Louis Tomlinson spent two long years recovering from the most traumatizing night of his life. But when he receives something from the person responsible for his terror, he’s afraid not only for his life- but for his heart.
WARNING includes smut, rape, murder, and other dark matters that may be disturbing
A/N: i feel like im continually ripping holes in my chest.
Idly Louis wonders what life would be like if he had never met Harry. Or perhaps if he had under different circumstances, such as a long glance held through the window of a bakery. If he would have the courage to go and talk to him, ask him out for a cup of coffee, kiss him sheepishly before he turns for his apartment. A simple life would have bloomed into late nights on the phone, or tucked into the arms of one another watching some cheesy 70s horror film. A simple life, a simple love, no questions asked.
It’s these thoughts that worm their way up into his mind when he’s weakest— at night, trying to sleep away the ever present pain in his chest. They bore into the very marrow of his bones until he feels as though he’s rotting from the inside out.
He misses him so much, more than he can take.
Zayn is gone for majority of the day, and Louis still can’t bear to think of going back to work, having to listen to people drone on about their horrible lives when his life is a pit of its own.
He invites Gemma over to keep him company, and he finds himself digging helpless hooks into her, constantly asking her to just hold him. Somewhere in his heart, his conscience laughs at him, yet the feeling of her, the only thing he has left of his boy, is enough to suffice from fully capsizing.
Louis wakes up to a soft voice cooing to him, his eyes blink open, wide and bleary with dreaming tears. His mouth is dry and he clears his throat as he sits up to Gemma gazing at him holding a cup of tea. A solemn smile is creased into her features, and in the dim lighting flooding in from the hall she looks so much like him. He stiffens, diverting his eyes to keep from breaking again.
"Hey," she sighs, patting his thigh, "dinner’s ready—"
A brute knock comes at the front door of Zayn’s flat, and Louis jumps, craning his neck to glance at the door as though he expects it to fly open. Gemma sighs, brow furrowed before shuffling to unlock the bolt and swing the door open.
Louis shrinks back at the sight of an officer, who’s expression is anything but welcoming. “Is Louis Tomlinson here?” He questions as he shows her his badge, “LPD, we’d like to bring him in for some questioning.”
She looks over her shoulder, she’s stiff, but she sighs and moves away from the door. The officer slowly enters, his eyes trained on the man shrunken into the couch.
"You’re Louis, correct? I need you to come with me." His voice is low, his grey eyes stern.
Louis clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably, not even sure his voice will work with the ever present ache in his throat, “What for?”
"Questions about… Styles."
The tinge of resentment, loathing, in the man’s voice is enough to bring a ragged breath of offense to Louis, “He’s innocent, you know.”
The man just stares at him, before motioning for the man to follow. And very slowly, he does, giving a slow glance to Gemma, who just nods as reassuringly as she can.
Louis is used to interrogating people, but hates being interrogated himself. He’s sat in a cold room with one of those double-sided windows and a fluorescent light that washes out everything. He hates it, and being alone in this room has him drumming his fingers on the metal table, trying to hold in heavy breaths to keep from sobbing again.
He feels so numb, an empty shell just shuffling about with a fear growing in the pit of his hollow stomach.
He’s studying the scratches in the metal of the table when the door swings open and in comes a thin, wiry looking woman with graying hair and a surprisingly subtle kindness in her blue eyes.
She sits opposite of Louis, folding her hands over a manila folder with a quiet sigh. The silence is so penetrating that it is screaming in the space around them. He does not look up until she speaks, “Officer Yarin tells me you have some sort of… evidence that Harry Styles did not in fact murder and rape those people.”
Louis stiffens, before leaning back in his chair, a hollow look in his eyes as he stares at her, a bloating silence stretching out for an eternity. He opens his mouth, breathing in slowly, “He didn’t,” is all he can muster, his voice cracking.
She shakes her head, looking down at her hands with a solemn laugh, “So it was just chance that a noted serial killer stumbled upon a mass burial?” She makes a tsking noise, “Not likely, Louis.”
His skin prickles with heat, and for the first time in a week, he feels something other than absolute morose longing, and it’s hatred. His mouth opens and closes, his mind reeling with everything that Miranda had spouted to him that night. His pulse races so quickly beneath his skin it feels as though he could combust.
"Miranda Sutherland," he spits out, his throat closing up with the absolute, "Is the reason he took—" he inhales sharply, eyes burning, "—took his life."
The woman across from him sighs again, licking her lips before opening up the manila folder to produce pictures of a moment he never wanted to relive again. One after the other she pushes photos of the victims in the cave. Louis makes a horrified noise, covering his mouth with one hand and shoving the pictures away with the other.
"Don’t show me those." He shouts, voice thick with tears.
"Stop trying to protect him, Louis. He’s a murderer. I would expect you of all people to understand tha—"
"—Shut up!" He yells, his back rigged and eyes wide and wet with tears that are now flowing over the rims and onto the table. His chin puckers and bottom lip trembles before he looks down, squeezing his eyes shut with a tired sob.
And so he begins the long, slow explanation of everything. From the beginning, to the first day he ever met Harry, to the last. The woman is quiet the entire time, and when Louis’ words are finally swallowed with tremulous sobs that echo about the small room, she just sits, a neutral expression on her face.
After a long silence, save the broken cries coming from the man across from her, the woman inhales deeply, leans forward and rests her elbows on the table, “So you’re telling me, Harry Styles’ father and his… accomplice framed him for all 17 murders?”
Louis only nods, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.
The woman sighs yet again, leaning back in her chair, brows raised, “We’ll take a look into this.. Sutherland woman and his father. But you’re going to need the best god damn lawyer in London for this to hold up in court, Louis.”
Louis’ breath gets caught in his throat again and he massages his temples, trying to stop his head from spinning. He opens his mouth to say something, but finds he can’t speak. His mouth is cottony and he decides it’s better to not. She studies his face for a moment, before nodding curtly, “You’re free to go.” Her voice a bit softer than before.
He still says nothing, just shakily stands before sauntering to the door, reaching for the handle, only pausing when her voice comes up behind, “And Louis… I’m sorry for your loss,” a soft few words enough to have him hurrying out of the police station before he drops into his car and unleashes a torrent of absolute soul splitting cries.
He decides that he’d rather be alone tonight, even though Zayn was as good of a comforting friend as he’d ever ask for, he just needs quiet.
But the more he thinks about returning to his flat, empty and quiet, the more he dreads it. But being only a minute away, he decides he can’t avoid his own home forever.
When he enters and flips on the lights, it is painfully still and quiet, only the hum of the fridge and high-pitched hiss of the lights is all that fills the void. Shadows seem to linger, even when he turns on every light in the living area. They seem deep, oil slicks of whispers that make Louis feel sick as he passes his boy’s door.
He pauses by it for some reason. He’s no longer crying, just a numbness has replaced the ache. He turns for the door, like some kind of magnetic force is guiding him in.
And once he’s in, he inhales deeply, wallowing in an even deeper silence and darkness, even with the light on. He idly thanks the crew who had came and relieved him the burden of cleaning the blood from the walls and burning the sheets stained with crimson.
He looks stiffly around the room, his breath steady but heart racing. He takes a few steps in, slowly, as though he’s afraid the room will shatter if he moves too quickly.
The stale scent of bleach and gun smoke fills his lungs, and some other heady scent— the smell of his boy. In an odd way it comforts him. An overwhelming desire fills him and he finds himself wandering into the closet, flipping on the light to reveal the few shirts and sweaters. Louis mechanically reaches for the sweater Harry had worn for a week straight, a simple grey thing with a few holes in the hem.
Louis clutches onto it, pulling it over his head, the sleeves covering his hands. He smells him, and he’s thankful he did this, because it pulls a few of the thin threads of longing together.
The ache in his throat only swells though, and he sinks to the floor, holding his knees to his chest, staring at the floor as he tries to hold himself together, breathing in that smell of his boy.
He is staring at the floor so long, that he notices one of the boards is uneven to the rest. He blinks a few times, before realizing it’s not nailed in. He is hesitant to reach for it, but once he is, his pulse becomes erratic and he has no idea why.
He digs his fingers under to catch a ledge, and plies it up with the splintering sound of wood breaking.
This being an older flat, the floor is hovering over the foundation, leaving an empty space beneath. So he peers down into the shallow depth, not sure what to expect.
But sure enough, there is something, an envelope.
His breath hitches in his throat, and he stares down at the envelope for so long it becomes just a white mass in a sea of black.
The silence is so thick, he can hear his heartbeat throbbing in his ears as he reaches for the envelope, picking it up with trembling fingers.
It’s not sealed, so he flips open the flap, and removes a folded up sheet of paper.
He unfolds it, taking a deep breath and holding it before squinting to read.
A pent up sob is released as his eyes rake the page, holding a shaking hand over his mouth.
I don’t know if you’ll ever read this, and I’m not sure if I want you to or not. You could call this a goodbye, and I’m hiding it beneath the floor because… well I don’t want you to read it immediately after… what happens.
Whenever you find this, I want you to remember something. I want to remind you of something.
Last night, I fell in love with you.
Last night, you gave me everything, and I felt every ounce of my body become eternally yours.
And this is why I’m ready to leave, Louis.
The things I have done… are atrocious. But you, Louis, have given me the strength to move on. You have filled the holes in me that I thought were unfillable.
And as unusual as it may be to shoot myself through the roof of my mouth after truly finding someone who completes me, I hope you one day understand that none of this is your fault.
I’m taking my life right at the climax, I do not want to grow old with the chance of not having you. I’m ending my life because you have given me an endless supply of love that has successfully granted me the ease to move on, and I believe that shall fuel me for whatever happens after death.
I believe that death is the beginning of something beautiful, when this door closes, another opens, and there I will open it and find you waiting for me. Waiting for me with open arms, and this time with no weights of a past life that will drive me to unburden you of myself.
I’ll be waiting for you, my love. However long I have to wait for the next door to open, I will.
not the end