I'm on a comedown right now and so much ambiguous meaning and sadness is flushing over me
Louis gazes at his restful other half. Eyes shut and hair unruly on the pillow, Harry sleep peacefully, the mere corners of his smile portraying a ghost of a smile. He thinks back to the day when delusion came crashing down, a few months prior.
In Louis' eyes, Harry was perfect. The fans said it; Jay and Anne said it; even Liam, not one to express profound feelings in an explicit manner, said it.
"You're perfect." Louis said, as Harry just walked into the living room with two cups of tea. They sat together on the white sofa, their seven-year old child Oliver perched in front of the 3D plasma television on the grey rug.
"For making you tea?" Harry frowned playfully, corners of his mouthing turning up into a smile.
"Not just that," Louis took the yellow mug from Harry's hands, patting the sofa with his other hand, "you in general. I love you."
"And I love you." Oh, the joy of overused compliments. Superficial yet deeply ambiguous, they went some way to representing how Louis and Harry felt towards each other. Louis pondered, for a moment, how to explain love to Harry, just to be certain that they felt the same way. But he couldn't - was it because he himself didn't know the words, or perhaps a deficit in the english language? "What are you thinking about?"
"Nothing. Nothing," Louis said, casting away his thoughts from before. How silly was it that such an interesting thought was belittled to 'nothing' just to avoid going through the effort of explaining it to Harry.
They sipped their tea in completely comfortable and somewhat ritualistic silence. They snickered every now and again when Oliver giggled wildly at a feeble pun on the television. They set their mugs down on the marble cabinet next to them simultaneously - except it wasn't simultaneous, it was rather a few seconds apart. Louis just likes to think of the moment as simultaneous simply because the word seemed impressive in his mind.
"Come here," Harry murmured, holding his arm out. Louis obliged without a moment's thought, falling upon Harry's muscular body and laying on his sternum. Louis soon felt long fingers caress his scalp and a thumb running across his cheek. "Before I forget,"
"Hm?"
"I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow afternoon. We'll have some grub and then set off, yeah?" Harry said. Louis cringed at 'some grub': they were rich now, and if Harry couldn't conform he ought to at least try.
"Sure. We'll get the maid to drive us into town." Louis attempted to restore faith, in himself at least.
He hadn't even asked why they were going to the doctor's.
You wouldn't know that Harry's tanned, Louis thinks. Ghostly pale, he looks. There are deep purple crescents swooped under his eyelids and flecks of rheum dotted in his long, fanned eyelashes. There is a steady beeping in the background but Louis knows that that will soon change. He can feel it - there is a grip in his chest. It fascinates him; Louis has never been one for superstition or fate, but he knows that soon the inevitable will happen. He read a study about it recently, in fact: professors have found that the anterior cortex, a region in the brain, stimulates the vagus nerve, connected to the chest and abdomen. Louis sure knows now what it's like to have a stimulative vagus nerve.
As Harry's cold hand tentatively squeezes Louis', a lone tear rushes out of Louis' right eye. Just then, Harry half opens both of his, takes of the oxygen aid and whispers scratchily, "Louis Tomlinson." Louis frames Harry's larger hand in both of his, and suddenly the severity of the situation settles in. Harry is losing his energy and now Louis is the strong one.
"Yeah?" Louis croaks through a mess of tears and potentially snot. There was nothing glamorous about this situation.
"I w-want you to know," Harry stumbles on the 'w', inhaling through his nose bravely as he winces and crystals start forming at his eyes. "That I fucking love you, and I'll be protecting you every single step of the way."
There's so much Louis wants to say yet so little time. "The people are right," Louis wipes his nose on his handkerchief, "life is cruel and short. There's so much I need to tell you. I love you too, I love you more than my dad, I love you more than my dad, and I love you a million times more than the house, the maid, and the money!" Louis wails childishly. He knows that 'love' is merely an abstract noun, but by comparing it to real things, tangible things, Harry could maybe see for himself.
But he doesn't look delighted. "Louis, it doesn't matter if 'love' is an empty word. The fact that this is the first time you've said it in six years means more to me than some shitty comparison."
"I know. I know."
"Give me a kiss." Harry says with a faint smile. There's no hint of a smile, actually; but Louis can tell that Harry wants to, and that suits him.
"Okay," Louis leans forward and presses his lips to Harry's. They're cold and thin, unlike their state a matter of weeks ago. "Here you go, baby," Louis puts their foreheads together and raises a hand to Harry's cheek. Summoning all the strength he has left, Harry raises his hand to hold Louis' wrist. "You go now. I'll be here."
"I'll be here, too." And of course Harry prods Louis' abdomen, his vagus nerve. It falls apart under Harry's simple touch, and Louis cries uncontrollably on Harry's shoulder, as the faint grip on his hand becomes loose and the incessant beeping ceases.
Louis walks up the white chalk steps to his and Harry's 6-bedroom mansion, pillars largely protecting him from the harsh and unforgiving wind that whips up the colony of leaves that Hans, the grounds-keeper, dutifully swept up earlier. His facial expression isn't sad, just neutral, as feeling sad would be what everyone expected, and Louis really doesn't want to dwell on others right now.
Inside, he closes the door behind him, rescuing him from the bite of the grey, early morning chill. It's warm inside. Louis supposes the expectation would be to collapse down in tears, back against the door, as Oliver comes bolting down the stares, exclaiming his wanting for Harry.
Louis gives him the neutral expression, eyes half closed, before giving Mary, the maid, a nod to look after him.
In the living room, Louis sits on the edge of the white sofa, not quite able to fully seat himself. Everything is white: the sofa; the marble tiles; the floral wallpaper. The only colour comes from the various pictures upon the crystal mantelpiece - he and Harry; he and Harry; he, Harry and Oliver. The frames were steel alloyed with titanium, so prevent Oli knocking them to the floor and breaking.
Well, they failed. Louis knows. The frames had failed to keep he and Harry from breaking. The pillars may protect Louis from the wind. The door may protect Louis from the cold. The grounds-keeper may attempt to keep the leaves at bay, and the maid may successfully keep Oliver out of Louis' hair, but what good was this? What good was any of this?
Fame, fortune and fantasy may have protected Louis and Harry from being sad, but it failed to shield them from delusion.
Louis thinks that, in a clichéd novel, the sofa and décor ought to have been black, for obvious connotations. But no; everything is white. 'Purity' and 'forgiveness', white ought to represent. The fact that the sofa was white became the reason why reality came crashing down, and Louis was forced to think back seven and a half hours earlier, to the ghost of Harry's smile. 'Ghost', of course, being the operative word.