Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Working on a sketch with a mug of hot chocolate to his left and his set of colored pencils to his right Harry sits at the breakfast bar while Louis stands on the opposing side, his head stuffed halfway in the fridge as he searches for something to eat.  “You can't just ignore me, Harry. We’re gonna have to talk about it sometime.” 

Harry refuses to say a word to Louis about anything, even if said subject has no correlation to the Kenya trip. He’s been this way for two days now as he's been bothered about it ever since they returned home from the art gala.

Though his silence expands past Louis. Gemma has tried to call him multiple times and each time Louis answers, but whenever he tries to pass the phone off to Harry, the younger boy refuses to take it.  Being upset is understandable, but how are they to get past this when all Harry does is act as though the situation merely doesn't exist? “Harry.” Louis tries again, stepping away from the refrigerator. His eyes  dart over to his boyfriend. “Harry, would you please talk to me?”

Harry doesn't answer him, continuing to sketch the outline of a lady’s eyes. They’re steady grey in color, almond shaped, with luscious eyelashes. It's quite a stunning piece and Louis would normally compliment him. That is, if the younger lad was speaking to him.

Louis groans, rubbing his hand over his face. “Come on man.” Instantaneously, a flash of irritation shoots through Louis’ veins, and he knocks Harry’s mug over in a fit of rage.

“What the fuck?” The younger boy shrieks, scooting the chair back from the breakfast counter to protect himself from the boiling hot liquid dripping off the sides. “Louis, you fucking destroyed my drawing! Why would you do that?”

Louis observes the woman’s face - now a mess of blurred graphite lines, the whites of her eyes faded to a milky brown - and raises his eyebrows in surprise. He didn't know he was capable of behaving so spontaneously. “I...I’m sorry, I don't know what got into me.” he, awkwardly, rubs the back of his neck. “Really Harry, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“If you want to talk so bad, then fucking talk.” Harry scoffs, inching closer to the counter as the rush of liquid starts to slow. There’s no preserving the woman’s face now, and it’s not like he can start over from memory. Hours went into that drawing, all for nothing. “But you’re cleaning all this shit up.”

Louis doesn’t argue. He intended on cleaning the mess up anyways. “Are you gonna listen this time?” he asks, scanning over Harry’s annoyed facial features with hopeful eyes.

Harry sighs as he folds the saturated piece of paper over, checking to see if the rest of his drawing pad is ruined. It is, of course. He pushes it aside. “What other choice do I have?”

“ Babe .” Louis stresses, rounding the counter, and sits beside Harry. “I understand that it’s an amazing opportunity, maybe even a once in a lifetime opportunity, but you also need to understand where I’m coming from.”

“But I want to go, Louis. Why is it everyone gets a say in the matter when I never, ever discourage any of you?”

Louis knows Harry has presented a thoughtful point, and he's proud of him for not reacting submissively, but also he hates his full ability to comprehend the biased situation before them. If it were up to Louis, given the situation was different, he would encourage Harry to pursue this mission to Africa, but his more sensible side realizes the risk of him going to a underdeveloped area of the world. They don’t have proper medical personnel, and with Harry prescribed to so many pharmaceuticals for a variety of issues, Louis, in his heart, knows it isn’t safe. “Harry, it isn’t like that.” he whispers.

“It is though. I mean, what’s the problem? I try to do something good for myself and you and everyone else would rather tear me down than support me.”

“If the circumstances were different - “

Harry interrupts, “You mean if I wasn’t fucking crippled, right?” A laugh expels past his lips, then he continues, saying, “If I could actually take care of myself and not rely on my boyfriend or my sister for the essentials of life?”

“You’re putting words in my mouth.” Louis argues, agitation and anger bubbling through his core. If there’s one thing he wishes he could change about Harry it’s his inability to rationally think. The kid jumps to conclusions faster than anyone he’s ever met, and they’re never reasonable conclusions either.

“Yeah? Then you go ahead and tell me what circumstances would need to be different.” Harry's body language shifts. He straightens up against the chair, arms crossed over his chest, and chin raised in such a pompous manner that Louis wishes to grab his face and forcibly change it. But he won’t do that because he’s a rational human being, or at least he’s trying his hardest to remain civil.

Louis starts to defend himself, but as soon as he recognizes that Harry is going to take his words the wrong way, his lips clamp shut.

“Exactly, none of you have faith in me to do well.” Harry sneers, reaching for his crutches slanted against the counter. “You’re always rooting against me.” As soon as loops one arm through the cuff, dragging the weighted object towards him, something in Louis’ mind clicks. The two of them will never be content with one another if they’re constantly at each other’s throats arguing and calling out the other's flaws. Louis knows he wants to spend his life with Harry. For as long as they’ve been together, since the first day he met him, he’s felt comfortable and happy. Harry is the man he wants to see happy and he also wants to cause some of that happiness. Taking away his wishes and aspirations doesn’t bring forth happiness whatsoever, and so he understands he needs to give Harry the freedom and independence to do as he chooses.

Afterall, he has no right to make decisions and choices on the behalf of someone else. Harry has his second crutch in hand when Louis finally says, “I want you to go.”

Confusion halts Harry’s actions, eyes widening as he puts his attention on Louis. “What?”

“To Kenya. I want you to go if that’s what you want.” he says, swallowing down the fear which comes from saying those words.

Harry searches his face for an answer. “What changed your mind?

“I know that we both want very different things, but it isn’t worth arguing to me. I can’t change your mind and you can’t change mine, so I want you to do whatever makes you the happiest. Go, don’t go, whatever you want, it’s entirely your decision.”

“What about Gemma and my mum?” Harry asks, slipping his left arm through the second cuff.

Louis didn’t even think of them, but it’s a little late to withdraw from what he’s told Harry. He supposes it isn’t their decision either as Harry is a twenty five year old man, and he understands himself better than anyone else. Or, at least Louis hopes he knows what’s best for himself. “I’ll talk to them, don’t worry about it.”

“I’ll go ring Jean then.” he announces, careful as he presses his weight down on both crutches until he finds equilibrium standing on his own two feet.

Louis nods, keeping a close eye on Harry as he begins to walk away. Though, the younger boy stops for a moment, right beside Louis, before leaning in and kissing his cheek, quietly thanking him. “I love you, thank you.” he whispers.

“I love you too.” Louis says, holding back the sigh in his throat until Harry’s gone from the kitchen. He leans his elbows on the breakfast counter, running his hands through his hair, disheveling it.

What has he done?

Very faintly, Harry’s voice comes from his studio, and he sounds excited as he speaks to the professor. It’s a grand feeling, knowing Harry is excited and happy, but worry has settled in the pit of Louis’ stomach. He should’ve held his ground and told him no because now if anything bad happens to his lover it’s on him, it’s his fault for giving Harry permission to do as he wished. He can only hope Harry will make responsible choices. 

Weeks pass, and Harry’s decision has not changed, he’s dead set on boarding the bloody plane and leaving the country at five thirty tomorrow morning. While Louis is extremely apprehensive about the ordeal, he refuses to say much about it. So what if he's not content with it? It's Harry's time to shine, and he would hate to accidentally take the honor away from him. 

“I’m heading to the studio, did you wanna come?” Louis asks, pulling his coat on.

Harry doesn't look up from his sketch pad as he sits on the couch. Needlessly said, these last few weeks haven't been easy on their relationship either. They don't argue, that's not the problem, rather Harry has acted distant and isolated given Louis’ forced support towards the Kenya trip. 

Louis tries again. “Harry?”

“I heard you.” The younger boy replies, using the side of his hand to wipe away some of the eraser residue left behind from his pencil.

“So, did you wanna come? You can sit in one of the spare rooms, and draw or whatever if you want.”

Harry shakes his head, though doesn't verbally answer. It's a pet peeve for Louis. Although he doesn't hold Harry to any set expectation, he sure would like it if his boyfriend would give him the common courtesy of speaking when spoken to.

After all, he's not going to hear that lovely voice in person for about a month and a half. Harry leaving England, his safe place, to go to another country is petrifying. There's so many things to worry about concerning Harry’s medical well being.

Kenya is nearly a nine hour flight, so Louis can’t arrive on the flip of a coin if he needed to. With the long distance, there comes a multitude of concerns, most of which Louis finds to be understandable. As Gemma has mentioned on multiple occasions, if he were to fall or become ill, there isn't much to be done. Kenya isn't nearly as structured in medicine as England, so Harry could face severe complications.

“Are you sure? Maybe we could -” Louis starts to say.

Harry interrupts. “I have to finish packing anyways. Have a good time at the studio, though.”

“Right.” he sighs, staring at Harry as if waiting for him to utter another word. He doesn't. “I’ll see you later then.”

Again, no acknowledgement on Harry’s end. He continues to shade his drawing, feverishly dragging the pencil back and forth on the paper. Louis doesn't want to cause an argument, so he doesn't say anything else about the matter, instead collects his keys and sunglasses from the coffee table, and leaves the apartment.

As soon as he steps into the driver’s side of his car and shuts the door after him, he sits for a moment, pondering what it is with Harry having to prove himself to everyone else. The back of his head slumps against the cushioned headrest and he shuts his eyes, body sinking with a hefty exhale. While he’s scared about Harry leaving the country, part of him is also content with knowing his boyfriend will be allowed out of the spotlight for some time.

Despite the large group of people who are in support of their relationship - most are beyond thrilled to see a man with a disability in such high regard - there are quite a few stragglers who don't seem to understand the concept of one of the most famous men in the music industry participating in a gay relationship with a man who has a disability.

Louis is well versed in media speculations and nasty comments left on social media, after facing it for years, so it hardly bothers him anymore. Although, there's been more than a few times he’s had trouble biting his tongue, and those are the moments where he loses his temper on Twitter or in public. Slowly, he’ll regain his composure, but he still makes headlines after using foul mouthed words and rude gestures.

Harry, on the other hand, still finds the realm of fame to be a bit strange. Whenever the two of them are on a date, fans approach them to ask Louis for a hug or picture, but on occasion, a fan or two will try to carry a conversation with Harry. The first time it happened Louis was uneasy and tried to ease the girls away from Harry, but upon seeing Harry’s relaxed expression, he left them alone.

Most of the public interactions are harmless, and if he were being honest, Harry would say the small acknowledgements are pleasant. The girls don't ever expect anything from him, rather they speak for a minute or two, and on the even rarer occasion, they’ll ask if it's okay to hug him. It usually is unless his anxiety is spiking that particular day, then he gives them a quick apology before they part ways.

There’s only been one issue in public. It was a meet and greet session in Liverpool, and there wasn't a show following it, so Louis told Harry he could stay in the room as the fans came through to meet the four lads.

Harry sat in his chair, back to the door, as he spoke to Liam’s girlfriend. They bonded over a bag of Hershey kisses as she told him stories of mishaps that had happened to One Direction on stage. Stories of clumsiness and technical difficulties fell off her lips with frequent laughter. Every once and awhile, he would catch Louis glancing towards him, offering him either a wink or smile as a means of encouragement.

Soon, she dismissed herself to grab something to drink for the both of them, and moments after she disappeared, ice cold liquid abruptly fell from the ceiling and saturated Harry’s hair and clothes.

A gasp left him, and before he even had the chance to turn around, security was already tackling someone to the ground and Louis was jogging over to them, facial expression broadcasting anger. “Why the fuck weren't you keeping a better eye out, huh? It's your fucking job to protect him!” he yelled at one of the security guards, pointing a finger of accusation at him.

Harry peered over his shoulder, watching as security escorted a belligerent out of the session. He glanced back to focus on his lap, shivering slightly at the cold sensation seeping into his skin.  “And I apologize. She must've slipped past.” The older man answered, stoic.

Louis shut his eyes, blatantly struggling to keep himself calm. “Slipped past? How did she fucking slip past a team of security? She poured soda on my boyfriend!”

“How fucking ignorant can you be?” Louis hissed, then finally looked to Harry. “You alright, love? I'm really sorry. Some of the people that come to these things are downright insane.”

Harry kept his focal point on his lap, flicking the dark soda off his hands by shaking them. “I want to leave.”

“We have a bathroom here. I can take you to clean up.” he offered, grabbing Harry's shoulder. Harry jerked away from him. He was absolutely drenched in soda, so much that it was still rolling off his jaw, and becoming absorbed by his clothes.

“Louis hurry up! We need you back over here!” An executive shouted. 

Harry scoffed. “You're needed in a more important place.” Before Louis could say another word, Harry pushed himself away, exiting the room.

Louis’ grateful that they've only had that one physical encounter, but on social media, it's been a frenzy. People have clearly never been taught about appropriate and inappropriate language in regards to someone with a disability. The words “crippled” and “retarded” show up so frequently in Louis’ mentions and timeline, and between his 30 million followers it’s impossible for him to block every single rude person.

Twitter seems to be fueled by negative comments concerning Harry’s speech mostly. Though there’s always comments regarding Harry’s physical handicap, sentence after sentence appears focusing on his speech impediment. Louis doesn't understand it because, to him, Harry’s impediment is hardly noticeable and even if it was, so what? Harry is actually extremely eloquent and intelligent beyond belief, and if some people were to give him the time and opportunity, he could prove it to them. Sure, he struggles with pronunciation - for the love of God, that's what dysarthria is - but it doesn't take away his brilliance or broad vocabulary.

For the reason of negativity, Louis constantly tells Harry that social media is a waste and he doesn't need it. As of now, Harry has listened, but it probably won't be an eternal agreement.

Mostly, people seem to love Harry, but there will always be the minority who can't stand him. For what reason, Louis isn't sure. He tries his hardest to stay out of those conflicts. People shouldn't be curious of what he truly thinks of them because if he were to expose himself, he can guarantee he would no longer be famous due to the intensity of the vulgarity he would express. 

Finally, he sits up straight, gripping the steering wheel with a secure hand as he starts the car with his other. The studio isn't very far, in fact it's closer in comparison to where his old apartment was, so he pulls into the lot in about fifteen minutes.

As soon as he walks into Studio A - they’ve recorded all their albums in this studio, it’s rumoured by producers to have good luck - the very same studio The Rolling Stones, Adele, and Coldplay have all recorded, the boys, except for Niall, turn to look at him. “Thought you were bringing Harry along.” Liam says without looking up from his phone. Louis doesn’t even have to question him because the lad continues, “I didn’t hear his crutches.”

“And hello to you to Liam. To answer your question, he didn’t feel like coming along.” Louis announces, clipping his sunglasses to the front of his shirt. He sits down beside Zayn. “Are we waiting on Niall?”

Zayn chuckles. “Aren’t we always? Heard he had himself a little rendezvous last night.”

“With?”

“Not a clue, but it better have been with the Queen herself. Julian’s pissed.” The dark-haired boy states, nodding towards one of their producers. He has long hair, similar to Harry’s if his was darker and thinner, and a broad build. He’s in the booth talking to their sound engineer, his face flushed red in color, and his eyebrows furrowed. “Can’t say I blame him though, Niall’s never on time.”

“It gets old real fast.” Liam says.

Louis shrugs his coat off his shoulders. “He’s still young, man. Give him a break, we were all like that.”

"Yeah, whatever." he mumbles, rapidly typing a text message with both thumbs.

If Louis' not mistaken, Niall has always been popular with the ladies, and given their bout of fame, Louis can’t say he blames him for using it to his advantage. Hell, before he was with Harry he had his fair share of boyfriends, and even more sexual partners.

“How is Harry doing? Is he ready for tomorrow?”

Louis glances at Zayn, then away with a soft sigh. “He’s ready, but I’m not. I’m quite nervous about it actually.”

“That’s understandable.”

“Everyone else is...no one else going has a disability, and I’m worried that they haven’t made the proper adjustments is all. I don’t want something to happen to him because everyone is too bloody ignorant to realize.” Louis unhooks his sunglasses from his shirt and unfolds the arm, bending them slightly as if accommodating them to fit his head better. “I won’t feel better about it until he’s stepping off the plane in a month and a half.”

Zayn reaches over, taking the sunglasses from him. He stops fidgeting and peers towards Zayn. “Bro, I hate to tell you this, but Harry’s been taking care of himself long before you came along. He’ll be okay, and if for some reason he isn’t, you’ll find a way to get to him.”

“Yeah,” Louis sighs, heavily, “yeah, you’re right. He’s just such a big part of my life now, I would hate to lose him over something like this.”

“You won’t, man. Harry knows what he’s doing.” he reminds, setting the sunglasses down on the coffee table. “Best thing you can do is relax and take it one day at a time.”

Julian steps out of the booth, looking around as if expecting to Niall to appear instantaneously. “He’s still not here?” Nobody answers, rather they all stare at the middle-aged producer in silence. “Fuck, again? Really? You know what, we’ll just record without him, and see how he fucking likes it. Come into the booth and we’ll get started.” He steps out of the doorway and takes a seat at the soundboard. The sound engineer joins him seconds later.

Louis, Liam, and Zayn follow one another into the small recording booth. Each of them slips on a pair of headphones and steps in front of a microphone.

Momentarily, Julian’s American accented voice comes over one of the speakers in the booth. “Alright, we’re going to run through ‘Free Fall’. Liam take Niall’s first part, Louis his second, and we’ll see how it sounds, alright?” Before any of them have the chance to answer, he continues, “Alright, fantastic. Let’s hear it.”

They run through the song in its four minute and thirty seven second entirety not once, but twice. Originally it was a line of words written on a used napkin at a Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant in Houston, Texas, but after some revising and collaborating with Liam, Louis managed to write what may be classified as the best song on the album. It could get them nominated for another Grammy if all the promotion and fan reactions go to plan.

“I don't like the way it sounds. Zayn, why don’t you join Liam and harmonize on that first part?” Julian suggests through the speaker, using his hands to gesture the unity of two. He demonstrates the falsetto he wants them to match, and after a few tries, the two of them are able to find the correct pitch. “But your part sounds great Louis. Let’s just run through the first half of the song then, thanks guys.”

They sing to the second verse as requested, and when finished, join Julian out of the booth for a playback. Since they have years of practice behind them, they’re relatively good at picking certain parts out and critiquing them or changing lyrics all together. “Electric guitar.” Louis says under his breath when the chorus plays.

Julian pauses the song, looking to Louis, “What was that?”

“The chorus needs something. What about plucking a few chords on an electric guitar? Might make it sound a bit more like a ballad anyway.”

“Awesome, I love it.” Julian concludes immediately, not leaving it up for debate with the other lads as he jots it down in his notebook.

Julian starts the track over, and they listen to the first part at least seven more times because each time someone has a new suggestion. Some decisions are as little as substituting a word for another while some are as large as slowing down the tempo entirely.

As they listen to it for the eighth time consecutively, Louis’ phone blasts a dance tune from the opposing side of the room. Julian pauses the song, nodding for Louis to grab his phone. “Sorry.” The blue-eyed boy mutters, walking quickly to tend to his phone. Upon reading the caller I.D., he sees Harry’s name flashing on his screen. Despite being upset with the way things have played out, he knows he should answer, in case something's wrong. “It’s my boyfriend, I -”

Julian raises his hands in surrender. “Not a problem, man. Take your time.” Usually, Julian grows irritated when their sessions are interrupted, especially at this time of year when the album needs to be ready to go in a matter of days, but he’s met Harry, and seems to have more compassion for the situation.

Louis steps into the hallway, pressing the green ‘accept’ button on his phone, and puts the phone to his ear. “Hey love, I'm at the studio right now, can I call you -”

Harry interrupts him, sobbing out a frazzled sentence. “I...help...Louis, please.” he cries.

Louis stops breathing for a second. “Babe, what's going on?” he asks, finding a straightened posture immediately. He doesn’t receive an immediate verbal reply, which is alarming enough without the added sobs of a distressed man who happens to be his boyfriend. “Harry, you there? Love?”

Harry doesn’t cry too often, though in this particular moment, he’s sobbing in a way Louis has never heard. Is this his way of wanting to back out of his flight tomorrow? Perhaps he doesn't want to go to Africa anymore, and while that's what Louis is hoping, part of him still feels weighed down. “What’s going on, Harry?”

“Lou...come...I can’t.” Harry tries to speak, but between his dysarthria and inability to calm himself down, his words won't string together. He's having an anxiety attack, Louis realizes, oh fuck he's  suffering , and I’m not there to help him.

“It’s okay.” Louis hushes, cringing at Harry’s rampant breathing pattern. He needs to calm down, or he's likely to make it much worse. “Where are you babe? Are you home? Don't worry, I’ll come to you.”

“No.” Harry whimpers, sounding wounded. “Market.”

The farmer’s market? Louis didn't even know he was heading into town today - no, Louis doesn't keep tabs on him all the time, he isn't possessive - and to be fair, it worries him that Harry is crying from the bloody farmer’s market.

He pats his jeans in search of his keys, and is grateful to find them stuffed in his back pocket. “Okay, love, I’m leaving right now. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.” Louis promises, staying on the phone as he leaves the studio to go out to his car. The nice thing about their apartment’s location is it's basically at the heart of everything they could possibly need. The studio, the market, and some family are relatively nearby. “Try to breathe for me, babes. You’ve got to relax. In, and out, nice and slow.” he tries to guide.

They don't carry conversation as Louis drives to the market. Rather, Louis is content with listening to Harry’s breathing, assuring he’s still on the line, as he whispers words of encouragements every few moments to remind him he’s coming to help him.

Parking into a spot nearby, Louis rushes past the automated doors, searching the first few aisles for Harry. “I'm here, love. Where are you?” he asks.  For whatever reason, his crying increases in intensity again, leaving him unable to answer Louis. The thought of the unknown makes Louis’ skin itch. He doesn't have a clue what's going on, or what's wrong.

It clicks with Louis, then. Restroom, he's in the restroom. He would never allow himself to break down in such a public area. So, he heads to the men’s restroom, and shoves open the door, though as soon as it opens, he wishes he hadn't come inside.

Blood is seeping out of Harry’s nose, down the front of his shirt, and his right eye is starting to swell, a purple hue starting to take over. At first glance, it seems that he fell, but then Louis notices how his crutches are thrown to the side, in such a manner that it was done on purpose. “Harry.” he whispers, and the younger boy breaks on spot, doubling over, sobbing, unable to catch his breath.

Louis doesn't know what to do. His voice catches in his throat as he stands opposite of Harry. Finally, he can process a coherent thought, and carries himself over to Harry, dropping to his knees, and takes the younger boys head in his hands.

He’s a mess, and upon shifting closer to him, Louis sees another bruise forming around his jaw, and his wrists have fingerprints engraved in them, also bruising. He doesn't know what to say. What is he supposed to say? This isn't okay.

So, he pulls Harry’s head to his chest, running his hand through his hair. He's never heard anyone cry so hard, and honestly, it’s killing him. He can feel his heart shattering each time Harry cries out. His body aches. “I've got you now, babes, I’ve got you.” he whispers, lips pressing to the top of his head. Soon enough, he’s tugging Harry onto his lap, and rocking him back and forth as the curly lad buries his face in Louis’ shirt.

Who would do this? What kind of sick fucking asshole would do this? Tears come to Louis’ own eyes, and he glances up at the ceiling, in attempt to make them disappear. “Shh, love, shh, it's gonna be okay, I’ve got you. You’ve got to catch your breath for me.”

What does he do from this point? His boyfriend was just assaulted in a fucking bathroom, so what does he do from this point to ensure Harry is safe?

Harry finally pulls his face away from Louis’ chest. His face is puffy, flushed even, and his eyes bloodshot. “I didn't do anything wrong.” he whispers, then his body collapses in on itself once again, another cry plucking itself from his throat.

“I know you didn't.” Louis kisses his face, over and over again. “I know love.”

His nose is gushing crimson at this point. It’s all down his face, his clothes, on Louis’s shirt, the floor too. Louis reaches for the paper towel dispenser, waves his hand in front of it, until a brown pieces buzzes out. Yanking it off with a crisp flick of his wrist, he brings it to Harry’s nose, holding it underneath his nostrils.

“He followed me.” Harry whispers, trembling beneath Louis’ touch. He wants to tell him to keep quiet, he doesn't need to talk right now, but the other part of him wants to, needs to, hear it. “And...and he took my crutches, tried to make me stand, held me up by my wrists…told me to stay standing…” he pauses, shutting his eyes as his lips clamp down on a whimper. “My legs gave out, and he yelled at me for being a cripple, and then…” He’s unable to finish, crying again at the thought.

Louis’ lips pull into a tight line at the unsettling thought. Someone hurt Harry, beat him up, because he can't stand. That's one of the most vile things he's ever heard of. “It's okay. We don't need to talk about this right now. Are you hurt anywhere else?” he asks. Harry won't meet his eyes as he nods. “Where?”

“My chest.”

His voice is so meek. It makes Louis feel sick. Harry isn't a meek person. He touches the bottom hem of Harry’s shirt. “Can I?” he asks, careful to not violate him.

Harry doesn't say anything, rather turns his face away from Louis, thus telling his boyfriend it’s okay. As soon as Louis pulls his shirt up, he wishes he hadn't, really wishes he hadn't.

Harry’s flesh is no longer it’s usual peachy complexion, rather he’s covered in swelling purple and blue spots. A shiver shoots up Louis' spine. Someone did that to Harry, his Harry, actually took the time to kick him and punch him while he was down. His hand covers his mouth and his eyes helplessly search Harry’s face for his.

Harry’s still crying, back of his head pressed to the wall as he keeps his head turned.

“I'm sorry baby, I’m so sorry.” Louis whispers, voice cracking despite his will to stay strong for Harry. Tears are freely falling before he has the chance to get them under control. What else can he say? A man purposely assaulted Harry with the intention of hurting him and nobody was there to help him.

He touches Harry’s neck, letting his shirt fall back down to cover his bruised abdomen. “This shouldn't have happened, and I’m sorry.” he whispers, hand drifting from Harry’s neck to his arm, where he squeezes in reassurance. He's never been at such a loss for words or actions.

God, he must have been so scared, and nobody was there to help him. Nobody thought to check on a man with a clear disability who’d been maliciously followed into the bathroom by a completely able one?

“Let's get you home, and we’ll figure it out from there.” Louis suggests, eyes burning because looking at Harry is making his whole form contract with pity, and he's never pitied him before.

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t want to stand.”

“Then I’ll carry you.” Louis presses.

Not another word is spoken for several moments. Louis doesn't quite understand, but his comment has made Harry even more distressed. He covers his face with his hands, sobbing in his palms. “Just leave me here.”

“I'm not going to leave you in a public bathroom to suffer, Harry.” he replies, calm.

Harry meets his eyes, sharply whispering, “ He did.”

“ He was an awful human being. I'm your boyfriend, and I love you, and I’m going to take you home so you’re safe. If you don't think you can stand, then I will carry you.” He shifts positions so he’s kneeling. As he studies Harry’s form this time, he notices how twisted his legs are, in a way they perhaps shouldn't be.

Harry meets his eyes, sniffling. “I don't know if I can.”

Louis nods, acting as he would normally, treating it as a mundane situation. He doesn't need Harry feeling bad about himself on top of being in pain. “Let me know if you’re starting to hurt too much, and we’ll figure something else out.”

Harry doesn't say anything, meaning he understands. So, Louis curls one arm underneath his knees, after straightening his legs out, and the other curls around his back, then he rises to his feet. He isn't worried about anything else this moment. The bloody mess they've left can stay behind as can Harry’s crutches. He’ll figure it out later. Right now his focus is getting Harry home, so he knows he's safe.

Harry presses his face into the side of Louis’ neck. He’s still sniffling and shaking, though he doesn't seem as traumatized as he had been when Louis first found him.

People stare, of course, and despite Louis urging himself to scold all of them for letting this happen to his boyfriend, he brushes past them, holding Harry tight as he beelines past the cash registers and automated doors. Once they've made it to Louis’ car, he helps him settle in the passenger seat, and then climbs into the driver's seat.

Neither of them say a word. Louis’ phone does vibrate against his thigh, meaning the lads have realized he's gone and won’t be coming back. They’ll have to wait as his only concern is getting Harry home safely.

He looks to Harry the first time since entering the car at a red light, and his heart sinks. The younger boy is curled in on himself, facing the door. Sniffling comes from him, and Louis knows he's crying again.

A few more minutes pass. Finally, they're back at the flat. Louis puts the car in park, pulling the key from the ignition, and rounds the front to help Harry out. It's not exactly awkward, but the silence is not comfortable either.

It doesn't help that Louis doesn't know what to say. After all, what does one say to their significant other after they've been a victim of a hate crime? That's what it is. Discrimination against disability led to his boyfriend having the holy hell beat out of him in a public restroom.

Stepping into the flat is odd as well. It doesn't feel like a home, there's no comfort associated with it whatsoever, staring at their belongings makes him feel worse. Perhaps because they are all associated with good times, and this isn't one of those times.

He takes Harry to their bedroom, lays him down in bed, pulls the blanket over him, and says, “I’ll be right back, love. Try to calm down for me, nothing's going to happen to you now.”

As soon as he’s out of their room, he pulls his phone out, and upon seeing the missed calls from the boys and their producers, he decides to ring Zayn first.

“Louis, where the hell did you go? You know we have to get the album out by the fifth. Every day matters.” The thick-accented boy says.

Louis swallows. “Do you think you can come ‘round my flat when you have time?” he asks instead.

“You're at your flat?” Zayn questions, then hesitates as though he's processing this new information. Louis’ known for doing a lot of stupid things, but he wouldn't up and go home in the midst of recording. “What happened?”

Louis sighs. “Harry’s hurt, and I don't know what to do.”

A beat of silence passes. “He’s hurt?”

“Somebody...somebody assaulted in a bathroom. I had to leave to get to him, and now he’s scared. I don't know what I should do.”

“Someone beat him up?” Now, there's anger in Zayn’s tone. He’s not one to get angry often, but mess with people he cares about and his wrath comes out, full force. “Did you call the police? You should file a police report, and make sure you call his mum too.”

Louis makes a mental note. Those are both very intelligent ideas, and they should have been blatant, but Louis can't seem to think straight knowing Harry is in pain and scared. “Right, okay.” he says.

“Is he alright?” Zayn asks.

“He’s bruised pretty badly. I don't think anything is broken though, which is good, but I can't get him to calm down. He’s really scared.” Louis admits, turning his head to glance over his shoulder. There's no noise coming from the bedroom which is either a really great thing or a really bad one. “I'm gonna make a few phone calls, but do me a favor, don't mention it to anyone.”

“Course. I'll be around later.” Zayn answers, then the line goes dead.

From there, Louis calls Anne, who immediately panics, saying she’ll be over as soon as possible, after he has a long conversation with a secretary at the police station. A detective will be around later in the night to speak with the two of them.

He walks back into the bedroom, taking a seat on the bed beside Harry’s tense form. His hand presses to his hip, rubbing gentle circles against the clothed skin. “I hope you know that you didn't deserve what happened.”

Harry doesn't acknowledge his comment. “Will you call Jean and tell her I can’t go to Kenya?”

Any other day Louis would be happy that Harry has decided not to go, but seeing him in such a fragile state makes him wish he was going. Harry really wanted it, and like everything else, it was yanked right from underneath him.

“I will later, love.” Louis promises, scooting further back on the bed. He lays behind Harry, and uses his fingers to brush his hair from his face. The bruise around his eye is a dark purple, and the swelling is causing his eye to take on an almond shape. “Is there anything I can get for you? Do you want some ice for your eye?” he whispers.

“Why are you filing a police report?” Harry asks, again instead of answering his questions. Louis start to ask how he knows, but Harry answers before the words even leave his mouth. “I heard you talking on the phone.”

“It needs to be done.” Louis replies, confused. Isn't it the right thing to do?

Harry scoffs. “It doesn't.”

“Yes it does Harry. What happened isn't right, and that man shouldn't get away with what he did.”

Harry slowly shifts to lay on his other side, now facing Louis. “He said it’s people like me ruining society.” Seeing him from this angle makes Louis realize just how badly he’s bruised. If the black eye didn't prove it, the bruise on his jaw certainly does.

“That doesn't even make sense.”

“Says I’m just lazy. If I actually tried, I could fucking stand, get a goddamn job, not rely on people like you to take care of me.” Harry laughs, a bitter, sour laugh. “Fucking people like you! He's a fan of you, wouldn't you guess it?”

“Harry…” Louis sighs.

“Doesn't he know that if I could stand, I would? I would give up the fucking world to stand, to walk, to run until my lungs bled.” His face contorts, and he’s crying once more. “I just want to be normal, Louis, that's all I want. I don't understand.”

Louis touches where his face isn't bruised, grazing the area with the pad of his thumb. “Harry, shh. Baby, you are normal, don't say that.”

“Then why did he beat me until I couldn't breathe ?” Harry whimpers, eyes searching Louis’ for an answer that isn't there. “Why did he throw me on the ground, and punch me until I could taste blood in my throat?”

Louis struggles to answer. “I don't…”

Another cry leaves Harry, this time he rubs aggressively at his face, sobbing as he reels his mind for an answer. “See, you don't know because I’m not normal, and I’m a waste, and I’ll always be a fucking useless waste.”

“You're gonna hurt yourself, stop, please.” Louis coos, pulling Harry’s hands away from his face. “Look at me Harry, that guy was fucking awful. It was a hate crime, okay? You didn't do anything wrong. He hurt you because he doesn't understand how wonderful it is to be different.”

“I don't want to be like this anymore.” Harry cries, shaking his head. “I want to be normal.”

Louis holds a hand to the back of Harry’s head and pulls him forward, cuddling him to his chest as he whispers, “You are normal. You're so special, sweetheart, so special.”

He runs his hand through Harry’s hair, curling his fingers around the thick brown strands. “Why couldn't I protect myself, Louis? Why am I so fucking useless?” he breathes out, words coming out mumbled against Louis’ shirt.

“You aren't useless. I don't know what that prick said to you, but it isn't true, and I don't want to hear you saying shit like that. It's not true.” Louis says, his voice soft. His hands moves from Harry’s hair and settles on his back, rubbing circles against his damp shirt, induced from sweat.

He doesn't know what's worse. His 25 year old boyfriend crying in his arms over something he had no control over or the prick who’s out tonight having a drink, laughing with his friends with no remorse for leaving a man to bleed out on the dirty bathroom floor.

“He held me down.” Harry whispers, picking his head up to look at Louis. His nose has started to bleed again. Reaching for tissues on his side of the bed, he grabs a few and holds them to his nose. Though, the effort is a bit late, blood is already seeping into their pillowcases and comforter. “I tried to get up, but I...I couldn’t. So, he punched me, and…” Harry struggles to keep talking, but Louis doesn't say a word. One hand holds the tissues to his nose and the other grazes his cheek.

The words don't come to Harry, rather his eyes tear up again, and he shuts them, causing tears to roll down his cheeks. Louis briefly wonders if he’ll ever be okay again.

“You don't have to talk right now.” Louis whispers, kissing his forehead.

So, he doesn't, instead the two of them lay there in silence. Louis rubs his back and Harry rests his head against Louis’ chest, listening for his steady heartbeat.

The first interruption is when Anne comes over and cautiously walks into their bedroom. She pauses in the doorway upon presumably seeing how small and afraid Harry looks curled against Louis’ chest.

Not a word leaves her. She inches toward the bed, glances at her son, holds in a comment about his injured face, then says, “I’ll make some tea. Why don't you bring him to the front room?” Which honestly translates to that detective will arrive soon, let's try to look a bit put together.

As soon as she’s gone, Louis touches Harry’s neck. “Do you want me to grab your chair, love?” he asks.

Harry shakes his head.

Louis assumes he wants to be carried, so that's just what he does, without further question. Once in the front room, Louis sits down on the couch beside him, but he won't stay sitting up. He lays his head down on Louis’ lap while the rest of his body curls inward.

There isn't an argument on Louis’ behalf. Hell, he pushes for it, grabbing the throw blanket hung over the back of the couch and draped it over him. If what Harry needs is to be comforted, Louis has no problem aiding him. 

Moments later Anne resurfaces barring a small platter decorated with three tea cups. She sets it down on the coffee table, and Louis reaches for a cup first, blowing the steam away before having a sip, careful not to spill it on Harry. “Do you want some love?” he asks.

Again, Harry shakes his head.

Anne purses her lips as she watches Harry. She offers him a smile once their eyes cross, but his only response is to cry. Louis feels his body tremble, so he sets the teacup down and rests his hand on Harry’s side, rubbing gently. “It's okay, love.”

Harry presses his face against Louis’ thigh, sobbing yet again. Anne swallows, hands clasping together to rest on her lap, and meets Louis’ eyes.

Louis is lost for words. He doesn't know how to help him. Maybe having a detective over is pushing it too far, perhaps it's unnecessary, but he can't let the man who unlawfully put his hands on his boyfriend walk away free, without any sort of consequence.

They sit in silence, Louis rubbing Harry’s side with hushed words of encouragement, while Anne sips on her tea, blatantly uncomfortable.

Harry’s cries eventually become mute, though his body still trembles with exasperation.

“What happened was wrong in every sense of the word love.” Anne says, hesitant. Her presence is making the weight of the situation so much worse, considering Harry knows she's been right all these years. He shouldn’t be left on his own because anytime he wins over the smallest bit of independence awful things like this happen.

Her words aren't helping the situation, at all, rather he feels like some kind of invalid who just needs a talking to and everything will resolve itself. It's not that easy. He's been fighting who he is for over twenty years, and now someone has made a physical point of showing him that he's unwanted. Sure, there's been the verbal warnings, the printed ones, even the fucking mental ones, but no one has ever taken it to this extent.

He shifts his position, face no longer pressed to Louis’ thigh, rather he lays on his back, eyes focusing on Louis’ stubbled jaw. “I'm sorry you have to deal with me.” he whispers, weakly smiling.

Louis shakes his head, brushing Harry’s hair off his clammy face. He uses the pads of his thumbs to wipe the tears out from under his eyes. His left eye is so bruised that it’s swollen over, the white of his eye barely showing. “I think we need to get some ice on your eye babes. It doesn't look too good.”

“And just to think my looks were all I had going for me.” Harry kids, forcing a laugh, though it may just be one of the most pathetic sounds Louis has ever heard. He wipes his nose with the back of his hand, pulling back a streak of blood.

“That's not true.” Louis sighs, then puts his attention on the blood residing on Harry’s hand. “I do think you need to sit up though. We’ve got to get that under control. Here, I’ll help you -”

In the midst of Louis’ words and his action as he reaches to help Harry sit up, he's interrupted, “I can sit up just fine. I'm not an invalid.”

“I never said you were.” Louis whispers, downcasting his eyes as his boyfriend withers in pain as he attempts to sit up right. His chest didn't look all too well when he had a look at it back at the market, he can't imagine how it must look, or feel, right this moment. “I'll grab you some ice, that sound alright?”

Harry shrugs at him, turning his head to look over at the wall showcasing Louis’ awards and his own painting.

“Why don't I grab it? Leave you two to yourselves for a moment.” Anne suggests, setting her teacup down on the table. Apparently it's not up for discussion because almost as soon as the words leave her, she's left them to tend for themselves.

Louis looks to Harry whose jaw is clenched, evidently bruised, and the will to cry is there still. His body is hesitant, fighting the urge to double over into sobs, yet again. “If you want to talk about how you're feeling we can.”

“I don't.” Harry snaps, though his tone lacks true venom. “I'm fine, but I’m really fucking mad that you would go over my head.”

“How did I go over your head?”

Harry scoffs, wiping at his face in pure frustration. “You fucking called my mum, and the police without even consulting me. I told you I’m fine, why would you do that?”

“You keep saying that, but you're not.”

“Not what?” Harry argues, snapping his head around to meet Louis’ eyes. “I'm not what?”

Louis doesn't speak at first, one knee bobbing up and down with uncertainty. Harry looks bloody awful. His eye is one of the most grotesque and painful looking contusions he's ever seen. “You're not fine, Harry. Say what you want, but you aren't fine, and nothing you say is going to convince me otherwise.

Harry sighs, shaking his head. “But I am, I’m fine.”

Before Louis has the chance to answer, Anne returns, handing over a glass of water to Harry. “I think you should have a bit to drink, keep yourself hydrated.” Rather than arguing, Harry has a few small sips of the clear liquid, though his hands are trembling, then sets it off to the side.

She holds out a rag, clearly wrapped in a tight ball to keep the ice in one place, and Harry cautiously takes it from her, pressing the cloth to his eye.

“Not so rough, Harry. You’re going to make it worse.” Anne sighs, reaching to pull his hand away from his face.

"Piss off." He sneers, jerking away from her touch. “It’s already fucking bad enough, don’t you think?”

She doesn’t appear shocked by his rude nature, instead she’s a bit disgruntled, returning to have a seat with pursed lips. With genuine sympathy, Louis meets her eyes. He knows how Harry works, as she does, and acceptance is something that doesn’t seem to reside within him.

A knock on the door emerges later in the evening, Anne goes to fetch it, and in walks a man dressed in a black button up and slacks to match. He’s middle aged, presumably no older than his forties, and he bares empathy. His copper hair is styled into a gelled quiff and there’s a tranquil sort of air that follows him into the flat.

“Good evening, I’m DCI Oliver Burns, here to speak with you lot about the events that occurred earlier today.” He’s very professional, and not at all intimidating. His height proves him to appear even more relaxed, coercing him to take elongated strides as he walks closer to them, shoulders rolled back as a reminder of his rank. “You must be the lad that called the station. Mr. Tomlinson, right?” he asks, offering his hand.

Louis takes his hand, shaking it confidently, “Louis is just fine, detective Burns.” Upon releasing his grip, he looks to Harry, “And this is my boyfriend -”

“Harry Styles. Desmond Styles’ son. I worked under your father’s command for quite a few years, absolutely admired that man.” Oliver says, tipping his hat towards Harry.

Harry tries not to show disgruntlement towards his father’s colleague, but his feelings of envy are quite prominent. Forcing a smile, he mutters through clenched teeth, “Pleasure sir.”

Though by the time he’s managed to say anything, Oliver has already turned to his mother, greeting her as though they’re old friends, which given the technicalities, they are.

As they speak for the moment, Louis leans in closer to Harry. “Let me see.” he encourages, even goes so far to pull the makeshift ice pack from Harry’s eye. He winces upon seeing the swelling has hardly gone down, and the color has deepened even further. “How’s it feel?”

“It hurts a lot.” Harry admits.

“Keep the ice on there for a bit longer. Maybe we can get the swelling down some.” Louis suggests, allowing Harry to cover his eye once more.

As soon as Oliver has a seat beside Anne she jumps at the opportunity to make him a cup of tea - with extra milk and sugar, as per requested - which leaves the three of them sat looking at each other.

Oliver sets a small device in the center of the coffee table. Louis guesses it’s a tape recorder.

Once a notebook is sprawled across the detective’s legs, pen gripped between his fingers, he clears his throat, then states, “You must have some basic understanding of how these things work, so I assume you understand that this interview will be recorded.”

“Yes.”

“Brilliant,” Oliver nods, jotting a few words down at the top of his lined paper, “Note that the interview has commenced at 18:32. I think we should start with getting an official statement from you Harry.”

The professional speech starts to bother Louis, ever so slightly. He recognizes Harry was involved in a crime and it should be treated as such, but the law enforcement jargon makes him slightly uncomfortable. It’s six thirty at night, yet the detective is speaking of it in military time, and while the difference may be only a slight change, Louis can’t help but feel odd.

Harry glances to Louis, his uncertainty clear. “What am I supposed to say?”

“I just need you to walk me through what happened, that’s all. I currently have two members of my team stationed at the market. Sergeants’ Katelyn Michol and Connor Gibson are occupied with interviewing any witnesses, obtaining the security footage, and collecting any evidence deemed useful.”

“Oh.” Harry say, wetting his bottom lip with a swipe of his tongue. “Um, I was getting some things for my trip, usually one of the workers pushes a cart around for me...and I felt like somebody was following me, but I wasn’t sure, so I just kept walking through the market...then I had to use the loo, so I…” he swallows, eyes becoming a bit teary as he recalls the events from earlier in the day. “I...went to the bathroom, and it’s um, it’s a singular one, right? There was a faulty lock, so I...I continued on anyway.” He stops speaking, swallowing thickly as his hand clings to his thigh, twisting the sweatpant material around his fingers.

“Go on.” Oliver encourages.

Louis bites his lip as he listens to Harry retell the story. He can’t bear to look at him as he struggles to make his words form cohesive sentences. Nodding along as Harry’s words begin to slur together, making less and less sense as they loop together, he peers at Oliver, who continues to jot down bullet points, presumably.

“The door...it slammed shut all of a sudden, and this...this really big guy came in. I...um, I tried to ask him…” His voice cracks, and Louis finally looks to him, jaw clenching as he starts to cry beside him. He grabs Harry’s shoulder, kneading his thumb into the tense flesh in attempt to coax him.

“Ask him what Harry?”

Louis can hardly believe his ears. His boyfriend is struggling to speak, and this investigator just continues to provoke answers from him. He wants to stand up for Harry, tell Oliver to give him a second, but he knows his place, and he knows it is above him to cause disruption. “Ask him what he was doing...um, he came closer...knocked me to the floor. I...couldn’t.” A soft cry leaves him, and he rubs at his face, apologizing quietly as he tries to find the strength to speak again. “He drug me to my feet...held me against the wall by my arms…”

Louis’ heart can’t take Harry’s unsteadiness. He stands, walking around Harry to grab the forgotten glass of water, and sits back beside him, holding the glass to his lips. “Here, have some water love. It’s okay, take your time.”

Oliver’s penmanship scratching against the paper is the only noise filling the void of silence aside from Harry’s gulps as he drinks. Louis pulls the glass away, holding it on his lap with one hand while his other holds Harry’s cheek.

Meanwhile, Anne walks back into the room, stoic look forced upon her features. She sets a mug down in front of detective Burns, then has a seat on the couch beside him.

Harry tries to offer Louis a smile, but as soon as his lips part, his body sinks with another bout of crying. He must know that they need to get through it though because he begins speaking past his whimpers again. “He told me he was going to let me go and I was to stand. I’m...I’m obviously disabled, I can’t stand on my own, um...so...I fell...I fell on the floor again. Um, it’s a bit unclear after that, but...he started…” Harry pauses, hand shielding his mouth to conceal a cry.

“Take your time, babe. He can wait.” Louis whispers, clutching Harry’s kneecap.

Harry’s breathing so heavily, chest puffing in and out at a abnormal pace. Louis wouldn't be surprised if he fell into another anxiety attack, though it's the last thing he wants. “He started screaming in my face.”

“And what did he say?” Oliver asks, glancing up at Harry with a relatively patient appearance.

“What didn't he say?” Harry chuckles, a very solemn chuckle, as he looks down at his lap. “I’m spastic, a gimp, retarded, a cripple.” he says, softly, face contorting as he thinks about it. “He hit me the first time because ‘I talk like I’m retarded.”

Louis feels sick. He glances up at the ceiling, then shuts his eyes as he tries to remain calm. That's not okay. Oh God, that's really not okay.

Oliver seems to feel a bit tense as well. “I’m terribly sorry, Harry. Do you remember how many times he hit you?”

“I don't know.” Harry admits, tugging on his sweatpants. “It started to blur together. Um, he hit me in the face...probably four or five times. Then he…” he pauses, gathering his thoughts. “He kicked me a lot of times, I don't know how many, um felt like I couldn't breathe. There was a lot of blood.”

“Why do you think he stopped?” Oliver asks.

Harry shrugs. “I couldn't tell you. Last thing he did, yanked my hair, slammed my head against the wall, went on some tangent about cripples ruining society. He left after that.”

“Thank you for talking to me, Harry.”

Harry instantly breaks then. There were tears beforehand as he was explaining himself, but he managed to get through it without losing control of his emotions, and Louis is so proud of him for that. He did better than Louis could've hoped for.

He wraps an arm around Harry, tugging him against him, and runs his fingers through the younger boy’s curls as he sobs against his neck. “It's alright, sweetheart. I know it's hard for you.” he presses his chin to the top of Harry’s head. “Is there anything else you need from him?”

Oliver sighs. “I do need photos of his injuries as well as a description of what the man looked like.”

“Okay, we can do that.” Louis replies, kissing Harry’s head before pulling away. “We’re almost done here, promise.”

Harry nods, keeping his head lolled against Louis’ shoulder as he slowly explains what the man who attacked him looked like. “Tall, over six foot, um muscular, I guess. Dark hair, black I think, it was long, not as long as mine though, um don't know what color eyes.”

“Okay, any identifying features? Tattoos? Piercings? Birthmarks even?”

“He had a few tattoos here.” Harry touches the anterior part of his forearm. “Some scripture, I think. He had one around his ankle too, a snake I’m pretty sure.”

Oliver nods at him, shutting his notebook after he jots down the rest of his notes. “I need a few photos of your injuries.”

Harry doesn't exactly feel comfortable with that, but he understands what needs to be done. “Okay.” he whispers, sitting up as Oliver approaches him with the camera. First, he takes a full photo of Harry’s face, then of each profile. From there he has Harry lift his shirt up, and snaps a few pictures of his chest and stomach

“You did a great job, son. I’ll contact you if there's a change in lead or if we need any more information from you.” Detective Burns says, shaking Harry’s hand. He turns on his heel, walking over to his seat so he can collect his things into his briefcase. “Before I go, can I have a word with you Mr. Tomlinson? Ah, I mean Louis.”

“Of course. The kitchen’s fine.” he presses a quick kiss to Harry’s lips, then stands, maneuvering into the kitchen.

Oliver joins him a few moments later, standing opposite of him. He sets his grey briefcase down on the counter-top, facing Louis. “Cerebral palsy is considered to be a developmental disability.”

“Right, I know.” Louis replies, uncertain of where this conversation will take them. “Why does it matter?”

“You need to know that his case is going to be founded primarily on that, and if the case makes it to trial, which is a strong if, that's what the focus will be.”

Louis sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, though he doesn't speak, yet.

“Without cerebral palsy, there wouldn't be much to build on. So, just know that the reason this case is going to go anywhere is because he's disabled.”

Louis meets Oliver’s eyes, leaning forward on the counter-top as he processes this. “If it wasn't for cerebral palsy, he wouldn't have been the victim of a hate crime.”

“Right you are.” Oliver shifts his weight to one leg, arms crossed over his chest. “I wouldn't normally take on a case like this. It's not exactly my specialty, usually I deal with more serious offenses.”

“Oh, and this isn't a serious offense?” Louis asks.

“It is, but my unit is often occupied with homicides.” Oliver explains, peering around the kitchen as if admiring it. “His father was a great man, and if I promised Des one thing, it was to take care of his family if they ever needed it. I owe it to that man, after all he's the reason I’m able to pursue my career.”

Louis isn't exactly content with his reasoning, but nonetheless understands he has to remain professional. “I'm glad you have a motive for helping my boyfriend, but don't forget, he's more than his father's son, and certainly more than a disability.”

“Of course I understand.” Oliver says, dry, as though his compassion and professionalism has been insulted. “I am worried about him though.”

“Why’s that?”

Oliver hesitates as if what he's about to see is going to harm Louis’ ego. “I'm going to order a psychotherapist come evaluate him immediately.”

“He doesn't do well with therapy. I don't think that's a very good idea.”

“If this case goes any further, if it goes to trial, I want him fit to attend, hopefully even speak. Psychologically, he needs assistance, maybe someone can help to lift his psyche.” Oliver reaches for his briefcase, pulling it off to the counter so it rests at his side. He reaches in his pocket, withdrawing a crisp white business card. He hands it to Louis. “Here's my card, call if there's anything I can do. A Dr. Eloise McCarthy will be here to speak with you early tomorrow morning.”

With those words, Detective Burns finds his way out of their home, leaving Louis behind in a stunned manner.

This can't be happening.

Eloise is a twenty something year old who lacks experience. Her light blonde hair is pulled back into a sleek bun and a pair of brown frames reside on her face. Pink lipstick and luscious lashes accommodate her structured features. Harry quickly arrives to a conclusion as soon as he hears her black pumps thump against the floor and she thrusts her hand out to greet him; she’s far too attractive for this profession.

Harry refuses to speak with her, though it's not surprising. She tries everything with her soft spoken voice, but Harry sits opposite her, completely deadpan as he stares at the wall behind her.

She tries to pry into his life too early into their session. Frankly, he doesn't want to talk about his father’s death, or his mother’s forcefulness, or how he’s so useless he allowed someone to physically and verbally attack him in a restroom.

“We’ll try again at a later date.” she promises, bidding him goodbye.

As soon as the front door clicks into place, Louis emerges from the kitchen, taking a seat beside Harry. He kisses Harry’s cheek. “How’d it go?”

“Why does everyone think I need mental help?” Harry asks, meeting Louis’ eyes. “It hasn't even been twenty four hours. I need time to think.”

“I know you do babe.”

He lays his head on Louis’ arm. “I don't think I ever thanked you for saving me yesterday, so thank you.”

“You don't have to thank me. You're my boyfriend, and I love you, and I would do anything for you. I want you to remember that, okay?” he leans down, pressing a kiss to Harry’s head.

“I love you too. I don't know what I would do without you.” Harry admits, shutting his eyes as he goes lax against Louis.

There’s a part of Louis who feels responsible for all that happened. After all had he and Harry not felt so tense towards one another, Harry would have been at the studio with him, not enduring the physical and emotional turmoil from a bad experience yesterday.

“Can I ask you a question?” Louis asks, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth as he waits for permission to continue.

“Okay.” Harry answers, waiting for a further introduction. He appears to be confused.

Louis hesitates. “That man...he didn’t…you know...” Despite carefully plotting his wording, the question has trouble flowing correctly, and sounds incomprehensible.

“Sexually assault me?” Harry asks before Louis has the chance to stutter the rest of it out. Rather, Louis nods, afraid to hear the candid answer. “No, he kept his pecker in his pants.” Oh, does Harry have a way with words. Such a way he never fails to make Louis the slightest bit uncomfortable. “He - he allowed me a bit of dignity. Guess beating me senseless made him hard enough.”

The thought of Harry being physically assaulted is enough to make Louis nauseous, but even the idea of a man bigger than Harry, stronger than Harry, a man who could easily see Harry’s limitations holding him down and violating him enrages him.

“Why don't you come to the studio with me today? You can bring your art stuff.” Louis suggests, thinking that perhaps he’ll get his mind off of it if he allotted some independence.

Harry shakes his head. “I don't want anyone to see me like this.”

“It isn't that bad, Harry.” Louis replies, eyeing his boyfriend. Then, Harry looks up at him as if making a point of showcasing his bruised and swollen facial features. “Okay, so your face is bruised, so? You know the boys won't say anything if you don't want them to.”

“I don't want anyone's pity. I'm not going.” Harry mumbles, pulling away from Louis. Very slowly, he lays on the arm of the couch, tucking his legs onto the sofa as well.

Louis watches Harry with a confused expression. “Is there something else bothering you?”

“You mean aside from being violently assaulted and being unable to defend myself?” Harry snaps, then shuts his eyes as they start to prickle with impending tears. “No, other than being a fucking weakling I’m fantastic.”

“Love I’m just trying to make you feel better.” Louis whispers.

Harry scoffs, “Well you’re shit at it.” Involuntarily, his body tenses and he shrinks in on himself with a frustrated cry.

“Harry…” Louis moves to grasp Harry’s leg, and squeezes. “It's alright, you don't have to go through this alone.”

He buries his face against the material of the couch, choking on another cry. Louis doesn’t say anything, moving his hand to rub Harry’s leg, and sucks his bottom lip between his teeth as he’s forced to listen to his boyfriend cry, again.

When Harry moves his head to look at Louis, he says, “I didn’t want to press charges. Please, tell the police to stop looking for him. I - I can’t face him in a courtroom, please Louis.” His body cowers, this time with a silent cry, and he uses his sleeve to wipe at his nose.

“Harry I-”

Harry shakes his head. “Please, don’t make me do this.”

“Babe, I can’t just tell them to stop looking for the guy who assaulted you. That’s not fair to you.” Louis whispers, looking away when his comment makes the distress Harry’s in much worse.

“I don’t-” He’s interrupted by his own crying- “I don’t care . I’m begging you to just let it go.” His muscles are contracting from being exceedingly  overwhelmed.

Louis can hardly understand him when he’s this upset, but the word ‘begging’ stands out instantly. God, just yesterday Harry begged and pleaded for that man to stop using ableist language, to stop hitting him, and to stop kicking him, but he didn’t.  “Okay, shh, okay. I’ll call him and tell him we don’t want any part in it.” he reaches for his phone on the coffee table, leaving one hand on Harry’s leg. He’s trembling under Louis’ touch. “Breathe, it’ll be alright.”

Harry shakes his head, shakily wiping at his tear-stained face. “Please.”  

“I’ll ring him now, sweetheart. I promise you, it’s okay.” He rises to his feet, and glances at Harry once more before taking the phone call out to the balcony. Looking at Harry, a man who’s taller and broader than Louis will ever be, as he is now, trembling and weak, is heartbreaking. Once out on the balcony, he leans against the railing, staring down at the London traffic on this beautiful, windy day. The weather contrasts the mood of his household so much it nearly makes him sick.

He dials the number Oliver left for him, and after three rings, the gruff man answers. “DCI Burns, what can I do for you?”

“This is Louis Tomlinson, I-”

“Hello Louis, what can I do for you?” he asks. “I heard Harry’s session with Dr. McCarthy this morning didn’t go as well as we had hoped.”

Rather than answering him, he splurges on his original thought, “I’m calling in regards to the search for the man who assaulted Harry. He doesn’t want the search to continue, in fact he doesn’t want to have anything to do with it.”

“I see.” Burns says, unamused. “You do realize that it’s damn near impossible to call off a case once it’s been started, don’t you?”

Cars honk in the distance while another’s engine roars with the speed it passes at. Louis sighs. “I understand, but don’t you have some sort of confirmation period before you can begin? Harry is going through enough stress, and...and this is only going to make it worse.”

While this phone call feels quite tense and awkward, it’s not even remotely comparable to the one he had to make to Jean last night. She was disappointed and upset to hear Harry wouldn’t be joining her and her other recruited artists, but she didn’t sound as though she believed anything Louis said. He wasn’t completely honest, rather he told her Harry had been in an accident, which prevented him from traveling.

“So, you don’t want any further action taken?” Burns asks.

Louis thinks about it for a moment. He wants to help Harry, and if this is what Harry needs, then Louis has to do it for him. “That’s what I’m saying yes.”

“Very well. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank - “ The detective hangs up- “you.” Louis mutters as an afterthought. He hates to be so indecisive, but he needs for Harry to pull through. He doesn’t expect his boyfriend to recover quickly, that would be absurd, though he hopes he can help to move the process along, without pushing him.

He walks back into the flat, deciding to leave the glass door open since a nice, fresh breeze is blowing around outside. Maybe it can help to lift someone’s mood. If not Harry or himself, maybe Anne. She stayed the night to keep an eye on Harry, and for once Harry didn’t argue with her presence.

Greeting him when he walks into the living room is the sight of Harry sitting up on the couch, staring at the wall with watery eyes. “I called, and he said he would take care of it for us.” Louis says, then takes a seat beside Harry. “Are you alright?”

Harry shakes his head. “Every time I open my eyes…” He stops to catch his breath. The lack of noise creates an uncomfortable tension. “Every time I open my eyes all I can see is a fist, Louis. I- I’ve never been...I’ve never been in a situation quite like that, and I don’t know what to do. I want to push it behind me, so badly, but I can’t.”

“It’s because you push everything else in your life behind you, Harry. You’re so afraid of being honest and open with yourself, but at some point, you’ve gotta let go and face your fears. This isn’t like anything else, and you can’t block it out this time.”

“But I want to.”

Louis shakes his head, pushing Harry’s hair behind his ear. “I know you do, but you can’t. This isn’t something you can brush off, love, and I know it’s a strange feeling, but it’s gonna take time. It was a traumatic event, and now you have to trust the people around you to help.”  

“I don’t know what to do.” Harry whispers, rubbing his eyes. “I want to be okay with it.”

Louis hesitates. “I think you need to talk to someone who specializes in this sort of thing, babe. I know you hate therapy, but I’m at a loss. I can’t help you if I don’t know what I’m dealing with.”

“I always manage to mess things up.” Harry sniffles, chin dropping to touch his chest as he looks down at his lap. “I can’t do anything right.”

“This wasn’t your fault.” Louis shushes him, touching his bruised cheek. “You said it yourself yesterday, you didn’t do anything wrong. He had no reason to put his hands on you, and I hope you know…” His own eyes start to water. “I hope you know that I love you more than anything in this world, and if there was more I could’ve done yesterday, I would’ve done it. No matter what that knob said to you, you’re not retarded, and you’re definitely not useless. I don’t want you to think what he said was justified, it wasn’t.”

Harry doesn’t say anything as he fidgets with the material of his sweatpants.

“You didn’t deserve that kind of abuse, and it makes me so angry, knowing some fucking belligerent man came along, saw you had a disability, and thought it was okay to attack you.” Louis shakily exhales, brushing his thumb over Harry’s cheekbone. “And I - I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now, Harry, but you didn’t deserve to be treated that way. Whatever you need, I’m here for you.”

Harry glances at him, eyes still bloodshot, and his face again contorts before the crying starts again. Louis immediately wraps his arms around him, engulfing him with comfort as he pulls him against his chest. Harry buries his face into Louis’ neck. “It’s okay, love. I’ve got you.”

A therapy session, a few more bouts of tears, and five days pass by before Harry starts to act a bit more like Harry again.

“Thanks for doing this, Lou.” Louis says, watching as his personal hair and makeup artist uses foundation and a sponge to cover Harry’s bruises. They’re still rather purple in appearance, but are slowly fading to a dark green shade.

Lou looks back at him as though he’s gone mad. “Anything for you, you know that, and anyways I think Lux found herself a new best friend.” she points out, looking to her daughter sat on Harry’s lap. She takes a piece of his hair, and twists it around her index finger, laughing when it bounces back into position after release. He smiles at her, biting back a laugh when she does it again, and again, and once more for good measure. She presses the sponge back to the top of her hand where she’s poured some of the foundation onto, then dabs at the bruise around Harry’s eye.

The BRIT Awards are tonight, and One Direction are presenters as well as possible recipients of awards. Everything is on track to be successful, considering they finished the album this morning, so it can go through the whole publication process before it’s initial release in over a month.

This is also Harry’s first public outing with Louis, aside from the low quality photographs that paparazzi's haven taken on their numerous dates. He’s having him, along with Liam and Zayn’s girlfriends, walk the red carpet with the band.

Lux giggles as Harry tickles her sides, burying her face into his chest.

“Quite the troublemaker, aren’t you? Just like your boyfriend.” Lou teases, dabbing the sponge against his face a few more times. She slips a finger under his chin, lifting his head up to see if she’s missed any spots. “Alright, love, I’m going to go over it with a loose powder, and then you can change.”

“Great, thanks.”

He shuts his eyes when he sees the black brush covered in flesh tones coming towards his face. Though, he has to admit the feeling of the synthetic fibers dancing against his cheekbones and jaw is relaxing. “You have such a nice complexion, my God.” Lou compliments as soon as she tucks the brush away and Harry opens his eyes.

“Thanks.” Harry smiles at her as Lux takes his bottom lip between her fingers, tugging on it with a giggle.

Lou laughs. “Alright Lux, we’ve gotta let Mr. Harry and Louis change, c’mere.” she picks Lux up and sets her on the ground. “We’ll leave you two to it then.”

“Thanks again, Lou. We’ll see you in a little bit. Bye Lux!” Louis calls after them. As soon as the dressing room door shuts behind the mother and daughter duo Louis turns to face Harry. “Ready to change?”

“Course I am.”

Louis knows how long it takes for Harry to change, so he made sure to plot enough time beforehand for them to do so. He grabs the folded stack of clothes and sets them on the dresser beside where Harry is sitting.

Harry is going to wear a brown and beige geometric suit with a black button-up blouse underneath the suit jacket while Louis is going to match him, wearing a beige suit jacket, but the rest of his ensemble will be black. Harry’s very adamant about fashion, and he’s not afraid to try risky pieces. Maybe he should be the one in the band given none of the members of the band care even remotely about high fashion.

“Let me know if you need a hand.” Louis reminds as he starts to strip his ripped skinny jeans and oversized sweater off his body. Harry has to stay seated when he changes which is what makes it such a tedious task for him. He told Louis the hardest part is his pants because of the way his legs abnormally curve.

By the time Louis has pulled on all three pieces of his ensemble, Harry’s still pulling his other leg out of his sweatpants. So, Louis takes a seat, scrolling through notifications on his phone, as he waits for Harry to prepare himself.

“Uh, Lou?” Harry laughs a few minutes later.

Louis sets his phone down, looks over at him, and can’t help but smile when he sees the grin spanned across his lips. “Yes, love?”

“Help me button my shirt?” Harry asks, laughing when his fingers fumble with a button for the fourth time. “They make the buttons tinier each time, I swear.”

Louis stands, walking over to Harry. He leans down and takes one small black button at a time through each designated buttonhole. “There we go. You got your jacket, babe?”

“I think I can manage that, but don’t go too far, yeah?” Slowly, he tugs his suit jacket on, then looks up at Louis. “I reckon we’re good to go.”

Just as he says the words, one of the PR guys comes around and knocks on their door, telling them to be at the car in two minutes, so they can drive to the O2. “I guess we have to be.” Louis mutters. He strides to the other side of the room to grab Harry’s crutches, which were rightfully returned a few days ago, and brings them back to the younger boy. One by one, he hands them off the Harry, then takes a step back to give Harry room to stand. He does, though he stumbles over his feet. “All right?”

Harry nods. “Just lost my footing, I’m good.”

Louis waits for him to take a few steps before feeling reassured, then he walks in front of him, holding the door open. The two of them walk down the long hallway, side by side, until finally arriving outside. A large black limousine expands across the driveway, and from the looks of it Liam, Zayn, and Niall are already crammed inside with their dates.

Holding the door open for Harry, Louis waits for Harry to bend down and get adjusted in the seat. He needs there to be a particular order in exiting the car when they arrive at the venue. He needs to get out first, so he can then help Harry out, and he wants Zayn on Harry’s other side, in case he were to trip. Other than that, it doesn’t matter what order everyone else is in.

Once Harry is settled, Louis grabs the crutches from Harry and hands them off to the chauffeur to stick in the trunk. Sliding into the seat beside Harry, he shuts the door behind him.

“Oh, don’t you look nice.” Gigi, Zayn’s girlfriend, says in her usual slow voice she puts on just for Harry. She wears a short black dress with long sleeves and a plunging neckline. Zayn has a protective hand sprawled across her bare thigh. “Must be a nice change for you.”

Harry furrows his brows. “What does that mean?”

“Sorry, what?” Gigi asks, tilting her head to the side. She leans in closer as if it’s going to change how he pronounces his words.

Louis raises his eyebrows at Gigi because, well, she can’t be serious , can she? Harry was very clear, and even enunciated better than he normally would considering she’s been a bit rude about it in the past.

Harry shakes his head, mumbling a quiet, “Nevermind.”

“He asked you what you meant.” Louis blurts out, glaring at Gigi. “He’s not stupid, and he speaks clear enough. Feel free to treat him as you would anyone else.” He glances over at Harry, offering him a subtle wink. Harry smiles at him.

“I-” Gigi shakes her head, flustered- “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Louis shrugs his shoulders. Needlessly said, it causes an awkward tension to cross over the back of the limo. If any conversation occurs, it's subdued and quiet so the majority doesn't hear it.

As they approach the O2, Louis grabs Harry’s hand, interlacing their fingers, and squeezes. “Are you nervous?”

Harry nods. “Very.”

“Don't be. It’ll be a walk in the park for you. Like I told you love, we’ll walk the red carpet, you’ll stand beside me as I do my interviews, and then we’ll find our seats. You don't have to say anything if you don't want to.”

Harry gestures for him to come closer, then cups his hand around his mouth as he whispers in Louis’ ear, “I hope I don't fall.”

Louis shivers at the sensation of Harry’s hot breath blowing against his ear. “You won't, darling. I'll make sure of it.”

Harry kisses his ear, then rests his head on his shoulder, shutting his eyes as they sit in traffic for a few moments more.

Finally, they come to a stop, and the driver announces they've arrived. As planned, Louis climbs out first, waving at the group of fans waiting for them, and takes the crutches from the driver. He hands one to Harry, waits for him to slip his arm through the cuff, then hands him the second.

Harry pushes himself onto his feet, without stumbling this time. Louis smiles at him, then slips a hand to rest on the small of his back. He knows Harry’s worried the most about people making fun of the way he walks since they're going to view it in high definition on their televisions and live streams, but Louis told him if they judge him for it, then shame on him.

Because yes, Harry doesn't walk as an able bodied man would, but it doesn't take away from his integrity or character. Louis’ thinks it's one of his best qualities, not because it’s interesting, but because it’s what makes him different. His knees knock together and his legs curve inward as he walks side by side with Louis, though Louis isn't fazed by the slow pace they walk at, he never is.

Once they’re in front of the photographers, the eight of them pause, posing for the cameramen as they shot out instructions from all different directions and flash their cameras. Louis can tell Harry’s a bit uncomfortable as he's looking down at his feet, so he locks his arm around Harry’s.

Suddenly, the photographers are ready to move on to the next celebrity - The 1975 - so they're being told to move along. “They're quite rude, aren't they?” Harry whispers to Louis.

“Yeah, but they get a lot of money for these kind of photos. It's a race to the finish for them.”

“Louis! Louis, over here!” A lady with a microphone shouts at them, gesturing for them to walk over. Louis guides Harry at a pace he can keep up with, then they come to a halt as they stand beside the frivolous lady, A large camera is pointed towards them and the microphone is thrusted in front of Louis’ face. Harry stands adjacent to him, eyes downcast until Louis reaches behind him and brushes his fingers against his hand. “It's great to see you again Louis. You're looking dapper as always, I see you and your boyfriend are matching, who are you wearing?”

“Marc Jacobs.” Louis answers, simply.

Then, the lady pushes the microphone in front of Harry. “And you, Harry?”

Harry doesn't say a word, rather steps to the side, so he's hidden behind Louis’ frame.

Louis feels bad for him. “He's a bit shy. It's a Gucci suit. He looks fabulous doesn't he?”

“Yes, very nice. So, are you looking forward to your night?”

Labeled on the microphone is ‘Channel 4’, also known as the plague of British media. They've had some awful things to say about One Direction in the past, but Louis knows he has to force a smile and continue on with it. He doesn't want a rude press story written about himself. “Very much so. Let's see, we’re up for three awards which is extremely exciting, and I get to spend the night with my beautiful boyfriend, so yeah, I’m buzzing.”

“We’re all so happy for you. You know, we’d love to hear Harry speak a bit about his art. A few sources have said he’s extremely talented, and he's even gone as far to sell some pieces.”

Louis glances back at Harry who is shaking his head, keeping his eyes focused down on the red carpet. “He's just getting over a cold, so I’m afraid he can't speak much. But to answer your question, yes, he's extremely talented and a few months ago he sold some of his art at an exhibition.”

“How long has he been an artist?”

Louis decides to stop the interview before it goes any further. “We both appreciate your interest, but Harry and I aren't comfortable in declaring our personal lives to the world. We’re just here for the music, thank you.”

“Right, of course. Who are you looking forward to seeing tonight?” she asks.

“The 1975.” Harry says, quietly, but loud enough for everyone to hear. “I've been a fan for a long while.”

Louis turns to look at him, again. “Oh, that's right. They are performing aren't they? It’ll be good, but I'm looking forward to Adele myself.”

“Oh yeah, Adele’s great.” Harry whispers back to him.

“Here comes Rihanna! Doesn't she just look stunning?” The woman stares past them, then glances back at them, forcing a smile. “Alright, thanks for talking to me boys. We’ll see you inside!”

A few more interviews later, and Harry’s a bit more confident, despite saying only a few words for each camera. Louis’ proud of him nonetheless.

After entering the O2, they find it difficult to get Harry to his seat because it's so crowded and no one is sat down for the opening number yet. The lads and their girlfriends are already sat around the table, and they're waiting on Louis and Harry. But the last thing Louis needs tonight is Harry stumbling and falling while trying to push past chairs and bodies.

He leaves a hand on his back as he glances around for another route to the table ignorantly placed in the center of all the chaos. He feels Harry's muscles tense, so he begins rubbing circles along his backside. “It's alright, love. You doing okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good.” Harry whispers.

Suddenly, Niall appears and nods for them to follow. “There's hardly anyone if you follow me and come ‘round this way.”

Louis never thought he would ever be thankful for Niall, but in this moment, he’s nothing but. The walk is a bit longer than he anticipated, but it's alright, Harry doesn't seem bothered by it. “There they are! I was starting to get worried, thought the two of you snuck off to get a little frisky.” Liam kids as they take a seat.

Harry blushes, peering down at the table. “No.” he whispers.

"Not yet." Louis clutches Harry's thigh under the table, running his thumb over the inner side of his leg.

The award show kicks off about twenty minutes later. England’s most beloved girl group, Little Mix, perform their brand new single, refusing to miss a beat as they dance simultaneously. Harry watches in awe, chin resting in the palm of his hand with his mouth agape. He seems to be in disbelief about something. 

“They're quite talented, aren’t they?” Louis whispers to him.

“Quite. I’ve heard their music, but I’ve never seen them before.”

“Don't tell me you've fallen madly in love with one of them, and you're going to leave me to chase after her.” Louis taunts, then presses a kiss to his cheek, “You're limited to only one band member, and it's me.”

“I’ve just realized I went to school with the blonde one, Perrie, we were friends in secondary school.” Harry says, observing Perrie as she belts her solo. “She was one of the only people that was always very nice to me, I'm glad she's doing well for herself.”

“You're serious? I write music for Little Mix sometimes. It’s a small world we live in, I guess.”

Harry glances over at him. “Yeah? Well, if you talk to her soon, tell her Froggy said hi and give her my number or something.”

“I will, but why Froggy?”

“Some of the kids use to make fun of the way I walked, so they called me ‘frog legs’ up until I graduated. When I told Perrie about it, the name Froggy was born, but she never called me it to be cruel.”

Louis chuckles. “That's very peculiar.”

“Yes, but she's very nice.” Harry says, peering back towards the stage as the girls finish their number. He claps for them, and as he’s doing so, he swears Perrie looks his way, but he knows he's most likely mistaken. Still, it's refreshing to see such a pleasant and familiar face.

Between a few awards being dished out, some performers including The 1975, Adele, and Lily Allen take the stage.

After the cameras cut from Lily Allen, they zoom in on the next presenters, Emma Watson and Eddie Redmayne. The next award is for British Group and One Direction is nominated alongside Arctic Monkeys, The 1975, Mumford and Sons, Muse, and Coldplay.

“And the winner is..." A few beats of silence pass to build tension, and then the winner is announced, "One Direction!”

As the lads jump to their feet and cheer, a lady comes over the speakers, announcing that they've also won awards for British Single and British Video. They share a celebratory group hug before their significant others congratulate them. Louis bends down, engulfing Harry in his arms, and kisses his head nothing short of fifteen times.

Harry congratulates Louis, expressing how much he deserved it. The four of the boys walk up the steps to take the stage, and Niall graciously accepts the flamboyantly colored BRIT award from Emma Watson. Louis is pushed to speak since he's the most eloquent and sober of the quartet.

“I just wanna start off by giving a massive shout out to the fans!” Louis exclaims into the microphone. He pauses as the majority of the arena bursts into cheers. “We wouldn't be here without you, so thank you so, so much for all your support and for streaming our music. It means the absolute world to us.” he looks to Harry who’s applauding as he speaks, clinging to every word. “Obviously, a big thanks to our team, to Julian our producer, our record label, thank you all so much. I'm also gonna take the time to personally thank the person who’s kept me afloat for the last year, my boyfriend, Harry. I love you so much, and so much of what I do is because of you.” Music starts to play, indicating Louis is running out of time to speak. “Uh, so just one last general thank you to the fans! We hope you enjoy the next album, it'll be here soon. Goodnight everyone!”

The focus returns to the host, so the boys are able to exit the stage without disrupting the flow of the broadcast. Louis returns to his seat beside Harry who seems to be touched by his speech. “I wanted the world to know how much I love you.” he whispers, taking one of Harry’s hands in mine.

Harry’s eyes are teary, but finally for good reason. He isn't sad in this moment. “I love you, thank you for making me feel like the most special person in the entire world.”

“That's how you make me feel everyday, love.” Louis brushes a piece of Harry’s hair out of his face. The foundation has started to fade ever-so-slightly, but Harry still looks as beautiful as ever. “I was thinking you and I should ditch this place, go somewhere, anywhere, you wanna go.”

“Okay.” Harry whispers.

“Where do you wanna go?”

Harry thinks for a moment, but the idea comes rather quickly. “It’ll be a surprise.”

Louis doesn’t object, instead leans over to tell Zayn the two of them are going to leave come the next commercial break. As always, Zayn is supportive, giving him a pat on the back, and tells him to “have fun” before Gigi pulls his attention away.

The next performer, Rihanna, struts on stage, and once she’s finished with her elaborate performance, the show cuts to commercial. Louis stands first, gives Harry a moment to get himself situated, and the two of them slowly walk past through the throngs celebrities and tables plotted on the main floor. They make it to the back hallway where Harry takes the time to call for a cab. Once he's finished, they walk outside to wait.

“I hope you like where I take you.” Harry says.

Louis laughs, “I’d go anywhere with you Harry.”

Harry can’t help but smile at that adamant statement. He supposes it’s representative of how much Louis loves him.

The cab slides up to the curb, and Louis holds the door open for Harry. There’s enough room for him to slide his crutches inside. Before the driver even has the chance to ask where he’s taking them, Harry leans forward, whispering a few words in his ear. “Seriously?” he asks. Harry nods. “Well, alright.”

“He sounded rather surprised.” Louis comments, staring at Harry, who glimmers underneath each streetlight the car passes under. “I’m a bit nervous now.”

Harry shakes his head. “Don’t be. I just want you to meet someone is all.” Confusion must cross over Louis’ face because Harry leans over, clutching his kneecap. “It’s not much, I promise.”

About half an hour passes, and the driver tunes the radio every so often. At one point, Louis’ voice comes through the speakers with the music of One Direction's new single playing behind him. “Oi, this is a great song innit? Love this lad’s voice.” The driver calls back to them.

Louis flushes despite the driver not making the connection between the singer on the radio and the person sat in his backseat. It’s okay though, Louis would rather keep the attention away from himself at this point.

Finally, the headlights shine on a metal gate as they pull to a stop. At first glance, Louis has no idea where they are, then he sees a large plot of grass beyond the gate extending all the way to a small creek. On the grass are many tombstones, most of which have not been touched, but a few seem to have just been placed. “A cemetery?” he asks, quietly. God, he hasn’t been to a cemetery since his nan died, and he was only a little boy then. It’s been almost twelve years since he’s walked through an area known to be surrounded by death.

Harry doesn’t say a word, in fact he doesn’t speak until they’re both out of the car and walking down the small gravel trail, leading them to what Louis can only hope is an explanation.

It’s cold, and as they approach the water the temperature drops. Louis crosses his arms over his chest, shivering, as he follows behind Harry.

“My dad’s buried here.” Harry explains, calmly. “When I was younger I copped rides from anyone I could, and I would just come here to sit around, right by the water. A lot of times I would draw.” he says. “Mum would get so mad because I never told her where I was. I’d come home covered in dirt, sometimes leaves. She lost her head each and everytime.”

Louis stifles a laugh. It sounds like teenage Harry is the same as young adult Harry, stubborn and strong-willed. “You probably worried her to death.”

“Oh I did, believe me. God, I haven’t been here since my senior year of Uni. I tried to come visit him at least once a month, but then life happened, I guess.” Harry pauses in front of a headstone reading Beloved Brother, Husband, and Father Desmond R. Styles, his date of birth, and date of passing. A picture of him in his police uniform is engraved on one side while a police badge is branded into the opposing side. “Sit with me?” Harry suggests.

His dad is buried adjacent to the creek, it's bluish water sparkling under the moonlight, in between a few oak trees. It’s a serene scene, Louis can understand why Harry would come here to draw and think. It must have given him peace of mind “Of course. Do you-” He starts to offer to help Harry, but upon seeing him drop his crutches and use the tree as a means of support to lower himself to the ground, he stops talking- “The waters quite pretty.”

Harry leans against one of the trees. “I’ll have to show you my old sketchbook. I was obsessed with nature for a while.”

“Really?” Louis asks. “I never pegged you as the appreciating grass sort of guy.”

“Not grass, but pinecones, flowers, leaves, that sort of thing. I did animals for a little while too, but I was shit at it.” Harry laughs, peering over at the water. “I’ve gone through a lot of different phases, but portraits are more my style. You in particular, you’re more my style, I seem to draw you a lot.”

Louis raises his eyebrows. “Why me?”

“Well, aside from the fact that I’m absolutely infatuated with you, you’re classically beautiful. I could put you in any decade or theme, and it would work. I’m telling you babe, you would be one hell of a model. If Saint Laurent or, or Gucci sponsored you, you could go far with it.”

“That’s sweet, Harry. I’m just not comfortable with putting myself out there like that.” he says, truthfully. “But I’m delighted to hear that you like to paint me.”

“It’s not even that I like to though, you know? Like I don’t know, I open my eyes in the morning you’re the first thing I see, when I go to bed, you’re the last thing I see, and I’m really grateful for you. It just makes sense.”

“You’ll have to show me sometime, yeah?” He shifts positions so he’s sitting beside Harry. “Can you believe we’re sitting in a cemetery in designer clothing after one of the biggest events in British culture? If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.”

“Yeah.” Harry looks down at his lap with a laugh. He hesitates before speaking again, “You know I do have to tell you something, and I hope now is an appropriate time.”  

Heat rises to Louis’ cheeks as his expression crumbles. His insides start to churn, stomach knotting as he sits in the tense silence. “What?”

“After Jean left for Kenya with her other recruits, a different woman rang me.”

Louis scans Harry’s face in anticipation for further explanation. He starts to relax after realizing Harry isn’t exposing something dire to him. “Alright…”

“This lady, Margaret, is from the Museum of Modern Art, and she’s hosting a new artist exhibition for a weekend. She wants me to fly out to New York for it, and I - I don’t expect you to help pay for the expenses or anything, but I’m going to go.”

“Oh my God.” Louis breathes, grabbing Harry’s biceps, and tugs him forward. Their eyes meet. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner, love? I’m so proud of you!” he kisses him, tangling one hand in the back of his hair. He presses their foreheads together as he talks, “Fucking New York City. That’s such a big deal, when is it?”

Harry laughs, “Soon. A few weeks.”

“I’m going with you,” Louis declares, out of breath from pure excitement, “if that’s okay.” he adds as an afterthought.

“Yes, it’s okay, I really wanted you to come along.” Harry kisses him, again, smiling against his lips, “Thank you for being so supportive.”

When they arrive home later that night it’s nearly one in the morning, but Louis isn’t physically near exhaustion. London is a city which never sleeps, cars continue to rush by, the occasional honk sounds through side streets, and every once a while an alarmed scream echoes through the windows.

He sits on the couch, now dressed in only a pair of sweatpants, with a bottle of Cola in his hand. The BRIT awards highlights play on the television with commentary from a few news anchors. This is surely the life of every multi-millionaire popstar.

Harry walks into the living room, sketchbook tucked under his arm, and sits down beside Louis. “I don’t think you’ve seen my sketchbook. It’s like a running tab of my life.” he announces, placing the black bound book on Louis’ lap. “Starts from the middle of my senior year of secondary school.” Louis flips to the first page. A scattering of faces are on the page along with some doodles and sentences. Like Harry said earlier at the cemetery, drawings of trees and flowers are randomly placed on the page. “Those are lyrics. I used to pen songs, but they weren't very good.”

“Just stop your crying, it’s a sign of the times.” Louis says to himself. “That’s not bad, Harry. Is there more to it?”

“Throughout the book, yeah, it’s not very good though, don’t pay too much attention to it.” Harry says, nonchalantly.

Louis doesn’t say anything. He’s curious about Harry’s songwriting. While every person seems to have a short phase where they think they can be songwriters, Harry’s ambition carries on for years, judging by the length of the book. “Ah, is this Perrie?” Louis asks, pointing to a particular face on the page.

“Yeah, and that’s my sister.” Harry points to a different graphite portrait. “Be aware there’s quite a bit of Chris Martin in there, I fancied him growing up.”

“Oh, I’m so jealous. I can hardly stand it.” Louis kids, turning to another page. Some of the sketches tug at his heartstrings because there’s pent up emotion behind them, while others make him laugh because they’re so dry and sarcastic only Harry would think to draw them. He goes through every emotion while flipping through page after page of sketch and lyric. Harry rests his chin on Louis’ shoulder, looking down at his book as Louis scans through it.

This intimate setting carries for a few hours, but about halfway through Harry falls asleep slumped against Louis, head propped against his shoulder.

As Louis approaches the end on his own, more sketches of himself are evident, and there’s a multitude of hearts and bright colors, showing the transformation of Harry’s state of mind. The word ‘Love’ is written in all caps and highlighted in hues of red and pink. Flowers and hearts are displayed all over the page, and Louis knows this was most likely the turning point in their relationship.

When he turns to the next, it’s blank, hopefully meaning there’s much more to his story with Harry. He wishes for there to be so much to come that it fills ten, one hundred, one thousand more sketchbooks.

He sets the book down, then with a hand to Harry's shoulder, shakes him awake, “Come on love, let’s go lay down in bed.”

Harry lethargically blinks a few times, then swallows to moisten his dry throat, “But I’m comfortable here. I don’t want to move.”

“Only you would be comfortable sleeping while sitting up, you goof.” Louis doesn’t have much of a chance to argue. Harry’s eyes slide shut and he’s drifting back into a cycle of REM before he’s even done speaking his first thought. “Alright, you win Styles.” he wraps his arm around Harry, and they slowly sit back.

It takes a moment to dawn on him, but he understands now that this past year has been worth it all. He doesn’t feel like a bland superstar anymore, instead he feels like he has purpose outside of making music. He’s learned so much about a community he once had no knowledge in, and when a problem comes his way, he can now work to solve it.

He possesses the power to care about someone, and while it may feel like he cares too much at times, it doesn’t matter. His heart is finally full now that something outside the scheme of material things matters to him.

Harry Styles was a blessing in disguise. They’ve been through hell and high water to be together, and yet, they’re still so happy to be united as one. As much as Harry helped him, he helped Harry find a will to live and inspire.

There’s still a long road to travel on with Harry, a road filled with sharp turns and roundabouts, but his goal of self-acceptance is closer than he ever expected.