Status: three am is prime writing time
Elanguscence
only
Harry can’t feel his fingers. Well, he can, but he’s positive it’s just a trick of his mind; it’s like when people get their legs amputated and still feel an itch. The fact that he can also see his hand means nothing. The mind is a powerful thing, and if it wants to make Harry believe he’s still whole, it could pull out all the stops. Except for getting rid of the nagging at the forefront of his thoughts, apparently.
He’s been standing in front of the bathroom mirror for the better part of an hour, trying to see himself disappearing, clenching and unclenching his fists and curling his toes in the rug to figure out if he really feels it. No matter how hard he squints, he still looks like himself. A very tired version of himself, but still the full him. He can’t understand why he’s not reassured.
Harry checks the time; just past five a.m. He deserts the deceiving bathroom mirror, leaving the light on, and creeps down the short hall to Louis’ room.
It’s too early to be awake, he knows that. Especially for Louis, who’d gotten home late to begin with, but Harry finds himself carefully pushing the door open anyway. He shuffles his feet across the carpet, allowing the dim light to show the many obstacles in his path to the left side of the bed where Louis’ head rests. The rest of him is spread diagonally across the bed, one foot hanging off the right side. It looks like he just fell face-first on the mattress when he got back.
“Louis,” he whispers, bending at the waist so their faces are level. Louis doesn’t stir, soft snores continuing uninterrupted. Anxiety creeps through Harry’s veins. It freezes his tongue so all he can do is reach out a shaky hand, hope it’s still there, and tap Louis’ cheek until his eyelids flutter and he’s squinting up at Harry with a sleepy frown.
Louis makes a noise that sounds vaguely questioning, raising a fist to rub at his eyes while pulling his leg fully onto the bed.
“I think I'm disappearing,” Harry says in a rush. Louis draws a heavy breath and rolls onto his back. He shifts over, then reaches blindly for Harry until Harry moves his arm into the path of his hand. Their fingers interlock.
Louis tugs weakly. “Lay down, H.”
“What if you wake up and I'm not here?” Harry asks once he’s settled uneasily on his back beside Louis. “What if I just turn into nothing?”
“You won’t turn into nothing,” Louis tells him. He sounds more awake. Harry feels a flicker of guilt alight in his stomach; he thinks it’s good he can still locate his stomach, and he knows at least one hand remains, because Louis is still holding it. He flexes his fingers for good measure and Louis squeezes. Good. As if sensing his train of thought, Louis turns on his side to face him.
“No part of you is going away,” he says. With his free hand, he starts touching what parts of Harry he can reach.
“Nose,” he says, flicking him lightly. Harry snorts, shaking his head. Louis pulls on a curl. “Hair. Neck. Left shoulder, and oh look, the right one too!”
Harry can’t stop himself from laughing when Louis digs his fingers into Harry’s sides.
“All the ticklish parts are still there,” Louis reports much too gleefully. Throwing a leg over Harry’s bottom half, he hums. “Yeah, I think all of you is here.”
“What about my feet?” Harry has to ask, because Louis’ foot only reaches the spot where his calf and ankle meet. Louis hums again, a sleepy sound.
“I can smell ‘em,” he mumbles, scooting closer. “Disgusting. All crusty and sweaty.”
“That’s your feet,” Harry says, lips quirking.
“No,” Louis says. Harry waits for him to continue, but a glance over reveals he’s fallen asleep. Turning so his back is to Louis, Harry pulls their still-linked hands to his stomach. He yawns; he’s been up for far too long.
The feeling his feet aren’t there anymore slinks back in when he’s on the cusp of unconsciousness, so he pushes them back against Louis’ shins. Louis jerks awake immediately and pinches the back of his neck as revenge.
“Your feet are cold, fucker,” he accuses. Harry wriggles closer to him with a small smile he hides in the pillow. Huffing, Louis wraps his arm tighter around him and kisses the spot he pinched.
“Goodnight, Harry.”
Harry’s already asleep.
He’s been standing in front of the bathroom mirror for the better part of an hour, trying to see himself disappearing, clenching and unclenching his fists and curling his toes in the rug to figure out if he really feels it. No matter how hard he squints, he still looks like himself. A very tired version of himself, but still the full him. He can’t understand why he’s not reassured.
Harry checks the time; just past five a.m. He deserts the deceiving bathroom mirror, leaving the light on, and creeps down the short hall to Louis’ room.
It’s too early to be awake, he knows that. Especially for Louis, who’d gotten home late to begin with, but Harry finds himself carefully pushing the door open anyway. He shuffles his feet across the carpet, allowing the dim light to show the many obstacles in his path to the left side of the bed where Louis’ head rests. The rest of him is spread diagonally across the bed, one foot hanging off the right side. It looks like he just fell face-first on the mattress when he got back.
“Louis,” he whispers, bending at the waist so their faces are level. Louis doesn’t stir, soft snores continuing uninterrupted. Anxiety creeps through Harry’s veins. It freezes his tongue so all he can do is reach out a shaky hand, hope it’s still there, and tap Louis’ cheek until his eyelids flutter and he’s squinting up at Harry with a sleepy frown.
Louis makes a noise that sounds vaguely questioning, raising a fist to rub at his eyes while pulling his leg fully onto the bed.
“I think I'm disappearing,” Harry says in a rush. Louis draws a heavy breath and rolls onto his back. He shifts over, then reaches blindly for Harry until Harry moves his arm into the path of his hand. Their fingers interlock.
Louis tugs weakly. “Lay down, H.”
“What if you wake up and I'm not here?” Harry asks once he’s settled uneasily on his back beside Louis. “What if I just turn into nothing?”
“You won’t turn into nothing,” Louis tells him. He sounds more awake. Harry feels a flicker of guilt alight in his stomach; he thinks it’s good he can still locate his stomach, and he knows at least one hand remains, because Louis is still holding it. He flexes his fingers for good measure and Louis squeezes. Good. As if sensing his train of thought, Louis turns on his side to face him.
“No part of you is going away,” he says. With his free hand, he starts touching what parts of Harry he can reach.
“Nose,” he says, flicking him lightly. Harry snorts, shaking his head. Louis pulls on a curl. “Hair. Neck. Left shoulder, and oh look, the right one too!”
Harry can’t stop himself from laughing when Louis digs his fingers into Harry’s sides.
“All the ticklish parts are still there,” Louis reports much too gleefully. Throwing a leg over Harry’s bottom half, he hums. “Yeah, I think all of you is here.”
“What about my feet?” Harry has to ask, because Louis’ foot only reaches the spot where his calf and ankle meet. Louis hums again, a sleepy sound.
“I can smell ‘em,” he mumbles, scooting closer. “Disgusting. All crusty and sweaty.”
“That’s your feet,” Harry says, lips quirking.
“No,” Louis says. Harry waits for him to continue, but a glance over reveals he’s fallen asleep. Turning so his back is to Louis, Harry pulls their still-linked hands to his stomach. He yawns; he’s been up for far too long.
The feeling his feet aren’t there anymore slinks back in when he’s on the cusp of unconsciousness, so he pushes them back against Louis’ shins. Louis jerks awake immediately and pinches the back of his neck as revenge.
“Your feet are cold, fucker,” he accuses. Harry wriggles closer to him with a small smile he hides in the pillow. Huffing, Louis wraps his arm tighter around him and kisses the spot he pinched.
“Goodnight, Harry.”
Harry’s already asleep.
♠ ♠ ♠
i...have nothing to say for myself.