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It’s only chance that Harry wakes up – chance and the soft, repetitive patter of the rain outside that eases him out of sleep and back into a world where he left the window open and his bedroom is freezing cold. Harry untangles himself from the sheets and stumbles over to shut the window, eyes resolutely shut, and it’s as he’s fumbling with the curtains that he hears the rattle of the front door being unlocked and opened that signals Louis’ return. Harry cracks an eye open as he hurries back to the warm sanctuary of his duvet. The bedside clock informs him that it’s nearly four in the morning and Harry makes a mental note to wind Louis up about the ‘quick drink’ that seems to have turned into an extensive drinking session before he tumbles back into bed. Maybe, he thinks, he'll go to the supermarket later - when it's daylight - and do something restorative for lunch, something to put a bit of colour back into Louis' cheeks while Harry teases him about his hangover. The thought makes him smile, and he's still smiling as he drifts slowly into sleep.
He's not sure, later, at what point his brain finally makes the connection that the sounds he can hear are not the usual sounds of a drunken Louis coming home. He's definitely asleep for a while, dreaming about waterfalls and the rain falling from a sky that doesn't look quite right, before he startles awake to find that the sound of running water is not just a figment of his imagination: he can hear a shower running, but without the sounds of Louis moving around in the cubicle – not that Harry knows what Louis sounds like taking a shower, of course, because he doesn't listen to Louis taking showers, at all, ever.
There's no other sound. Nothing at all.
Harry groans to himself and starts to disentangle himself from the duvet. He doesn't think Louis has managed to drown himself but Harry suspects he's either passed out in the bathroom or – more likely – put the shower on and then gone to sleep on the sofa. Either way, Harry can't sleep with the water running and he needs a piss and Louis' mum would kill him if Louis did drown in the shower.
The bathroom door is open an inch, which explains why the shower sounds much louder than usual, but the light is off. Harry goes to check Louis' bedroom. There's no sign of him there, no sign of him anywhere else. Harry frowns. A drunken Louis usually manages to kick his shoes off somewhere Harry can fall over them, or throws his jacket artistically over a light fitting for Harry to retrieve the next day, but there's nothing like that; there's no sign that Louis is back at all, except for the sound of the shower. Which means ... well, Harry isn't quite sure what it means.
He pushes at the bathroom door and it starts to swing open and then stops, wedged against something. Harry pushes harder and feels the give; it's not Louis passed out behind the door but he can see a familiar flash of colour and he realises that it's one of Louis' shoes, sopping wet and discarded forlornly on the floor.
"Louis?" His voice sounds tinny and not like his own. Harry pushes at the door again. "You in there?"
There's no response. Harry finally loses patience and reaches for the light pull. Louis isn't quite as comfortable with casual nudity as Harry is but it's the middle of the night and Harry wants to get this sorted out so he can get back to sleep.
The bathroom floods with light; sudden, harsh light that hurts Harry's eyes. He pushes hard at the door and manages to force it open wide enough so he can slip through and, as he does so, he realises that it's Louis' jeans that are wedging it closed, jeans that are as soaked through as his shoe, jeans that sit in a puddle of mud and torn fabric that Harry belatedly recognises as the t shirt Louis was wearing when he left earlier.
And Louis-
Harry's eyes fix on Louis' left hand, at the fingers gripping the edge of the screen so tightly the nails are colourless. That he can deal with, that he can process in the first terrible, shocked instant of realisation. It's either that or look closely at everything else and Harry can't, he can't.
Louis' eyes are closed; Harry doesn't think he even knows Harry is in the room and he thinks about running away, closing the door and pretending he hasn't seen, because what's in front of him is so much and so overwhelming and he doesn't know what to do, but this is Louis, and he's Harry, and he can't run away from this and so he takes a step into the room and then another and still Louis doesn't acknowledge him.
"Let me turn the shower off," Harry says.
He has to fight against Louis' grip to get the screen open but even then Louis doesn't acknowledge Harry's presence and it's only when Harry gets hold of his arm and forcibly starts to move him that Louis finally reacts in the most sudden and violent way. The punch isn't well-aimed but it still sends Harry reeling back, and he trips over Louis' other shoe and goes down hard, nearly cracking his head on the wall as he falls.
"Fuck-" Harry struggles back to his feet and tentatively rubs at his jaw. "Fuck, Lou..."
He manages to turn the shower off on the second attempt, awkwardly reaching in over Louis' huddled form while anticipating and bracing for an attack that never comes. The fight seems to gone out of Louis, at least for now, and he's slumped against the wall, his hands in his lap. Harry tentatively touches Louis' shoulder and tries not to look at the red-stained water pooling around the drain.
"Can you get up?"
He thinks that Louis might not respond, even now, but eventually Louis shudders, a whole body shudder that has Harry quickly pulling his hand away, and puts out a hand to push himself up from the floor. Harry takes a step back, giving him some room, and looks for a towel, kicks the sodden clothes out of the way, anything to take his mind off the reality of what he's seeing.
"I'll clean up in here. Do you-"
"Don't," Louis says. His voice is hoarse but distinct, every word perfectly enunciated. But when Harry wraps the towel around his shoulders he can feel him shaking.
"There's blood-"
"I'm fine." Louis pulls the towel more tightly around himself and now Harry can see that his eyes are open, just a little. He's not looking at Harry though.
"You are not fi-"
"Fuck off, Harry." Louis practically spits the words out. "Just fuck off." He tries to take a step forward but his legs collapse under him and it's only Harry's quick reactions that prevent him falling.
"Yeah, ok, no. You should go to hospital or somethi-"
He never finishes the sentence; Louis somehow finds the strength from somewhere to shove him away and half-stumble, half-crawl towards the door, the towel falling away to give Harry a far too perfect view of the darkening marks on his hips and lower back and a single, deceptively thin cut across his shoulder blade that's too regular, too well-defined to be accidental.
"Lou-"
"Fucking think, will you?" Louis hisses, fumbling with the door handle and, yeah, suddenly Harry knows what he's talking about. If Louis goes to hospital now, like this, it'll be all over the internet before breakfast.
"But you're hurt." As soon as he says it Harry realises how ridiculous it sounds, how inadequate, how meaningless.
"Yeah," Louis says. "But I'll live."
Harry doesn't know how to react to that; he doesn't know how to react to any of this, how to deal with the surge of white-hot anger that anyone could - that someone has - hurt Louis, how to talk to Louis, how to look after Louis and somehow make this right.
He picks up the towel and hands it back to Louis. "I'll make you a cup of tea," he offers.
Louis hesitates, and then says, very quietly, "All right."
Harry lets Louis make his own way to his bedroom and goes to put the kettle on. Doing things, even if it's just getting Louis's mug out of the dishwasher and finding some biscuits in the back of the cupboard, distracts him from thinking too much about anything else.
Louis emerges again just as Harry is getting the milk out of the fridge, dressed in pyjamas and a blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders. Harry thinks - charitably - that he looks like shit; wet hair all over the place, dark smudges of exhaustion under his eyes, and more dark smudges under his chin, on his neck, that Harry hadn't noticed in the bathroom and which he now can't look away from. He leaves the milk on the work surface and goes to Louis, reaching for - but not touching - his neck and the finger marks that mar the pale skin.
"Did he..." He trails off, not knowing how to finish the question.
Louis looks away. "Leave it, Harry." He doesn't sound angry any more, only defeated, and Harry thinks he prefers the anger. Seeing Louis like this is almost unbearable.
“There are still those chocolate biscuits, if you want some,” he offers.
Tea is drunk in silence; Harry puts the TV on just for background noise and they both pretend to be fascinated by the documentary on medieval plumbing because it's either that or try and make conversation and Harry doesn't even know where to start with that. The argument they'd had after Louis came home one night with a cigarette burn on his back had been bad enough but this...
“What time is it?” Louis asks after a while.
“Half-five.”
Louis nods, yawning. “I'm going to bed.”
Harry counts to ten, and then says, “Are you sure you don't need a doctor?”
He doesn't know whether it's reassuring or maddening that Louis forces a smile. “Leave it.”
“That cut on your back needs seeing to,” Harry persists. “I know you can't reach it.” Louis is shaking his head so Harry adds, “Let me put Savlon on it or something. Before you die of some horrible flesh-eating bacteria.”
“Nice, Harry, thanks,” Louis says wryly but he's not protesting and Harry can deal with that. He even lets the blanket drop so that Harry can get at his back, and only shudders a little as Harry carefully dabs the antiseptic along the narrow line of the cut and tries not to think murderous thoughts.
“There,” he says, when he's done. It sounds inadequate. It feels inadequate. He stares at the back of Louis' bowed head and wishes he had the slightest clue what to do next.
“Thanks,” Louis mumbles. He pulls the blanket back up and pushes away from Harry like he can't get away fast enough and Harry's heart sinks. “Going to bed now.”
Harry counts to ten again, until he's alone, and then he starts washing up their mugs because it's either that or throw them across the room.