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Harry remembers the first time. Shortly after they'd started on x-factor. The color was only a dull blue, mixed with the natural tone of his skin, as opposed to the dark purples he sees now. But he watched it blossom, sat looking at his thigh for a good half an hour, and slowly, slowly the color changed. His breath was shaking, but he wasn't crying. He liked it. He liked how it looked and liked how it felt when he pressed his thumb deep into it.
He remembers when Louis noticed it, asking him where the hell he got a bruise that big, and Harry laughed and told him some simply hilarious story about trying to get to the loo at 4 AM. And everyone thinks Harry's a bad liar, but really it's the times he tells the truth that his voice wavers and his hands tremble.
Louis'd kissed it and made it all better.
But it wasn't.
And that bruise kept reappearing, until Louis finally moved the hamper from next to the door, so Harry would stop walking into it when trying to go for a wee.
Harry thanked him, and the splotch on his thigh faded, while one on his opposite shin darkened.
And Louis noticed that one too, and Harry just shook his head and told him that he was impossible to fix, just so hopeless.
.
.
.
Clumsy, and all.
Louis stopped noticing the bruises, after a while. Well, of course Harry knew he wasn't not seeing them. They littered his body, but he didn't like Louis seeing him naked much anymore anyway.
And he came to rehearsals for the Up All Night tour one day with a split lip and a dark smudge of a bruise on his cheekbone. And Harry laughed through both kinds of pain and told them how he'd wiped out going up his stairs. Louis didn't bother to tell him that all the stairs in their house were carpeted.
And Louis kept his mouth shut when he saw Harry wince as they “danced.”
Didn't notice how Harry dug his nails into his tricep while the choreographer explained to them the 'fucking simple move'.
Didn't notice when Harry didn't blink twice at the blood that welled up from the four, crescent shaped wounds.
And one night Louis woke up to hear Harry crying into his pillow.
But it had happened the night before.
And before that.
And before that.
And Louis dozed off again.
It's not helping anymore. Harry is so completely and totally numb and the pain doesn't register anymore. He thought he could beat this out of him, shake himself like a ragdoll and the wrinkles would come out of his dress.
Louis is asleep and Harry can't stop crying he can't stop crying and what the fuck is wrong with him? And he's hitting himself and the bruises form nearly instantly but it's not helping. He stands up, limbs jerking, chest still heaving as he sobs and stumbles into the kitchen.
The drawer rattles as he throws it open but he doesn't care he doesn't care he needs something to make him feel better, and his cries are nearly screams and he hears Louis shouting for him and his finger wrap around a knife, and he doesn't know quite what he's going to do with it just that it's going to make him bleed and if he's lucky it'll be good, it'll feel good, and he'll feel something and it'll be better.
And he's still crying and making a lot of racket at that and he's not consciously doing it anymore. There's just this thing clawing it's way up his throat, making his usually quiet cries into sobs and near shrieks. He sounds like he's mad. His fingers fumble and he feels like he's watching the whole thing as if from a distance.
Watches Louis wrestle the knife dangerously from his grip and throw it to the ground.
Watches himself start screaming and reaching for another one and he's a complete monster, this doesn't even look like him.
Watches Louis slam the drawer shut and grab Harry's hand.
Watches as Harry's other fist connects with Louis' jaw.
Watches as Louis crumples to kitchen tile floor.
Watches as this thing kicks Louis in the side. Once, Twice.
But it's him and he knows it. He's not having some other worldly experience. He, Harry Styles, just punched and kicked his boyfriend after said boyfriend stopping him from probably committing suicide.
And he doesn't call 999 first, he calls the other boys and pleads with them to come over and tell him what to do. Liam calls an ambulance and Niall cries and Zayn turns on the lights.
Liam goes pale and Niall cries harder and Zayn recoils.
Harry looks down at himself, and from the state of his torso he can only imagine what his face must look like. It certainly feels swollen, he realizes.
Harry doesn't remember going unconscious, but he's glad he did. The beeping is annoying, he wishes it would stop. He realizes it's a heart monitor, his heart monitor, and really wishes it would stop.
His eyelids flutter open and Zayn is sitting by his bed.
“Mornin' sunshine.” Zayn says, a sad smile curving his lips in the most horrible way.
Harry shakes his head, images coming back from what he assumes is the night previous. His head throbs, and with that pain erupts throughout his body, the feeling finally making it's way through his syrupy nervous system. He squeezes his eyes shut and he must let out a small whimper because
“I know.” Zayn says. He doesn't.
“Where are the others?” Harry's voice sounds dry and cracked and empty.
“With Louis.” Zayn says.
A tsunami of self hatred crashes over Harry, “Why aren't you? I don't even deserve company.”
Zayn looks at him and Harry knows he's being pitied and he doesn't deserve it, “I kind of get you. Liam and Niall- they're happy. They see it as entirely your fault.”
“Well it is.” Harry argues, his head pounds.
“S'not, really. I know how you feel.”
“But-”
“Cigarettes.” Zayn says, and it's a good explanation. Harry doesn't press further.
“He's okay, by the way. Cracked rib. Bruised jaw. Minor concussion from hitting the floor. He'll live.”
Cracked rib. Concussion.
Harry cracked Louis' rib. His skull.
Harry broke Louis' bones.
Zayn takes a deep shaky breath.
“He doesn't want to see you.”
Harry squeezes his eyes shut and feels hot tears roll down the sides of his face and annoyingly into his ears, because he's lied down.
“They're sending you to rehab.”
It just gets worse.
“The tour's canceled.”
And worse.
“You gave yourself a concussion in two different spots.”
And worse.
“When you punched Lou you broke two fingers.”
And worse.
“Louis says he might not-” Zayn's voice cracks, “he might not rejoin One Direction after the break while you're in...” Zayn trails off, the sentence doesn't need to be finished.
Louis doesn't know why he's being so selfish. Of course he's going to rejoin One Direction. He's just. Scared.
Really scared.
He doesn't know how he let Harry get to that point. Louis genuinely thought Harry might stab himself- or Louis. He doesn't even know what happened to make Harry so sad. Maybe it's chemical, like his brain is out of balance. Some people are just depressed. But that was. That was just. It was like something out of a horror movie, if he's honest.
Whenever Louis closes his eyes he sees Harry kicking him before he'd passed out.
He understands the punch, doesn't like it, but understands it. Louis'd taken the knife from Harry, his way out. The kick (or more, Louis doesn't know) was unnecessary and Louis is scared out of his mind that Harry might do it again.
Harry's not abusive. He never was. Gentle giant and all. But... if he can be pushed to it once he can be pushed to it again.
Liam won't stop fawning over him, practically calling in the nurse every time Louis yawns and winces at the pain in his side. Niall's been uncharacteristically quiet.
It's silent in the room, rather, as silent as a hospital room can get. Liam's gone to the bathroom, Niall won't say anything and Louis doesn't really have anything to say.
“I should've said something.” Niall mumbles, and Louis looks up.
“What?”
“'Bout the bruises. Don't tell me you didn't notice.” Niall says, looking positively wretched.
“Ni, none of this is your fault.”
Niall just shakes his head, a choked sound coming from his throat, and leaves the room.
Harry's said his goodbyes, done all the paper work, hugged everyone, wished them well, and now he's leaving.
After seven months of rehab or a psych ward or whatever the fuck you want to call it, he can go home. None of the boys visited him. Any mention of their names or One Direction would immediately block any website on his phone or laptop or anything. He's been completely shut off. He doesn't know what they've told the public, how Louis is.
But he steps out of the lobby despite these fears. He doesn't know what he expects. Fans, photographers, the boys, his mum, but there's nothing. Just a taxi.
He gets in and says his address, hoping he hasn't gone bankrupt (though he's sure he'd have been told) and his house bulldozed down. But it wasn't and the sight of his house tightens his chest and he takes a deep breath. There's a lot of bad memories in here. Louis' in here.
Unless he moved out.
Which Harry wouldn't blame him for.
Seven months is a long time with only minimal conversation with Niall, Liam, and Zayn, and a “hi” from Louis which Harry couldn't bring himself to reply to.
What if everything's different?
What if they hate him?
What if they aren't One Direction anymore?
It'd be all his fault. Him and his stupid debilitating sadness.
But then he's turning the door knob, and it's unlocked, thank god, because he's long since lost his key, and he steps in. He can hear the TV on in the living room, wonders if he left it on and if it's been on for seven months.
He did see Louis before he left. Niall told him he forced Louis to agree to it, because they might not be able to visit Harry where he was going. No one would say it, psych ward.
Harry'd been staying at Zayn and Perrie's, in the five days before the place had enough space for him. There was a knock on the door, too loud, and Harry could picture Louis cursing his hand for shaking and accidentally banging on the wood. Though at the time, he didn't really know it was Louis.
Perrie answered the door, paused for a moment, and then without a hint of her cheeriness missing, “Louis! Hi! What brings you here?” She knew, but it's only polite to ask.
“I want to talk to Harry, I think.” Louis mumbled. Harry was tensed on the couch and Zayn patted his shoulder before standing up from the couch next to him.
Perrie led Louis into the living room and Harry almost cried right then and there. His jaw was a dark green, faded, but he could tell it had been nearly as dark as the ones he gave himself. Harry never wanted to hurt anyone else the way he hurt himself. They didn't deserve that. Especially not Louis. Never Louis. And he could see the apprehension in Louis' clear blue eyes, and Harry stood up, heart heavy.
“We can just leave you alone.” Zayn said, looking at the floor as he walked past.
“Wait, don't please.” Louis said, grabbing onto Zayn's arm. His fingers shook and Harry wondered if he was crying because he thought that if he started he'd never stop. Louis was afraid of him.
Harry looked up at Perrie, who'd been his shoulder to cry on because, as good as Zayn is at comforting, Perrie's a gender closer to being like a mother. Her eyes were soft and pitying, and Harry looked away. He didn't deserve pity. Not now, especially not now. Maybe ever.
“I'll go get some... crackers or something. This is a band thing.” Perrie said, scurrying out of the room.
“Um, well, actually Zayn can you just like lurk in the hallway dark and mysteriously?” Louis said, unsinking his nails from Zayn's forearm. Zayn rubbed at it absentmindedly and nodded once, “I'll be in me and Pezza's room. I'll come if I hear anything.”
Louis nodded at him, twisted just so, and winced. Harry wondered how bad a cracked rib hurt.
“Lou...” Harry wasn't sure how to start.
“I'm sorry.” Louis said, just as Harry was about to.
“What? Why are you sorry?”
“I noticed the bruises and I heard you crying at night even though you'd said you'd had a sad dream and woken up when I asked that time. I should've asked again. I'm sorry.”
And the conversation went on with Harry refusing all of Louis' apologies and practically sobbing his. Louis never did say it was okay, but he didn't say it wasn't either.
When Harry'd stepped in for a hug, though, Louis' flinch was unmistakeable.
And now, here he is, seven months later, minimal contact or conversation, and Louis could very well be in the next room over. Or a hobo who happened to stumble across and rich couple's house. Stocked with all the lube ever necessary. Because Louis kept buying it, but Harry never wanted to use it. Too bruised to be bare to Louis, too numb to even kiss the older boy.
“Hello?” Harry calls softly, and the TV mutes. There is the sound of crinkling leather, bare feet padding across the floor, and there's Louis looking apprehensive and nervous.
Is he still afraid of me?
“Haz. You grew. I thought that was impossible.”
Harry shrugs, “Yeah, well, helps when you're being forced to be healthy.”
Harry then notices the little thing in Louis' arms, “You got a cat?”
Louis blushes furiously, “His name may or may not be Harry Jr. But, I just call him idiot most of the time.”
And Harry grins, and Louis stares, and then his lips curl up into a matching smile because Harry's smiling. For the first time in god knows how long, Harry is smiling at him and he looks healthy and his skin is an even tan color and he's smiling.
Louis puts down Harry Jr (later when they're under the sheets together and Harry teases him about naming the cat Harry Jr Louis will mumble something into his neck about being impossibly lonely) and fists his fingers into the fabric of Harry's black t shirt. Louis pulls and connects their lips, and Harry smiles again and god it feels so good to smile and to breathe Louis in and he's home and he's feeling and he feels happy.
And yeah, sometimes he still cries at night and balls his fist while in the shower, but Louis never pretends not to notice. He holds him and sings to him and kisses him, and Harry's never numb anymore.