shook his head, disagreeing. “You’re just a distraction, babe.”
“Ready when you are, boys.” The pilot stepped from the door of the private jet, standing at the top of the stairs, beckoning them with the wave of his hand.
“Well…bye, Lou.” Zayn kissed Louis’ cheek, hugging him close before letting go. “Don’t die without me.”
“I’ll try.” Louis smiled, winking at Zayn as he started to climb the stairs, boarding the plane.
Harry pulled Louis in his arms once more, encircling his arms closely around Louis’ middle. Louis cupped his hands against Harry’s cheeks, drawing his face close to affectionately brush their lips together.
“Bye Haz.” Louis mumbled against Harry’s mouth.
“Live as though I’m with you always.” Harry whispered against Louis ear. It was something he always said, whether apart for an hour or a day, weeks or even months, just a simple comforting reminder, an assurance. It was never a goodbye statement, but more of an unbroken promise between them.
“Always.” Louis answered softly in response as he usually does.
Harry broke away from Louis, slowly following Zayn into the belly of the aircraft, blowing Louis small a kiss goodbye before the doors were shut and they proceeded to take off.
That summer, Harry and Zayn had an exciting and progressive time working at together at Blackstone Trust, learning and exploring the vast ways of business and finance.
That summer everything went according to plan…until it didn’t. That summer was actually only the beginning of the end.
“Zayn!” Harry shouted, bursting hurriedly through the door of his and Zayn’s shared summer home, tripping over his own feet into the dark shadows of the room.
“Yeah bro, I'm in the den!” Zayn called distantly from another room, light glowing around the corner. “What is it?”
Harry followed the sound of Zayn’s voice through the luxurious apartment, stumbling across the hard wood floors towards the flowing luminescence in the distance.
“Where have you been, anyway?” Zayn asked, distractedly. “It's almost nine.”
“I was...I…” Harry huffed, out of breath, as he reached Zayn, seated on a couch in the den.
Zayn stood to his feet, frowning as he took in Harry’s distressed appearance. “Have you been running or something, H? You’re so...winded.”
“Yeah…” Harry leaned against his knees for a moment, trying to diffuse the ample amounts of adrenaline coursing through his oxygen deprived body. “I…I ran here.”
“Why?” Zayn frowned, stepping closer to Harry, voice sounding only partially concerned.
“Zayn, I...” Harry anxiously ran his shaking hands through his fringe. “Fuck!”
“It's alright, H. It's alright.” Zayn comforted softly, placing a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “You're fine, just tell me what happened.”
“It's all illegal, Z.” Harry answered in a rushed unsteady breath. “Everything. All of it. It’s all fucking illegal!”
“What do you mean?” Zayn questions, face scrunched in confusion as he gazed at Harry’s wide eyes.
“Uh…so…I was going over the accounts and everything…you know, like I always do…and it just…it wasn't adding up. None of it was adding up.” Harry started, righting his posture as he slowly began to gain control of his breathing. “And I shouldn't have seen it…there was no way I should have seen it but…it was all there in front of my eyes.”
“What?” Zayn asked at a loss for what Harry meant.
“It’s me. I mean…my name…” Harry trembled, voice shaky. “My name is on basically all the accounts and…and I...it looks like I'm stealing millions of dollars from the company! Me!” Harry emphasized, hands tossed in the air. “Like…shit! Fucking shit! I’m literally just a fucking intern and…and I don't know what to do and…I don't know what's happened…or why…and-”
“Shh shh, alright. It’s alright, H. We just have to think this through.” Zayn said, sounding oddly calm and at ease. “Am I the only the only person you've told?”
“Yes, of course. You’re my best friend and I trust you over anyone else, so I came straight here. I figured you’d know what to do.” Harry replied honestly. “But…um…a man saw me…or he was there. Um…one of the higher ups…I think his name is Ben...he saw me and he saw the all files and the evidence…and…he threatened me and I...I mean...”
Zayn’s phone buzzed on the counter, vibrating incessantly against the sleek surface. Zayn’s face paled, color leaving his face before something flashed in his eyes, shrouded over his features.
“…I don’t know Zayn…maybe he has something to do with this. Or maybe…” Harry trailed off as he watched Zayn pick the phone up off of the counter. “Wait, what are you doing, Z? You're going to answer it now!?" Harry questioned, voice panicked and skeptical. “Who is it?”
“I'm just...I'm...um…” Zayn stared down at the phone in his hand before looking up at Harry, expression torn and uncertain. He picked up the phone and held it to his ear, still staring at Harry.
“Zayn!” Harry hissed disbelievingly.
“Yes.” Was all Zayn said into the speaker of his phone.
“Yes.” Zayn responded again, after a drawn out pause, never once breaking eye contact with Harry as he spoke.
“Yes. He is here.”
Harry shook his head, completely confused and baffled as to what could possibly be going on. He didn't know what to think or what to do, his mind hadn't stopped racing since he left the shining doors of Blackstone, his heart hadn't stopped beating out of the confines of his rib cage.
“Z, what is going on? Who was that?” Harry asked worriedly as Zayn dropped the phone back down on the stainless steel countertop.
Zayn remained wordless just gazing at Harry with a peculiar stunned expression. If Harry had to describe the look in Zayn’s eyes at that moment, he would say that what he saw in the amber sienna of Zayn’s irises, was a haunting mix of determination, betrayal, and a slight twinge of remorse.
“I'm sorry, H.” Zayn whispered suddenly, staring blankly at Harry.
Harry was just about to ask him what for? Ask him what he meant by that and why? But then all of a sudden, a swarm of L.A. police, uniform clad and weaponry armed, came barreling through the door, completely unannounced and seemingly uncalled for.
“Zayn?”
“Harry Styles.” An officer addressed him officially, voice even and stern. “You are under arrest on the account of suspected embezzlement and misappropriation of enterprise funds allotted to Blackstone Trust Limited Partnership.”
“What?!” Harry shouted, flinching away from the police officer, shuffling back on his feet. “I didn’t do anything! Zayn, tell them I didn’t do anything!”
Zayn remained deathly silent, stare blank and almost impassive. Cold. Expressionless.
“Zayn!” Harry yelled again, still moving away from the officers looming towards him. “Tell them I’m innocent!”
“I'm sorry.” Zayn repeated, looking away from Harry as the officer stepped closer to him.
“Sir, you have the right to remain silent.” The officer said, pulling out a silver pair of metal handcuffs. “Anything you say, can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
“I’m fucking innocent! I didn’t do anything I swear! I’m just an intern!” Harry screamed, tone panicked and scared. “Zayn, please!”
“You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.” The officer continued, unbothered by Harry’s pleas.
“Z, please!” Harry begged as his hands were forcibly cuffed behind his back.
The officer continued on with the recitation of The Miranda Rights. “Do you understand the rights I have just read to you? With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?”
“I would never steal anything! I swear! I’m only eighteen! I didn’t take the money!” Harry tried, repeatedly denying the accusations being held against him.
“Just save it for the interrogation, kid.” The officer scuffed, tugging at Harry’s bound hands.
“Why?” Harry questioned softly towards his best friend, his brother, eyes deeply confused. “How could you, Zayn?”
“It's complicated.” Zayn answered simply, gaze downcast.
“Complicated? Complicated?!” Harry shouted, voice escalating as they dragged him backwards. “How fucking complicated is it, Z!?”
Zayn turned his back to Harry again, refusing to answer and refusing to watch as Harry was yanked by his arms out of the large apartment, feet stumbling along with the armed police officers.
Harry didn't know what was truly happening, but he knew he was being framed. For some reason, some unexplainable reason, Harry was being framed, wrongly arrested. And furthermore at the hands of his very own best friend, of his brother.
Nothing made sense. Not a single thing. Who would want to frame him?
Objectively, he was a prefect target to frame, as he has no real wealth of his own, no real riches. To make Harry appear like he is stealing and embezzling money from the very company owned by his best friend’s father was almost believable, almost brilliant, but why? What did he do to deserve this? To be framed?
The following weeks proceeded in a catastrophic blur, one doomed calamity after the next.
The only bright side was that he got to see Louis. Upon hearing the news of Harry’s incarceration, he flew from London to L.A., so that he could be there for Harry during the court trials.
But with every bright side, there must be an equal and opposite dark side. However, sometimes, as was in this case, the dark side far exceeded the severity and light of the bright side.
For what Harry didn’t know then was that, it would be the last time he would ever see Louis. If Harry had known, maybe he would have cherished it more. Maybe he would have stopped fighting everything, quit denying all the claims against him and just paused. Paused to commit to memory all the tiny beautiful details of Louis’ face, to further embed his welcome presence deep, deep within the very core of his soul.
Harry would have stopped everything, stopped playing into useless bullshit and unbeatable games he was fated to lose. He would have stopped and simply gazed into Louis’ heartbroken eyes and told him over and over and over again how much he loved him, how much he will always love him, no matter what.
“I'm innocent Lou.” Harry said through the prison glass, staring down at his bright colored inmate jumpsuit.
“I know you are, love. I know.” Louis answered softly from the other side, the barrier between them seeming infinite. “But…I love you, ok?”
Harry continued to gaze downward, head bowed, not strong enough to meet Louis’ emotive eyes.
“Haz…” Louis placed his left hand along the glass, the twine of the string on his finger hitting the surface gently. “Please just look at me.”
Slowly Harry lifted his heavy head, opaque sad eyes meeting Louis’ through the barrier. He remained silent, not having much to say. What could he really say that had not already been said?
“It’s going to be ok, Harry, I promise.” Louis encouraged, trying to sound strong. “Zayn said he is doing everything to get you out and-”
“Zayn?” Harry asked alarmed, voice elevating as his features twisted in aversion.
“Yeah, Zayn.” Louis shrugged, not seeming to think it was of any substantial worth. “I've been staying with him and he-”
“What the fuck!?” Harry burst out suddenly, unable to bit his tongue. “No!”
Louis frowned, expression deeply confused as he looked to Harry curiously. “What’s wrong, babe?”
“Louis, you can't trust him! You can’t trust Zayn! Stay away from him!”
“What? Harry, what do you mean?” Louis asked, not understanding. “You’re not making any sense. He’s your best friend and he’s trying to help you! Why wouldn’t I trust him? It’s Zayn!”
“Lou, you can't!” Harry emphasized again, pressing closer to the glass between them. “He’s not trying to help me; he’s lying to you!”
“But…I don’t understand Harry…” Louis shook his head at a loss. “Why would Zayn lie to me? He never…I mean, I kno-”
“Times up!” The prison guard shouted as a loud bell sounded across the visitor’s area.
“Louis, listen to me!” Harry rushed out, sounding panicked as he looked around behind his shoulder. “He did this. Zayn did this. I don't know why, but you have to believe me!”
“What?” Louis questioned breathlessly, utterly confused. “Harry, I-”
“Baby, you have to believe me!” Harry interrupted hurriedly, feeling a watery pressure building behind his eyes. “It’s the truth, I swear! You can’t…I mean…just…don’t…” Harry rambled wildly with wide terrified eyes, as a prison guard approached him. “Don’t listen to him!”
“Let’s go, inmate.” The guard said roughly, grabbing Harry by his upper arm and forcibly pulling him back into the prison, feet scuffing against the linoleum floor.
“No!” Harry screamed, struggling against the strength of the guard. He twisted his body and kicked his legs out, fighting against the force heaving him backwards. “No! Don’t trust him, Louis! Don’t!”
Harry continued to scream and kick, body thrashing, refusing to succumb willingly. A second guard immediately came to aid, grabbing hold of Harry’s jerking legs to strongly manhandle his body into submission.
“Harry, I love you!” Louis shouted, hand still pressed against the glass, watching on in horror as Harry was dragged away. “I love you, ok? I love you and it’s going to be alright! I promise it will all be alright!”
But it wasn’t alright, so so very far from alright. In fact, it only got worse.
Thinking back, it’s all a blur now, the harrowing events of the following days. The events that led to where he is now. In captivity.
In hell.
Harry can only remember pieces, shifted fragments here and there, each one clouded and foggy. One minute, he remembers being in a civilized county prison, confined to a clean jail cell, the next he remembers blood.
Blood everywhere.
Pooling darkly around his twitching body, staining his trembling pallid hands, leaching through the thick fabric of his jumpsuit.
He remembers the sensation of sharp, uneven metal twisting against the surface of his skin, he remembers his head lulling downwards heavily, glimpsing down to see in terror, his own stomach torn open in notched jagged lines, scarlet bodily fluid gushing from the gaping crevice of his abdominal cavity.
Harry remembers closing his eyes, his breathing slowing impossibly, his system shutting down to compensate for the immense trauma, for the amble amounts of physiological distress.
Everything went black. Everything went quiet. Everything was at peace.
At least for a moment.
But then Harry remembers jolting awake, gazing upon his bandaged limp body, strewn out in the back of a shitty old van, hands tied together behind his back, masking tape silencing his screaming lungs, which refused to be silenced.
Harry remembers riding in that crappy van for ages, every bump on the road causing his wounded body to throb in agony, the pulsation reverberating in excruciating waves over his distressed system.
Until eventually it stopped. The bumps, the movement, the van, the noise, it all stopped. And Harry remembers hardly having the strength to stand as he was dragged by the crook of his arm into a dingy stone building, a building he now only refers to as the pits of hell itself. They threw him into a dirty uncivilized cell and Harry thought it was the end. That maybe this was it, that he would now spend the rest of his life confined to these lonely stone walls. And that was partially true, just lacking one added bonus.
Torture.
Harry remembers being tied down to a harsh metal chair, masked faces and devilish whispers encompassing him from all corners. Soon the whispers turned to firm commands, then eventually earsplitting screams.
From there, Harry can only bear to recall it in flashes. It’s all hot traumatizing flashes.
Flashes of merciless torture, flashes of perpetrated suffering, flashes of never-ending insufferable affliction, all linked to lurid interrogating questions he had no answers for. Pestering Harry about things he had never heard of before, grilling him about account numbers and wire transfers, seeking answers and demanding explanations.
Harry remembers wanting to die as he felt searing burns rage against his skin, swift unforgiving blades slice his flesh. As he endured the sensation of taciturn water replace the fleeting air in his weak lungs, and charged electric current surge over his nervous system as he was prodded with gruesome spikes and persecuted relentlessly, ruthlessly.
He remembers his body being repeatedly ripped to unidentifiable shreds, only to be haphazardly strewn back together with messy staples or careless sloppy sutures, un-anesthetized, uninhibited.
Harry’s only hope was death. His only supplication in the haunting darkness was for it all to end. His only prayer was for his life to come to an abrupt and welcome close.
Harry watched on as other men's throats were slit, heard the raw ghastly sound of bones snapping like weak twigs and supposedly strong sockets being dislocated from their attached tendons. The associated audio always accompanied by ringing gunshots and unstoppable screams. Screams, always loud, piercing screams, leaking through the cold walls, echoing from the stone.
And oddly enough, as Harry listened on to those disparaging sounds day by day, he wished it were him. Oddly he wished to trade places with them. At least they were free now. They were gone, at peace. And Harry would give anything to be free, give anything to be finally at peace.
But they refused to let him go, they also refused to let him die. Of all the people who have come and gone, Harry is one of the select few who remains alive regardless. Regardless of what he says, regardless of all he’s denied, or lied, or begged for, he remains alive. Which is the worst and most confusing punishment of all because Harry wanted so desperately to die. To leave this earth that has wronged him so, to close his eyes and never wake up.
Even now, after years, although the torture has subsided, all but faded away, they still will not let him go. Instead, Harry lives out his life, day by day, held hostage, held unfairly behind hell’s gates.
Days blend together, a blur of combined seconds to long minutes to tiring hours. Days running into weeks, which soon are months, then years. Years spent wasting away in a dingy, cold dark stoned walled confine, with nothing but the dirt beneath him and the stone walls surrounding him to keep Harry company.
That and his incessant thoughts.
His mind constantly wanders; with nothing but time to kill and years to waste, what else can he really do but think? Dwell upon the calamities of his disheartening miserable life.
Harry’s mind always comes back to the same thing in the end, though. After all hateful and vengeful thoughts have passed, after he spends hours brooding over all the people he hates, all the people he wants to destroy, he always comes back to his only solace.
Louis.
Harry rewinds the imagery of his long lost love in his head, holds tightly to it. He never wants to forget the curves of his hips or the dip of his collarbones, or the long swoop of his bowed eyelashes. He never wants to forget the comforting sound of Louis’ laugh, or the way his eyes crinkle around his beaming face. Harry never wants to forget what it was like to be loved by Louis or even what it was like to hear him say that he loved him.
The last thing Harry ever heard Louis shout was that he loved him. And that short little phrase. That little three-word expression, that they would throw around so casually before, tossing it out just as easily as calling a name, that short axiom that he had heard time and time again, he would now give anything to hear again.
But instead, all he can hear within the precincts of these cold, cold stone walls is suffering. Screams of torment, shrieks of pain. Nothing of love, of warmth, or comfort. Only a deep bone chilling cold. A cold that has penetrated even the far recesses of Harry’s soul, a cold that is digging its icy claws violently into his center, hardening his heart one piece at a time.
Harry has nothing left. Nothing at all. Not that he ever had much to start off with, but now he can't even say he has his dignity or his pride or even his love.
He is alone. Completely alone. And the only thing to comfort him is the hatred in his heart. The strong overpowering desire to seek penance for all the wrong done to him. To inflict pain on those who pained him, those who betrayed him.
Without warning, seemingly without cause, Zayn, his brother, betrayed him. Stabbed him in the back and left him for dead. And for that, for that merciless act of perfidy, Harry will never forgive him, he will never let go.
Harry refuses.
Harry sits slumped against the wall, using a sharpened rock to carve Louis’ name along the stone. As he does this nearly every day, what was once just a simple faint line of letters is now a deeply etched carving, outlined recurrently into the stone wall. Harry goes over the letters repeatedly, going from L to O to U to I to S and back again, as he listens to sound of water droplets falling from to shabby rooftop.
Completely undisturbed, Harry goes about his daily outlines unsuspectingly until he hears an unfamiliar noise. Over the past ten years he has grown accustomed to every sound, every anechoic peep that comes out of this place, he can identify each by name and this sound, this odd scraping sound, is peculiar and so very unaccustomed.
Suddenly from the center of his dirt cell, a head, or what Harry assumes is a head, emerges from the dusty soil, followed by a hand and a series of sputtering coughs.
The head, once fully above ground, begins to look around curiously at the surroundings. “Oh fuck me! Well this is just perfect! Just bloody perfect!” The voice attached to the head shouts disappointedly.
“What the fuck?” Harry inquires, not really shouting or anything, just genuinely perplexed by what he is witnessing. “Who are you?”
“Goddammit! I can't believe this!” The man shouts, pulling himself out of the dirt hole and safely into Harry’s stone cubicle. “What a fucking waste of time! I knew I should have double checked my calculations! Shit!”
Harry stares in absolute shock, the whole experience boggling his mind. A fucking uninvited man just randomly popped up from underneath his cell in the middle of the day.
“Oh right! So sorry for the intrusion!” The man looks to Harry in apology, waving his hand. “Hello, I'm Liam!”
“Where the fuck did you come from?” Harry asked, still seated against one of the walls.
“My cell is next door...I guess. Ugh, Shit!” Liam curses again, looking distraught. “I was attempting to dig out and under the outer wall and I was under the impression that I was working in the right direction but all this time I’ve apparently been digging the wrong way and now…here I am…in your cell.”
“Awkward.”
“Indeed.” Liam nods, huffing out an upset breath.
“How long have you been here?” Harry asks curiously.
“I've been here two years.” Liam sighs, looking about the room again. “I think your cell is bigger than mine, by the way…just an observation. I mean, not that that’s much to brag about or anything.”
“That's it?” Harry questions, sounding doubtful. “Just two years.”
“That it?!” Liam echoes in disbelief. “That's two years too many, mate! The second I could stand again after they were done beating me to a pulp, I set about planning to escape this shit show.”
“Escape?”
“Yes, escape!” Liam says obviously, looking to Harry curiously. “You've never tried to escape? How long have you been here, mate?”
Harry casts his heavy gaze to the stone wall, etched with small dashes, indicating the numerous years he has spent wasting away. “Ten years.”
“Ten years?! Fuck!” Liam declares, baffled. “You've been here that many years and you haven't found a way to get out of here!? What have you been doing!?”
“There are seventy-two thousand, five hundred and nineteen stones in my walls.” Harry recites slowly, tilting his head in contemplation. “I’ve spent my days counting them.”
“Mmm.” Liam considers, looking around at the walls surrounding them. “Well have you named them yet?”
“What?” Harry frowns, sitting up slightly from his drooping position on the dirt floor.
“Have you named the stones?” Liam repeats again, asking seriously. “I imagine if you are acquainted enough with them to know their number, you might as well give them each a name.”
Harry cracks a small minor smile, probably the first time his facial muscles have been utilized in such a way in years. There is absolutely nothing here to smile about. “I'm Harry.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Harry.” Liam nods courteously, an odd flash of recognition flickers over his features. “I'm sorry that it's under these circumstances. I'm sure it would have been much better to have met you like a civilized man in a civilized manner in a civilized place, but no matter here we are I suppose.”
“Why are you here?” Harry wonders.
Liam stands from where he is sat near his dirt hole in the ground and goes over to sit next to Harry along the stone wall. “Can I be honest with you, Harry?”
“Who am I going to tell?” Harry lifts his hand and gestures to the empty dim space, looking up to the leaking ceiling. “My numerous friends, the stones?”
Liam chuckles, squinting his eyes in joking suspicion. “But…can you trust the stones?”
“They’ve yet to betray me.” Harry answers seriously, looking to the stone wall again.
“Fair enough, I guess.” Liam nods in understanding. “Well…first of all…I know who you are.” Liam confesses slowly. “Or actually…I know of you.”
Harry twists his head to look at Liam with deep confusion, expression perplexed. “What?”
“Styles.” Liam says simply. “You’re Harry Styles, right?”
“Um…yes…”
“Thought so.” Liam nods slowly, looking up in astonishment. “Wow…I can’t believe…that I mean…I had no idea you’d be here.”
Harry furrows his brow together. “What does that mean?”
“Ten years ago you were convicted for embezzlement against Blackstone Trust and then incarcerated briefly in L.A. County, but then it was announced that you were found dead.”
Harry’s frown deepens still, even more bewildered. “How do you know that?”
“Well…um…without going into too much detail…I’m an agent.” Liam further confesses, meeting Harry’s eyes. “I’ve been undercover working the case. After you were convicted, most of the authorities backed off, exonerating Blackstone from all other alleged embezzlement claims, as they were all attributed to you. But we had reason to believe that there was still fraudulent activity going on within the company.”
Harry remains silent as he listens to Liam, mind whirling with unasked questions.
“My partner Niall and I have been pretty deep undercover for the past five years at Blackstone.” Liam continues in explanation. “Well…I’m not anymore, obviously, but he still is. We were making solid headway in exposing the whole operation, the whole brilliantly thought out Ponzi scheme. But I got nabbed, not by the authorities, but by the Blackstone execs. Similar to you I was accused of harboring stolen funds, my family is actually very wealthy but…that’s besides the point. These people who are holding us hostage are under the impression that we have their money, the money that was actually fraudulently laundered by Blackstone executives.”
Harry shrugs indifferently. “Well I figured that…you know…with all the torture and questions and shit.”
“Really, the only reason we are here, and that we are still alive, is because these people seem to think we have some sort of tie to their money.” Liam further explains. “We have some kind of intrinsic value, I guess. A way, in their eyes, to possibly recover their money.”
“I don’t know shit about their money.” Harry replies apathetically. He swears he has said that exact same sentence nearly a million times in his wretched life, it hardly has meaning anymore. For so long he has been blindly foolish, naïve to the calamities of the world, to the ugly power struggle, to the twisted hunger for money and conceited gain. “I knew nothing when I got here and I know nothing now. All I do know is that I hate everything and I hate everyone who put me here.”
“No use sitting here dwelling on hate my new friend.” Liam advises positively. “Better to get up and do something about it.”
“Do what Liam?” Harry inquires bitterly, expression hardened and tired. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed or not…but we aren’t really in a position to do much of anything.”
“Oh…but we are.” Liam counters, lifting a suggestive eyebrow.
Harry just stares at Liam blankly, frown deeply etched across his features, completely unamused.
“We can escape.” Liam announces, clapping his hands together.
Harry collapses his head against his knees and chuckles acerbically, body shaking heavily and uncontrollable, his pained laughter indistinguishable from the sounds of tearful crying. Harry can’t really tell if he’s laughing because Liam’s notion is absolutely preposterous or crying because there is not an ice cube’s chance in hell that he’ll ever get out here.
“Yes! I’m serious Harry! It’s really not that difficult, and I figure if we work together, maximizing our efforts, we can dig out of here in about a year give or take and-”
“A year!” Harry snickers sardonically, rudely interrupting Liam’s plans. Who does this man think he is? How does he expect them to actually escape this place? Especially when Liam has supposedly been trying to escape for the past two years and look where that got him. Nowhere.
“Um…I’m sorry?’ Liam frowns, face twisting. “Do you have something better to do over the next year? Counting stones perhaps? Do you have some kind of pressing engagement taking up your time? Some appointment that hinders you from working to escape this hellhole?”
“Well...I-”
“Yeah, I didn’t think so.” Liam answers for Harry readily. “Look mate, we can get the fuck out of here. We can…and then we can take down all the sons of bitches who put us here in the first place.”
There is nothing that Harry wants more than to see Louis again… Second to that, Harry wants very very very much to annihilate that contemptible cooperation and finally end Zayn.
“What do you say Harry? Ready to get out?” Liam questions. “I mean, what can it hurt anyway? Time is going on regardless, might as well try.”
Liam does have a point there. It’s not like his life has much current value sitting in dirt all day, either counting stones or carving Louis’ name across the wall. What does he really have to lose at this point? The worst that could happen to him is that he could die…and honestly, who the fuck cares? Harry has been ready to die for years now.
“Fine.” Harry huffs heavily, lulling back his head.
“Fantastic!” Liam claps again, standing to his feet. “We will start in the morning!”
Days go by, as they always did, but not nearly as slow as before with Liam around. Harry comes to genuinely appreciate Liam, valuing his companionship and always present company.
The slot to their cells opens twice a day, once in the morning and once in the evening. They work through the day, digging without assumption of their captors, hiding the dirt in either their toilet bucket or food plate, sliding it under the small slot in the door, come morning and night.
As they dig, further and further beneath the grounds, Harry and Liam become better and better friends, real friends, learning more and more about each other as time goes on.
Liam is wise beyond his years. Although he is young, nearly thirty now, same as Harry, the countless experiences and undertakings Liam has had in his life, have caused him to see the world in a completely different light than Harry.
Harry learns much from Liam over the next year. Liam has views on existence that Harry has never really thought of, deeply philosophical and even profound. They have many in-depth discussions over the spanning months, debating theories and contradicting doctrines of logic, morality and ethics. From each thought-provoking topic and stimulating tenet, something is learned, concepts are made clear. Harry gleans everything Liam has to offer, stowing his astute words away, slowly developing his own sentiments and opinions on matters and conceptions of life.
Admittedly, Harry never really did before, he never really took the time to come to his own conclusion about things, just held and understood everything at face value. But Liam causes him to think, to dig deep within himself and ponder ideas that maybe Harry was too afraid to before. Harry comes to not only understand his situation better, or even the world better, but more importantly, himself.
“What will you do if we pull this off tonight?” Liam asks curiously, as they sit along the wall counting down the minutes until it is time to execute their plan, utilizing the tunnel they have been digging for the past year. “If we actually get out?”
“Find Louis.” Harry replies instantly, not wasting a single moment’s breath.
“And then what?”
“Then take down all the people involved in my framed conviction, obviously.” Harry replies, as if the answer to that question has long been discussed.
“How?” Liam continues to question.
“I don’t know. I don’t care, Liam.” Harry puffs heavily, wringing his filthy hands together against his drawn up knees. “All I know is that I’ve spent the past eleven years in captivity, rotting away, being tortured and abused with all semblance of dignity stripped cruelly away. I’ve come to know a hate that I never knew existed… so I don’t know what I’ll do or how I’ll do it, but I do know that I will do it and I will hunt them down one by one.”
“You could do it with me. Well not just me…The Agency, I mean.” Liam suggests lightly.
“I’m not an agent.” Harry reminds.
“Yeah, obviously, not now.” Liam rolls his eyes, smiling slightly. “But you could become one.”
“And why would I do that?”
“We could help you. We are both after the same people, it only makes sense. And we could give you the tools you need to do it.” Liam says, shrugging his shoulders. “I dunno mate, just a thought…no pressure or anything. I won’t force you.”
“Mmm, I’ll think about it.”
Liam always has a way of making little suggestions or recommendations in a way that’s completely nonthreatening or forceful but then makes almost too much sense to pass up. Harry almost wants to dislike Liam for it, but really he can only love him for it.
“That’s all I ask, mate.” Liam grins knowingly, sounding pleased with himself. “That’s all I ask.”
Harry smiles silently. He never smiled much here, but Harry finds that Liam’s ridiculous faces and intuitive stories and far off tales, have given him a reason to smile at least once a day over the last year. If nothing else comes out of all this, Harry is deeply honored to have known Liam.
“Anyways so about tonight…we just have to break the thin surface of dirt left to be above ground.” Liam explains. “Now as far as I know, this shitty stone shack is only guarded at each of the four corners and it has very poor visibility, especially at night. Once we get from under the wall of the building we will make a run for it all the way to the perimeter gate. If we can get passed the gate, it’s all about speed and just running at that point. They will most likely catch on, but I’m hoping we can at least get a ten-minute head start.”
“Well, you’ve gotten us this far…I’ll just follow your lead.”
Under the cover of darkness, Harry and Liam climb out of the snug tunneled hole that they’ve spent so many hours tirelessly digging. Heavy rain is falling from the night sky, instantly soaking the rags adorning their soiled bodies.
Once completely free from the ground, Harry follows closely behind Liam, sliding along the exterior of the stone building with extreme caution. Liam looks around the corner carefully, moving with all the grace of a seasoned and experienced agent, stealthy and slick. Liam spots a single armed guard on the far east side, not paying much attention, apparently more concerned with avoiding the severity of the rain than properly manning his post.
“On my count.” Liam whispers to Harry, pointing to a seemingly clear path straight to the outside gate. There is only about fifteen meters separating them from freedom. So close, it almost doesn’t even seem possible, seem real.
Harry nods his head in acknowledgement, pressing close to Liam against the wet wall behind them.
Liam gives the signal after a slow and steady silent count and they take off sprinting across the open dirt field, running as fast as they can possibly manage in the heavy downpour showering against them. For the first time in ages, Harry’s lungs take in fresh clean air, not the stank, foul rancid air that has plugged his nostrils for over a decade, but fresh invigorating oxygen, mixed with the refreshing smell of pure rain.
They reach the gate, finding that its bars are laced with sharp barbed wire, presenting a bit of an unforeseen issue. Not having much choice, Harry and Liam begin to climb the fence regardless, the harsh spikes cutting their hands, scraping their legs, slowing them down as they scale the fence. The falling water of the sky washes away the carmine tinge of their fresh wounds, scarlet blood mixing with previously untainted water, falling to the thick mud below them.
In the distance the sound of ricocheting gunfire echoes around them, Harry and Liam’s absence suddenly known by their imprisoners. The incessant shots rain closer and closer, bullets reverberating off the sides of the fence, nearly hitting them with every round.
Harry makes it over the gate first, hands covered in an odd mix of his own blood, dark mud and rainwater attempting to wash away the filthy stains. Harry turns around to wait for Liam, who is still some ways away from the reaching the bottom, having paused several times to help Harry and avoid gunfire.
Just as Liam finally jumps to the ground from the gate, another round fires against him, a nearly missed bullet catches him right in the center of his upper thigh. “Fucking shit!”
“Are you alright?!” Harry shouts, rushing back to a fallen Liam. As Harry scrambles to make it back to him, a bullet pierces him straight through his right shoulder, the force of blow knocking Harry back momentarily. “Fuck!”
Harry crawls low against the mud, avoiding further flying bullets above him, favoring his good side as he reaches Liam’s crippled form at the base of the gate. “Liam!”
Liam shakes his head repeatedly. “It’s my leg, I don’t know if I can run. Go on without me, Harry!”
“No, I’ve got you, mate.” Harry slings his good arm around Liam’s shoulder, lifting him up with much strain, supporting his wounded leg, as they hobble into the cover of the thick woods.
The gunshots continue relentlessly, long range bullets soaring around them as they dart and dodge through the forest, Liam’s untimely lower limb injury slowing them down, along with the slickness of the muddy woodland floor.
After only a few minutes of strained hobbling about, Liam sinks to the ground suddenly, groaning as he clutches at his side, pulling Harry down with him to the wet forest dirt.
“Liam!” Harry drops to Liam’s side in the mud, looking over his trembling damaged body, eyes alarmed.
Liam looks down, removing his hand from his heavily bleeding abdominals. Apparently he had been shot more than once when he jumped from the gate. Harry didn't even realize in all the rush, the darkness surrounding them and heavy fall of rain, masking the wound.
“Harry, just go!” Liam instructs, pushing Harry away from him weakly, pounding water cascading around them, growing heavier. “L-leave me and run!”
Harry shakes his head, placing his wet grimy hands over Liam’s open, gushing wound, not even paying the slightest bit of attention to his own bleeding injury. “I'm not leaving you Liam, I can't.”
“You have to, I c-can’t run with this leg and I've seen t-this type of wound b-before.” Liam trembles, wincing against the pain inflicted on his body. “I won’t m-make it more than a few more m-moments without bleeding o-out.”
The gunshots and angry yells grow steadily closer and louder the longer they stay unmoving in the dirt. There is only a five-minute distance between them and their fast moving, dangerous suitors, however, that time is slowly diminishing.
Harry applies more pressure to Liam’s profusely hemorrhaging lesion, refusing to let go, refusing to leave. “No! No, but Li-”
“Listen to me, Harry!” Liam coughs, eyes scrunched in obvious discomfort, his breathing growing more and more erratic. “I d-don't have much time and…n-neither do you. There is an a-abandoned safe-house, about t-twelve kilometers n-north of h-here.”
Harry frantically alternates between pressing against Liam’s bleeding abdomen and his inner thigh, both wounds pouring out abundantly, the vermilion blood infusing with the falling rain faster than Harry can stop it.
“You'll f-find a go-bag there, beneath the f-floorboards under the t-table, inside should be a bit of money and a p-phone and a change of clothes. Text the w-word SILVERFOX to the only n-number programmed in the p-phone and Niall will find y-you.”
Harry pauses, looking at Liam though the matted strands of his wet hair, shaking his head, slowly. “Liam…I...”
“It's alright H-harry. It's a-alright.” Even in evident pain, Liam is still the epitome of a true leader, the training engraved deep within him, overriding his physical ailment. “T-tell Niall who y-you are and that I s-sent you, he'll k-know what to d-do.”
Harry is speechless. He never imagined that he’d be forced to leave Liam behind, if anything he imagined himself being left behind in exchange. After all Liam has done for him, after all the pleasant times they shared even in the midst of despair, it feels wrong to leave his friend behind.
“Over the y-years, I've a-accumulated a bit of m-money, as I have no descendants and you are my last t-true friend, I'll leave it a-all to you.” Liam rushes out, trying to talk as fast as possible even though he is physically gasping for breath. “Use w-what I've taught y-you Harry, never f-forget it. Find a way to take these b-bastards down. Do it f-for me, do it for y-you, do it for everyone w-who has been wronged by that s-shit company. E-end this, mate.”
“I will.” Harry whispers softly in the rain, squeezing Liam’s hand tightly as he gazes sadly into the pained eyes of his friend. “Thank you for everything, Li. It's been nice having a real friend again.”
“It's b-been nothing b-but a pleasure, mate.” Liam answers genuinely, meeting Harry’s eyes and tightening his altogether still weak grip on his hand. “Now g-go! Leave me! Quickly! I'll cover f-for you as long as I c-can. Go!”
“Bye Liam.” Harry pulls Liam to his chest briefly in solemn farewell, the oozing blood spilling over against him, percolating against his torso. Harry stands to his feet, looking to his right and left before taking off, running north as Liam instructed.
As Harry runs he can hear rowdy shouts and boisterous screams ringing through the dripping of rain drops, he hears Liam’s voice yelling over the pitter-patter of water droplets, before he hears another gunshot and the forest falls deathly silent, the echo of the lone shot rippling out amongst the trees.
Harry runs faster, as fast as his legs will carry him, bare feet hitting hard against the wet mud of the earth, breath ragged and staggered. He wishes he had time to mourn the loss of his fallen friend, to commemorate his memory in reverence, but he uses his sadness as fuel. Harry is weak and tired, wounded by the constant throbbing of his pierced shoulder and various cuts scraping his body, debilitated by the continued loss of blood, inhibited by the unfortunate fact that hasn't eaten properly in the last eleven years, but all the same, he is fueled.
Harry’s feeble body is fueled by his unforgettable hurt, by all that he has unfairly lost in this dejected life. Fueled by his undying desire for retribution, by his thirst for vengeance.
On his life, he will finish this. On his very life, Harry vows that he will stop at absolutely nothing to bring every single malicious person who wronged him to justice.
He will end this. Harry will have his revenge.
“Can we account for instinct? Are there not some places where we seem to breathe sadness? — why, we cannot tell. It is a chain of recollections — an idea which carries you back to other times, to other places — which, very likely, have no connection with the present time and place. Now, return to the current world still more brilliant because of your former sorrows.”
Alexandre Dumas - The Count of Monte Cristo