Because The Only Time You See Me Is When I'm Blinded By Your Light

One-shot Larry Stylinson. Harry cuts because the man he loves can never love him back. Louis dates Eleanor because he knows that Harry could never feel the same way.

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1. The Beginning

The first time Harry cuts, it’s rough and messy.  Planted on the floor of their hotel’s bathroom, silently crying underneath the sink as his trembling hands raise a small blade to his wrist.  He doesn’t know what he’s doing, all he knows is that Louis has a girlfriend, and he’s smitten, and happy, and she’s nice, and all Harry wants to do is hate her but he can’t because she’s...well, she’s Louis’ girlfriend, and anyone who makes Louis happy makes Harry happy, too.

 

So Harry sits on the floor of the locked bathroom, trying to numb his emotions for the sharp sting of pain instead while the other boys are out for lunch.  His fingers press into the tender flesh at the base of his palm, blade sinking in and catching.  And then Harry’s ripping through lines of his pale, white skin, moving across his entire body so he can cover them up easier.  With each new cut, deep and stinging, Harry feels...not better, but lighter.  Like maybe by doing this, it’s taking the weight of the world off his shoulders.

 

Eventually, once his tears have stopped and his fingers run red with his blood, Harry stands up, dropping the blade into a paper cup and placing it in the garbage bin.  Looking in the mirror, Harry starts, jumping a bit and letting out a squeak of shock.  Because standing behind him, completely disappointed, is Liam.  Harry’s eyes blink down, attempting to hide behind his thick curls and long eyelashes, but Liam simply strides forward, grasping Harry by the shoulders and squeezing him tightly.

 

“Don’t, Harry, don’t. Don’t, please don’t.” Liam whispers roughly,  choking a bit on his tears.  He sits a shocked Harry onto the edge of the bath and begins rummaging around, searching for antiseptic and bandages.

 

Once Harry is cleaned up, Liam promises to not tell the boys as long as Harry comes to him before the blade.  Harry promises, not letting Liam see as his first two fingers twist together inside his hoodie pocket.

 

 

 

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The second time Harry cuts, he’s ready for it.  He’s ensured that the boys are gone for the day, and he’s been itching to lay into a blade for weeks. The need has gotten so bad, he’s got lines across his skin from his fingernails incessantly pulling at his tender flesh.  Louis just bought Eleanor her birthday cake, and it’s a fucking fairytail.  Harry can’t stand it, but since Louis is his best friend, he smiles and hugs them both, saying how happy he is for the two of them.

 

Harry sits in the shower, water running hotly down his back, scalding his skin, yet numbing him.  Harry’s fingers don’t tremble now, instead they’re rushed and hurried as they slice through his arms, legs, thighs, hips, and anywhere else he can hide.  The blood flows beautifully, Harry thinks, from the straight lines that mar his skin.  The water rinsing the red fire down the drain, erasing the memory of it ever existing.  

 

When he finally drags himself out of the now-cold shower, Zayn has become suspicious.     When he hears the water shut off, he barges into the bathroom to find Harry bent over the garbage, tiny, jagged cuts all across his body.  He could have turned around and walked out, but his body betrayed him at that moment, releasing a small gasp from his lips.  Harry jerked wildly around, eyes wild like an animal about to escape.  He covers his arms and body, attempting to shield Zayn from all the damage he has done to himself.

 

Zayn strides forward, encasing Harry between his arms.  He just stands there, holding the younger boy, feeling as though if he let go, Harry may fall apart right in front of him.  Later, the two discuss what occurred, and Harry finally persuades Zayn to keep his secret, assuring the older boy that he is fine and yes, I’ll come to you if I need anything, once again hiding he twining fingers.

 

 

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The third time Harry cuts, he isn’t discovered.  Louis has dragged them all out around a muggy Florida, excitedly sending cute pictures back and forth to Eleanor.  Harry doesn’t even attempt an excuse as to why he’s not going out, just simply states “No.” with a blank look on his face, eyes uncaring.  He doesn’t see Louis’ face fall, or the tears that threatened to drip down onto his tanned face.

 

Harry sits on his bed, itching to cut, but he knows that his blades aren’t there, that Liam and Zayn will have checked to make sure that they’re not.  He paces the room like a caged lion, ferocious and agitated.  His anger, not only at Louis but at himself, builds inside him him he can’t take it, stalking furiously over to the mini-kitchen in his suite, pulling out a sharpened knife.  He shakily slides down against the counter, already running the smooth blade across his skin.  He’s not sure how many times he hears the little ‘snick’ of his pale flesh being opened, but it becomes a lullaby to him until he falls asleep, sated and light as a feather.  

 

By the time the boys return, Harry has cleaned the knife and floor, covering his new marks with a baggy t-shirt.  When the group walks in he smiles and laughs with them, and Liam and Zayn both think that maybe he’s doing better now.

 

 

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The next time Harry cuts, Louis’ spent his day at the Louder Lounge with Eleanor, while Harry spent it alone.  Harry’s wearing jeans to hide the prominent scars on his legs, while the ones on his arms have all but faded.  He can hide his pain through denim.  

 

Louis and Eleanor are happy and willingly taking pictures with fans and friends.  Harry can’t take it.  He leaves early, not even acknowledging Louis wave to him.  He stalks home to their shared flat, ripping a knife from its holder and purposefully striding into the bathroom.  He pulls off his pants and perches himself on the edge of his bathtub.  The sounds of him grunting in slight pain reverberate through the tiny room.  

 

By the time Louis gets home, Harry is already fast asleep, curled around himself looking so fragile, Louis can’t help but wonder what horrible thing he did to such a perfect boy.  He’s glad Harry’s asleep so he can’t hear the thunderous sobs that pour from Louis’ mouth.  Glad Harry can’t see him curl into a ball around the blanket that matches Harry’s.  Glad Harry can’t feel him shaking, trembling, until he falls into a blank, dreamless sleep.

 

 

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Harry’s lying still on top of his sheets, legs dripping blood in some form of a reverse halo while he cries, the soundtrack to his misery the sounds of Louis fucking Eleanor above him.  His blade, still clutched tightly in his hand, no longer makes him float.  Now, it keeps him grounded, preventing him from floating away and never coming back.  

 

Louis pounds into Eleanor, her breathy moans driving him harder, faster.  He pounds into her as she screams through her orgasm, clutching the sheets tightly in her tiny hands.  Hands Louis wishes were pale, large and slightly calloused.  He keeps going, trying to fuck his problems into Eleanor’s body, to fuck them out of his mind for good, even though he knows it won’t work.  

 

 

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