Rule Forty-Seven

Louis doesn’t often have flashbacks; when he does, it takes over him completely, and he becomes a shell of his usual self. He sinks, feels what he used to feel, where the dreams of dying were the best he ever had.

When Louis had first been taken, he was nineteen years old, paying for his university fees with tips from a strip club. It wasn’t ideal, not in the least, but he knew how to move his hips, and apparently, that was how to get money. The days were more simple. The people were less complicated.

The first year in the business was the most devastating for Louis - his body was used and abused. He was rebellious, always looking for a way to get in trouble, looking for different ways to stand out in the crowd. It was his second year when he realised it was best to blend in. Three years in and he’d learnt to stop caring about the people around him. They either lived long enough to be emotionally destroyed, or were too emotional for the handlers to deal with. The fourth year Zayn had arrived. And the fifth year was when Niall had came, and that’s when Louis’ resolve had changed. If he couldn’t survive, Niall would.

Niall, who couldn’t ever find it in himself to stop crying, Niall, who needed to be cradled to sleep, Niall, who wouldn’t touch any food and lost too much weight; his Niall.

Louis remembers when he’d first arrived. (The young boy looks out of sorts, blue eyes blinking furiously at the tears starting to form. His bleached hair glints in the light. He glances up at Louis and his lips pull down as a short sob catches in his throat. He isn’t supposed to be here, he looks too young. Too full of life like Louis had been when he’d first arrived.)

However, Louis couldn’t remember when he himself had came - he could only remember the years. And the eyes.

The cerulean eyes that had hunted down his own while he was dancing, the eyes that had cornered him, the ones that had watched as he fell unconscious, drugs swimming through his veins.

He can remember now, though. Now that he’s seen the photos.

The pain, the desperation, the agony that he went through during his first two weeks - the constant drug injections and the horrifying withdrawal. The laughter and humiliation as he was used as a sex slave.

Niall doesn’t know, doesn’t need to know. But if he did, he would wonder how Louis could be so confident, and he would understand how Louis is so content with just... living.

When he comes to, they’re hustling together on the sidewalk towards a blue station wagon. Niall’s got his arms wrapped tightly around Louis’ waist, keeping him upright, and a palm resting on his stomach.

Niall. His. His Niall.

Louis, somehow, can breathe again.
____________________________

There’s someone, quiet as a mouse and light as a feather, opening the front door to Harry’s safe-house.

The greasy feel of sweat, the slime of blood, the smell of skin, the kinetic impact on flesh and bone - that’s something Harry is not looking forward too. But sparring is ingrained into Harry’s bones, flows through his veins - to deliberately and purposefully cause pain and fear to another human can wreck people emotionally, but it absolutely exhilarates Harry to no end.

When he was first learning, at the camp his family run, more than a decade ago, it took a while for Harry to turn his initial reaction of holycrapwhat’shappeningcrappunchcrapthathurtwhatthehellishappening into clean strikes, counters and moves that were merely a necessary technical task of defending himself or getting a job done. He used to hate it - now he enjoys feeling the movements of each strike, feeling his muscles extend and contract as his mind moves his body.

But, at the same time, Harry’s more of an ask questions, fight later kind of guy. He’ll avoid hand to hand combat as much as possible, as much as his job permits him to.

So as someone breaks into Harry’s apartment, a small smile flicks across his hidden face - and he doesn’t even try to stop it. No questions this time.

The person walks slowly, quietly through the house, and if Harry closes his eyes, he can picture exactly where the person is. Three steps in, across from the wall runner. Seven steps in, stopping at the lounge. Eighteen steps in and peering into his dark room.

Harry, though playing it quiet now, doesn’t particularly care for stealth when his personal life is being invaded.

“Looking for me?” He asks loudly, standing from his position like he’s been there this whole time.

The man, shorter than him, brown hair and dull, grey eyes, snarls viciously and smiles. “Shoulda stayed hidden, boy.”

They circle around the kitchen island and into the open space the living room provides.

The older man is unarmed, not carrying a knife or weapon. Harry feels a rush go through him; this pretty much guarantees hand to hand combat with no interruptions.

His hands are up high, one shielding his face, one over his closest shoulder. Harry’s hands; clenched and at his sides. The shorter man moves first (really, really predictable; Harry almost smirks), a high kick that Harry can easily duck under. Another kick, another dodge (and Harry still hasn’t got his stance yet, almost like he’s too good for it).

They dance and Harry finally puts his hands up, finally moves in, a left hook catching ribs, a disgruntled moan. A block. And a knee to the stomach. Harry watches, slightly amused, as the shorter man flies off his feet and lands with a gasp.

What Harry doesn’t see coming, what Harry has overlooked, is his strategy.

He walks forward (cocky, of course), ready to finish what he hadn’t started, only to see a shift in fabric as the guy leaps up and an explosion of pain to the side of his head. Harry’s knows this feeling; fighters who’ve been punched near the eye react on the opposite side, try and cover how they start to flinch and retreat because their peripheral vision is damaged.

Harry shifts to his left side. He’s beginning to take this fight seriously.

He hears the click of a switch blade before he sees it, and instinct takes over as he jumps back and out of the way. The older man is smirking now, because he’s tricked Harry, but more so because he now has the upper hand.

In his mind, Harry calculates the distance between himself and the kitchen, and that just maybe, this plan forming in his head might work. So he lets the guy rush him, he defends sloppily in the pretense of weakness. A block to the left, a clean swipe at the guys hand, a step back. He repeats, just differently, and he’s almost where he has to be. He glances over his shoulder, loses focus for not even a second, and sucks in a sharp breath as the blade bites into his skin and draws blood.

Harry reaches behind him and his hand wraps around the handle of a cooking pan (because if this guy is going to cheat, Harry will, too). He swings it at the older man’s head and switches the weight onto his bad side, flips the pan over his head (to distract the defense tactic), grabs it with his other hand, and listens with growing interest as the pan ricochets off the side of his head.

The man stumbles and clutches at his head, and Harry takes no time in darting forward, snatching the sharp weapon into his own hands, and slashing it across the older man’s throat.

Dark blood spurts across the black fabric on his chest, splatters across the white tiled island in the centre of his kitchen, and pools around the mans head on Harry’s white floor tiles as he twitches to his death.

He lets the blade clatter from his hand and contemplates for a short moment what he’s going to do with the body.

It takes him ten minutes to set his tools up, fifteen minutes to fully decapitate the man and chop off his hands, and another thirty minutes to beat the body so hard with a hammer he can fit it into a large duffle bag (he’s planning to dump it in a river, and on the off chance someone actually finds the body, there’s no DNA tracing that can be done).

Harry has vinegar and a mixture of different cleaning products somewhere in a cupboard, and he takes it upon himself to start viciously scrubbing away the mess of blood in his kitchen.

Liam and the other boys can be heard before they’re seen (not that Harry can see them when they walk in, though), but they’re quiet and staring around the apartment when they enter.

“Harry?” Liam quietly calls out. “It’s been almost two hours, are you still here?”

Harry grunts and pulls himself up from the floor. It must be a site - the cleaning gloves and the scrubber in his hands - because Louis smirks and him and Niall starts laughing. Liam is frowning at them.

He glares at the boys, contemplating on telling them that what he’s cleaning is the blood of his latest victim, but chooses silence.

“Having fun there, wifey?”

The stab that comes from Louis completely undoes his resolve. Yeah, no.

“Do you want to know what I’m cleaning, Louis?” Harry snarls. He doesn’t raise his voice; in fact, it drops so low Louis’ ears strain to listen to him. “I’m cleaning the blood from my kitchen that belonged to a man willing to kill me to get to you.”

Louis completely backs down, shrinking into himself.

And Liam is still frowning at them.

“You’re bleeding.”

Harry glances at Zayn, who’s eyes are glued to the open wound on his abdomen. He sighs in defeat. “Yeah, I know.”