I fear the living. I fear the damaged souls. I fear every thing and anything without you.

H.P.O.V

It's three am.

I don't remember the last thing that was spoken. I don't want to remember the way Presley's eyes filled with dread as I walked her to her door. It was an ordinary red door with a gold crusted knob with the number: 413.

The living room was small and homey. Two leather couches, and a cream colored blanket over the larger one. Pictures were scattered over their walls and tables. There was a tv, a record player, and fairy lights. It was a basic apartment that now by unfair circumstances felt incredibly sad.

Their kitchen was filled with boxes. I imagine with cups, plates, utensils, rags, any basic kitchen appliance they'd need. Their fridge was disconnected and would have to be thrown away-- rotting food and all. The cereal boxes were dusty and a mug of brown liquid was shattered over the counter top.

Ben's called a few times. Each time I couldn't say much. Presley hadn't really moved from her spot and she won't say much either. He phoned Presley, but she won't answer. Doesn't even bother to check her phone. Instead she's sitting still and frozen on their unused sofa, Caleb's picture clutched to her chest, as she stares blankly at the pastel walls.

"I've got to do this don't I?" Presley's voice is small, almost afraid. It's the most she's spoken in hours and my mind accelerates. "I have to clean out his room and actually make it real, don't I?"

What do I say to that? 'This has been real for months now?' That's cruel. But then again this whole thing has been cruel. Presley loosing her brother. A promising-- twenty-six year old medical student, who was completely in love with his family. Always smiling. Always there when you needed him. How was any of that ever going to be okay?

"I don't want this to be real Harry," she begins rocking on the sofa as her fingers tighten around the frame. "But if I clean out his room then it is. It like, confirms it, makes it undeniably real."

"Baby--"

"What? You're going to say I'm wrong?" I stalk toward her stilled form and squat to her level. She doesn't turn to look at me, doesn't tilt her head or makes any indication that shows she's coherent. "I hate you."

Those words cut like knives. And I know they've only been spoken because she's feeling everything, because I forced her here. But they cut like sharp knives, deep and brutal.

"I hate you," she says again, "you fucking ruined me. You and your stupid band. I fucking hate you. I hate Louis. I hate all of you."

"Let it go," I murmur, my eyes stinging, "go ahead, say it. Say anything."

"I hate you. I hate you. I hate you." I don't think I can hear anymore. I don't think my heart has the capability to take more. My head drops to her lap and my arms hang around her stomach. She lets out a small gasp and drops the frame next to my head, "fuck, no, Harry. I don't-- fuck, I don't hate you. I don't-- I don't even know where that came from." Her hands land in my hair as they run through the strands and over my scalp. "I don't hate you. I don't hate you. I don't-- I can't hate you."

"Why?" I whisper.

"I can't," she repeats, shakily and broken, "I'll have nothing left if I do."

"You have me," I want to promise this in so many ways. In a hundred different languages. I want to tattoo it somewhere on my skin, if it'll mean she'll believe it.

"Only for six days, Harry," she sighs and kisses the top of my head, "Soon Jasmine and Jesse return and everything goes back to how it was before."

"I don't want to give you back," I whisper. "How can I when you're not happy? How do I give you back to someone who doesn't deserve you?"

I know it's not very fair to say this. I don't know the significance of their relationship. I know they were together. Ben made that clear. It's obvious he loves her. He looks at her, the way I feel about her. Like she discovered the entire galaxy, placing each star in a specific place.

Then there's Jasmine. A careless choice I made. A choice I regret more and more, and that's not fair to her. She's been... she's there. Always was. We look good together. She loves the spotlight. Doesn't mind it. We look good together, but we don't feel good together anymore. Not to me.

"We're like bumper cars," she utters in a low tone, "every time we get close we crash."

"I'd rather crash with you than anyone else."

She hums her answer and continues grazing my hair, "I don't want to do this, Harry."

"I know."

"But I have to." She admits in a way that makes it seem like it was more for her than me.

"I think so," I say, picking my head up and looking at her. "You look so tired."

"I am tired," she mumbles. "Can't sleep and when I can it's only for a few hours."

"Me too," I nose her cheek and inhale everything around her, "I missed you. I missed you so fucking much."

"I was gone for three days," she musters with a small grin.

"Add those three days to the sixteen months and you'll feel my pain," I can feel her body stiffen and I wish I somehow knew how to suck those words back in. "I'm sorry." I don't think that will ever be enough. I don't think anything I say will ever make it better. "Baby, I didn't mean to--"

"It's okay," she pats my head, heaves a sigh and mumbles, "I've got to get started before I fall over." Sooner or later-- and I do hope it is soon-- we won't be able to change the subject. We'll have to actually talk this through.

"There's no rush," but I'm almost positive if she doesn't do it now, she'll never do it. "We can sit here and talk about, I don't know, cats?"

"I used to have a bear balloon named Becker. He had pink paws and a heart shaped nose. I cried for two days when he deflated. It was traumatizing." I can imagine a tiny Presley crying over her flat balloon, as Steve tries to comfort her. It has me bursting with warm affection and a need to cuddle her close. "What? Why are you laughing at me?" I hadn't realized I was until she pointed it out.

"You're just really fucking cute," she shrugs still unconvinced and wary, "do you tell everyone that story?"

"No," she says, "Becker wouldn't like me to talk about him in the past sense." I don't think anyone would like that.

****
It's five am and Presley can't walk inside of her brother's room.

Her room was easy. It was mostly packed away in boxes. It had pastel pink walls and fairy lights over her bed. Her bed was the only thing that made it feel like someone was living here. Or was. It only took an hour to pack it all up. Her clothes, shoes, picture frames, jewelry. Small mementoes from her childhood.

"You still have this?" I held up the Polaroid picture of us. It's such a nice picture. Our heads are tilted together as we beam at the camera. It's a reminder of a nicer time.

"I have everything," she moves towards her closet and grabs a small cardboard box. She holds it in her arms and smiles, "good times." She mumbles.

"The best," I agree.

"So we're done here," everything she wants to take is on one side and everything else will be donated or thrown away.

It's five forty-five now and we're standing in front of Caleb's door. We've been close twice and the third time was an instant no. She looked up with wide frantic eyes, "can you call Louis?"

"What?" My face scrunches in bewilderment. Louis? I wasn't aware she was friends with Louis again?

Her eyes widen in surprise at what she had just said, she looks vulnerable and shocked. "Can you call Louis?"

"Are you-- what? Are you sure?"

"Yes," she whispers completely cut off guard.

"Okay," I kiss her head and walk down the hall, dialing the familiar number.

It rings five times until Louis picks up with a muffled, "what?" Is it possible to explain this over the phone? I don't understand what's happening, or why Presley wants Louis here when she's been so close with Ben. It's a bit of-- well it's a major surprise, that is in Louis favor.

"Did I wake you?" That's a stupid question. Of course I did.

"No I'm always up at this time churning butter-- of course you woke me up ya fuck face." There's quiet noise over the phone and I can make out Eleanor demanding Louis to shut up, or get out.

"Don't be mean," Louis sighs over the phone.

"Give me a sec then," he yawns loudly, before I hear a door close, "okay, what?"

"Presley wants to see you."

"What?" Louis sounds as surprised as I feel to be making this call. "Wants to see me do what?"

"She wants to see you."

"Me? Are you sure? Don't fuck with me, I'll kick your ass."

"I'm not," I try, "she specifically asked to see you."

"Really?" Louis sounds more awake now. He also sounds excited. "Like, she-- really? Me?"

I frown at his tone, "are you happy about this?"

"Well I'm not upset about it either," he states in a matter of fact tone. "Where are you anyways?"

"Her place. We're cleaning Caleb's room-- well I'm trying to get her to."

"Text me the address, I'm on my way." The line clicks and I must have said something to wind up his gears if that was all the explanation I needed.

****
"Alright ladies," Louis made it here in twenty minutes. I'm slightly concerned by all of speeding laws he must have broken. "Louis' here, you can all breathe once again."

Presley hasn't moved. She still has her eyes glued to the door as if it'll magically move and start dancing. Louis walks towards us nodding my way and then moving in front of Presley. Abruptly he crouched down and picked her up over his shoulders. He opened the door and walked in. Okay.

I followed with cautious steps at what had just happened and I'm half expecting Presley to scream and, well, kick Louis' ass.

But. She doesn't. Even when Louis places her back on the ground. She shakes her head and murmurs a small "thank you."

Louis nods and whispers something in her ear and I know I shouldn't feel bitter about this. He's merely helping her but I can't shake off the angry wave that comes barreling at me. And I secretly wish I hadn't of called Louis.

Caleb's room is all boxes and a bed set, with cream colored walls that match the living room. There's only two pictures on the bedside table and it's of their family and of Presley and Caleb together. The room does not seem used. It doesn't have any personal touches. It feels cold and impersonal. As if it was meant to be used for storage.

"I don't-- I'm confused Louis," Presley admits bashful, "I don't know why I wanted you here--no offense-- but I did-- or, uh, I do."

"S'fine," Louis promises with an easy smile. Louis wraps an arm around her shoulders and squeezes as I try really hard not to glare.

"Do you think Ben will hate me for not calling him?"

"No," Louis shakes his head and moves his hand up and down slowly. "Would you?"

"No."

"Then?"

"Okay," she breathes out and moves towards the only box that was opened. Watching her walk towards it seemed almost too personal and I had to fight the urge to look away. A small whimper came from her direction that had me practically sprinting. Except, Louis was there first, shushing her and hugging her to his side. As I managed to be on the other side. Unnoticed. Okay.

"Take your time," he urges with a cooing tone.

"Like a band aid," she replies, grabbing an old T-shirt. "Oh," her voice cracks, "he was so young. Twenty six." They say death is easy for the ones who go. Why can't it be easy for the ones who are left. Why can't we be shown such mercy. "He's... I want him to come home. I want him to smile too much and I want him to call me kid. I want to be 'kid' again."

"Let it out," I say placing a hand on her waist and squeezing, "no more holding back. Let it go."

"He's so far from me now," I can almost feel her throat tightening up, "I want him home. Please, Harry. I miss him. Bring him home, Harry."

I look at her pained and frazzled, "I can't do that brown eyes. No one can."

"I want him home," I don't think she means for her voice to raise, it just does. "It's not fair."

"Baby," My stomach twists with fear as I try to move her closer to me and further from Louis, who's strangely quiet.

"How do my parents do it? Fuck, how can they keep going, knowing their child is fucking dead! How can they do it and I can't?!"

"They're taking it day by day."

"This fucking sucks."

If I closed my eyes I'd swear she was getting ready to say goodbye.

Notes

You and me, love. We are almost home. Xx
P.S. For the one who messaged me asking how old I was, I'm still a teenager. I swear. I can't buy alcohol yet. Not legally at least.