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Eighty-four inhales later and his lungs still felt helplessly empty. His fingers, cracked and burning from the cold atmosphere outside, dug into the bed sheets, nails scraping against itchy fabric. The curve of his spine admitted that of defeat; the expression on his face only declared his profound misery even more. His green irises were tinged with red around the rims and deep shadows under his eyes made him appear to be withering away bit by bit.

Those eyes –those glassy, unfocused eyes– were locked onto the alarm clock on the nightstand, though they were unseeing. Harry didn’t need to watch the time to know how long he’d been in his position; the aches of his leg cramps and the low rumble of his stomach told him more than enough. The triangles of light filtering into the room informed him that the sun had already begun to dip into the sky, casting shadows in excellent yellows and oranges.

Harry’s skin seemed oh so pale, in stark contrast with his very surroundings.

His mind wasn’t with him in the claustrophobic hotel room, however; his daydreaming led him home, to his mother and sister. He could picture it perfectly; his mum was likely running about the living room, fussing over which magazine belonged on which coffee table. His sister was probably visiting, sprawled across the couch as she watched one of her horrible sitcoms on tv. Light would be coming in through the windows and curtains because it was still daylight there, and the air probably smelled like cinnamon because his mother was always baking and the kids next door were likely causing a ruckus and -

Harry drew his eyes closed tight, a long-suppressed sigh finally escaping his chapped lips. A clicking noise had interrupted his thoughts, and he had a sneaking suspicion of what it was.

The sudden feeling of skin pressing against his cheek only confirmed his thought. Cracking his eyes back open, Harry stared straight into the gaze of a boy he both did and did not know. Louis was crouching down so he was eye-level with the bed, his bony arm stretched out to caress Harry’s cheek. The look in his eyes was one Harry was unaccustomed to seeing – apprehension?

As the pad of his thumb grazed across Harry’s jawline, he bit down on his bottom lip.

Louis was looking at Harry as if he was afraid the younger boy was going to break at any moment. Louis had never seen his love look quite so fragile before – so dejected, as his entire demeanor seemed to have deflated. Blanched skin stretched over his bones in a way that seemed oddly too tight and resembled that of a porcelain doll, cracked and abused. His usually-fair curls stuck to his forehead, clearly uncombed, and his body shook with every breathe he took.

One-hundred-and-fifty-four, Harry internally reminded himself.

“Hazza,” Louis prompted gently, anxious blue eyes locked onto indifferent green ones. “Love, why don’t you get out of that bed and come for a walk with me? We could go get something to eat or do whatever you want.”

“’M tired,” Harry mumbled, voice cracking from misuse.

“No, you’re not.” Louis’ eyes were the sort of soft that made Harry want to curl in on himself. His skin flamed up, hot with embarrassment at how easily Louis understood his feelings. There was no masking his emotions in front of the older boy; Louis knew Harry just as he knew the sun was going to rise again the next morning.

If Harry was a tattered, forgotten book, then Louis was the translator.

It just so happened that this was indeed the situation. Harry’s spine was cracking, his pages being drowned in a sadness that he couldn’t quite comprehend. Somehow, Louis was still miraculously able to read him, word for word.

“I love you,” he whispered softly, tracing the outline of Harry’s lips, the gentle slope of his nose.

Harry was being torn in two, his heartstrings being snip-snipped one by one and his stomach thrumming with an uncomfortable feeling. He longed for the kind words of his mother, the laugh lines prominent on her aging face. For a split second, he could have sworn he could smell the flowers in the garden out back, could hear the sound of Gemma’s squeaky laugh.

Then it was gone, and his eyes focused back in on the boy before him. The boy who was allowed to see him like this when no one else was – the boy who could heal his wounds with a simple touch.

“Lou.” The second the name left his lips, Harry could feel the hot wetness pricking at his eyes. He blinked furiously, willing his body to listen to him. He didn’t want to completely fall apart in front of Louis, didn’t want to scare him away or freak him out. His breathing had become shallow, his throat straining as it closed up.

Three-hundred and sixty-nine.

“You’re gonna be okay, love,” Louis’ response came quick, no hint of hesitation lacing his tone. Then, slowly and carefully –as to not startle his distraught boyfriend– he edged into the bed beside Harry and pulled him close.

Long arms enveloped Harry, the warmth from his lover’s body seeming to even reach his heart. He curled into Louis’ body out of habit, his head finding refuge in the crook of the older boy’s neck. Fists clenching into Louis’ shirt, Harry concentrated entirely on regulating his breathing and counting Louis’ heartbeat as it thrummed beneath his fingertips.

One, two, three.

They lay like that for what seemed like an infinity of eighty-four inhales, but Harry was okay. He was okay. Louis’ arms tightened around the boy’s waist, his lips pressed feather-light kisses to Harry’s dull curls. He didn’t speak again, because he knew Harry needed time to heal himself, needed time to focus on the future and not on the past.

Harry silently thanked him for this – for putting up with his routine of homesickness and bouts of painful nostalgia. Sometimes he needed Louis to say nothing at all – to read his pages and understand, but not to comment.