Chapter Text
Louis stood stripped down to his boxers in the middle of a sterile, too-bright room, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly above him like a mosquito circling his head. The air smelled like disinfectant and something faintly metallic, like blood or fear. A male nurse, who hadn’t bothered to introduce himself, rummaged through Louis’ clothes with gloved hands, turning out pockets and shaking seams like Louis was some criminal being processed. His skin prickled with irritation, his arms crossed tightly over his bare chest, and he was already pissed off—and his stay hadn’t even properly started yet.
Eighteen years old, and this was already his fifth trip to rehab. The last time had been a joke, a forced holiday where he’d counted the hours until release, and this time felt no different. In his opinion, this was a complete and utter waste of time—he wasn’t an addict; he was just someone who liked to have fun. Big difference.
The whole thing had kicked off when his mum found a tiny baggie of ecstasy stuffed in his sock drawer. She’d lost it, screaming about how she wouldn’t have a junkie living under her roof, and gave him an ultimatum—check into rehab or find somewhere else to sleep. The drugs weren’t even his, not really. They were Niall’s, or at least, meant for Niall’s birthday party next week, which Louis now wouldn’t even get to attend. All that drama, and for what? A handful of pills meant for a good time.
The nurse kept searching his clothes, patting down seams like Louis was stupid enough to leave anything there. Amateur. Last time, he’d hidden a couple baggies of coke in his socks, thinking he was clever, only to have them found within minutes. This time, he was smarter. His current stash—just enough to get through a week and a half of group therapy and Gregs general existence—was tucked snugly in the waistband of his boxers, slightly uncomfortable but safer than any pocket. He’d move it somewhere better later, once they let him out of this humiliating strip search.
Zayn had already promised to sneak in a fresh supply during his first visit, probably right after Niall’s party. Louis wasn’t worried. It wasn’t like he needed the drugs; it wasn’t like that. They just made life easier—made the tedious people, the endless rules, the unbearable silence of his own thoughts a little softer, a little further away. And wasn’t that the point? To make life more tolerable?
The nurse muttered something under his breath, shaking out Louis’ jeans one last time, and Louis rolled his eyes to the ceiling, biting back a sarcastic remark. Another rehab, another waste of time. He could already tell—this was going to be hell.
Louis got through the strip search without so much as a raised eyebrow, which was honestly kind of impressive considering what he had on him. Tucked snug against his skin, wrapped in plastic and nerve-wracking confidence, were at least two grams of coke, five blue punishers, and a solid four grams of weed. If they’d been even a little more thorough, they might’ve found it—but they didn’t. Amateurs.
They let him keep his cigarettes, the only legal vice in his collection, which he’d left in the front pocket of his jacket like a good little eighteen-year-old who was technically allowed to smoke. The nurses didn’t seem too bothered by nicotine—rehab wasn’t here to save his lungs, after all. They were after bigger monsters. Monsters Louis didn’t believe he had.
Because he didn’t have issues , thank you very much. He wasn’t some tragic case dragged in by a court order after getting caught shooting up in a public bathroom. He wasn’t collapsing in alleyways or stealing from his mum’s purse. His mum had just overreacted—big time. It was one party stash, not some epic cry for help. If anything, she was the one who needed to calm down.
He yanked his clothes back on, every layer feeling like a small victory, proof they hadn’t caught him this time. Then, slinging his worn duffle bag over his shoulder, he followed the nurse down a corridor that looked like every corridor in every boring hospital or school Louis had ever been forced to walk through. Off-white walls, scuffed linoleum floors, the faint smell of something too clean, like bleach or desperation.
They led him to a room that looked exactly as lifeless as always—like someone had taken a motel room, drained it of any color or charm, and then sucked out the air for good measure. Two twin beds sat stiffly on opposite sides of the room, the sheets tucked in so tight they looked like they might snap. A large, hollow closet yawned open against one wall, big enough to remind him how long ten weeks could feel. A wooden table sat between the beds, flanked by two chairs that had probably never heard a real conversation. And then there was the window—a square pane of glass that showed nothing but endless countryside, dull green fields stretching far enough to make the world feel empty.
This was it. His home for the next ten weeks.
Louis dropped his bag onto the bed nearest the window, the mattress barely dipping under the weight, and exhaled sharply. Ten weeks of this. Ten weeks of nothing.
He wondered how long it would take before he started losing his mind.
Louis started to unpack, half-heartedly sorting his clothes into the sterile closet that smelled faintly of dust and something chemical, like cleaning spray that couldn’t quite mask years of hopelessness. His t-shirts and jeans looked out of place in there, crumpled and careless against the too-perfect shelves. His phone was already plugged into the wall, screen lighting up with a half-dead battery and a string of notifications he couldn’t be bothered to check.
He was surprised they even let him keep it. Last time, they’d snatched it the moment he checked in, locking him away from the outside world like a prisoner. Maybe being eighteen had its perks—technically, he was an adult now. Maybe they figured he was old enough to be responsible for himself. That was funny. No one seemed to think that when they dragged him back here.
Not that it mattered. He wasn’t planning on texting anyone. He wasn’t here to make friends, share sob stories, or sit in a circle crying about his feelings. He was here to bide his time, wait out the clock, and get the hell out. That was it.
He sprawled back onto his bed, phone balanced in his hand as he scrolled mindlessly through apps he didn’t even care about. Niall had texted a few times, something about the party, something about Zayn scoring good stuff, but Louis didn’t reply. There was nothing to say. He was stuck here, and that was that.
Almost three hours passed in a sluggish crawl, the silence pressing down so hard Louis thought he might scream just to break it. And then, suddenly, the door swung open with a creak that made Louis jolt upright.
A boy stood in the doorway, frozen like a deer caught in headlights, wide eyes darting around the room as if he could somehow find an escape route if he looked hard enough. He was tall—taller than Louis—but hunched in on himself like he was trying to fold his entire body into something smaller, less noticeable. His light brown curls were a mess, falling into his face, and his cheeks were blotchy and pink, the unmistakable aftermath of crying. Probably the strip search, Louis thought grimly. That first one always felt like the worst thing in the world.
Something about him tugged at Louis’ chest—a flicker of sympathy he hadn’t expected to feel. The boy looked exactly like Louis had felt his first time here: lost, humiliated, and just desperate for it all to be over.
Louis forced a grin onto his face, sitting up properly and propping himself on his elbows. “Hey there, roommate,” he quipped, trying to inject some warmth into his voice, something easy and non-threatening. Maybe it would take the edge off. “Welcome to paradise.”
The boy didn’t smile, not exactly, but his shoulders dropped just a little, like maybe he was starting to breathe again.
Louis pushed himself up off the bed, the mattress creaking faintly under his weight, and crossed the tiny room in a few steps. He held out his hand, all casual charm, like this was some awkward university dorm instead of a glorified holding cell for screw-ups.
“I’m Louis,” he said, voice light, like none of this was a big deal. Like they weren’t both standing here with the weight of rehab pressing down on their shoulders.
The boy glanced at Louis’ hand for a second before finally reaching out to shake it. His grip was hesitant, a little shaky, his palm clammy in a way that made Louis’ brain instantly file him under detoxing . But Louis didn’t mention it. There were rules to this kind of thing, and one of them was: you don’t call someone out in the first five minutes.
“Harry,” the boy said softly, voice barely more than a breath, like speaking too loud might shatter him completely.
Louis let go, stepping back just enough to give him some space. Harry looked wrecked—eyes glassy, skin pale beneath the flush on his cheeks, the kind of exhaustion that came from more than just a long car ride. This was withdrawal hanging off him like a weight, and Louis had seen it enough times to recognize it immediately.
Still, no point in making him squirm. So Louis shoved his hands into his pockets and asked, “Well, how long are you in for?”
Harry shifted, setting his bag down beside the unclaimed bed and lowering himself onto the mattress like his whole body ached. “A month,” he said quietly. “At least that’s what they told me.”
Louis snorted, already flopping back onto his own bed, arms folded behind his head. “Yeah, that’s a lie. Add at least two more weeks—minimum. They always say a month to make it sound manageable, but once you’re in, they find reasons to keep you. ‘For your own good,’ or whatever.”
Harry gave a weak sort of smile—more like a grimace, but it was something—and leaned back on his hands. “Great,” he mumbled.
“Yeah, paradise,” Louis said with a grin, but something in his chest felt a little too familiar.
“Well, uh… how long are you in for?” Harry asked, his voice still soft, like he was afraid of being too loud in a place like this. He was unpacking his bag the same way Louis had—slow and hesitant, like settling in meant accepting the reality of being stuck here.
Louis barely glanced up from his phone. “Ten weeks, give or take,” he said, like it was no big deal. “My mum found Molly in my sock drawer and lost her shit. Threatened to kick me out if I didn’t check in.” He shrugged, flipping through his texts. “Doesn’t matter, though. I can leave whenever I want. I’m technically an adult now.”
Harry’s shoulders sagged a little, fingers pausing in the act of folding a hoodie over his knee. “I can’t,” he muttered. “I’m not eighteen yet. My mum found opioids in my bag.”
Louis whistled low under his breath. “Ouch. Tough one,” he said, but his attention was already back on his phone, typing out a quick message to Zayn: when u visiting? bring something fun.
Harry didn’t say anything, just kept folding his clothes into the empty dresser, but Louis could feel his curiosity hanging in the air like a question he was too polite to ask. So Louis tossed his phone aside and added, “I don’t have any opioids, but I’ve got some weed if you want it.”
Harry’s head snapped up, wide-eyed. “How the hell did you get that in here?”
Louis grinned, all smug mischief. “Tucked it in my underwear. They don’t really check there unless you give them a reason to. Guess they like to leave you at least some dignity.”
“Smart,” Harry said, a small smile ghosting over his lips for the first time. “Can I have some?”
“Sure.” Louis stretched out on his bed, hands behind his head like he owned the place. “Wanna go for a walk? They’ll smell it in here, but we get, like, two hours of free time to roam the grounds. Plenty of places to hide.”
Harry nodded immediately, almost too eager, like the thought of fresh air and a bit of a buzz might actually make this whole place bearable. “Sounds good.”
Louis hopped up, stuffing his lighter into his pocket and giving Harry a quick once-over. The kid was still wound tight, like a spring, but at least now they had something to look forward to. And if there was one thing Louis had learned in rehab, it was this—getting through it was all about the distractions.
“Come on then, roommate,” Louis said, flashing him a grin. “Let’s go get high at summer camp.”
They slipped outside, the cool evening air settling over them like a damp blanket, the sky already dimming into that washed-out grey that comes just before night. The facility grounds were mostly empty, just a couple of other patients dragging their feet around the perimeter like ghosts haunting their own rehab stories. Louis led the way without a word, cutting across the grass until they reached a patch of trees near the back fence, tucked just far enough out of sight to feel safe.
“Here we go,” Louis said, dropping down into the grass like they were just two mates on a camping trip, not inmates sneaking a high at a place meant to fix them. He pulled out the baggie, shaking it until a small handful of green tumbled into his palm, then got to work. He was efficient, hands working quickly to pull apart a cigarette for the papers, flattening out a crumpled bus ticket to use as a filter, and trimming everything down with the pair of safety scissors they’d let him keep.
Harry sat cross-legged beside him, knees jiggling slightly, fingers tugging at a loose thread on his hoodie. He looked nervous, like he wasn’t sure if this was allowed or if Louis was testing him.
“So,” Louis said, lighting up and taking a long, slow drag that filled his lungs with warmth and familiarity, “what’s your poison of choice?” He passed the joint over, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light.
Harry took it, fingers brushing Louis’ just for a second, and inhaled like he knew exactly what he was doing. “Valoron,” he said, smoke curling from his lips, “if that rings a bell. Tilidine.”
Louis whistled low, grimacing. “Shit. That’s nasty stuff. Why?”
Harry shrugged, eyes focused on the ground like maybe the grass could answer for him. He took another drag before handing the joint back. “My mum has a prescription. At first, I only took it when I couldn’t sleep, but then…” He trailed off, shoulders rising and falling in a helpless shrug. “She noticed when I started nicking it regularly.”
Louis shook his head, blowing smoke toward the sky. “Amateur mistake, mate. First off, that stuff’s addictive as hell—once you’re in, it’s nearly impossible to climb back out. And second, of course she was gonna notice her meds going missing.”
Harry actually smiled a little at that, the first real smile Louis had seen from him all night. “You say that like you’re some expert,” he teased, “but didn’t you get busted with ecstasy? Isn’t that one of the most addictive drugs out there?”
Louis barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “Not even close. And anyway, that wasn’t for me—it was for Niall’s birthday party. I’m not some addict.” He grinned, though there wasn’t much humor behind it. “I just like to have fun every now and then. Big difference.”
Harry didn’t argue, but Louis caught the way he looked at him, like he wasn’t entirely sure if Louis believed his own story. The truth hung there between them, unspoken but heavy, like smoke that wouldn’t quite clear.
“Your turn,” Louis said, shoving the joint back into Harry’s hand. “Might as well make the most of our little holiday.”
Harry took it, fingers steadier now, and leaned back against the tree, exhaling slowly into the darkening sky. For the first time all day, they both felt like they could breathe.
They stayed out there long after the joint had burned down to nothing but a smoldering roach between Louis’ fingers. They passed it back and forth until there was nothing left to inhale, until their lungs were heavy and their limbs felt like they were melting into the grass. The air was cool, damp enough to cling to their skin, but neither of them seemed to mind. The high wrapped around them like a warm hoodie fresh out of the dryer—soft, easy, comforting.
They lay back, side by side, staring up at a sky that had shifted from dull grey to deep indigo, scattered stars blinking faintly through wisps of cloud. There wasn’t much to look at, but it was better than four walls and fluorescent lights.
They talked absolute shit for a solid hour—about nothing and everything. Louis learned Harry was from Cheshire, that he hated fish, and that he once got detention for drawing dicks in his maths book so detailed the teacher had to call his mum. Harry learned Louis used to be in a band before everyone quit because Louis kept showing up too high to practice, that he once broke his ankle trying to jump off a roof into a pool, and that his mum’s last boyfriend had a weird obsession with World War II documentaries.
It was the kind of mindless, giggly conversation that only really happens when you’re stoned out of your mind, and Louis was weirdly grateful for it. It could’ve been so much worse. He could’ve ended up stuck with some twitchy crackhead who talked to the walls or a guy who snored like a chainsaw. But Harry… Harry was alright. Quiet, yeah, and still a bit jittery, but Louis could work with that.
Somewhere between debating whether ducks could feel existential dread and arguing over the best crisp flavor, Louis finally asked, “So, how old are you anyway?”
Harry turned his head, curls sticking to his forehead, eyes glazed but soft. “Sixteen,” he said.
Louis stared at him for a second, blinking slow. “Shit, really?”
Harry nodded, lips curling up into a small, lazy smile. “Why? How old did you think I was?”
Louis shrugged, rolling onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow. “Dunno. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. You’ve got this whole… tragic indie boy thing going on. Thought you might be older.”
Harry laughed, a little breathless, like even that took effort. “Nah. Still a kid, apparently.”
Louis flopped back onto the grass, exhaling dramatically. “Well, great. Now I feel like a corrupting influence.”
“You are a corrupting influence,” Harry pointed out, gesturing toward the imaginary joint still hovering between them.
Louis grinned. “Fair enough.”
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the good kind—the kind that settles in when you’ve found someone who might actually understand the parts of you you don’t say out loud.
“Do me a favor though,” Louis said after a moment, voice softer now. “Don’t let this place chew you up. It’s bullshit, yeah, but it gets in your head if you let it.”
Harry didn’t answer right away. He just nodded, eyes drifting back to the sky. And Louis let it go. They were both too high for heart-to-hearts anyway.
“Come on,” Louis said, sitting up and brushing grass off his jeans. “Before they send out a search party.”
Harry groaned but followed, and together, they made their way back inside, two boys with more baggage than duffel bags, already a little less alone than they’d been that morning.
They stumbled back through the side door, trying to look like they hadn’t just been hotboxing their way through rehab orientation. Louis led the way, hands stuffed casually into his pockets, shoulders loose like he had absolutely nothing to hide. Years of practice. He could’ve walked straight past a police sniffer dog with a baggie in his sock and still asked the officer how his day was going.
Harry, on the other hand, looked high as balls .
His eyes were bloodshot and half-lidded, his pupils practically dinner plates, and for some reason he was walking like he’d forgotten how knees worked—kind of a half-waddle, half-march that made Louis choke back laughter every time he glanced over.
“Play it cool,” Louis muttered, elbowing Harry in the side as they hit the hallway.
“I am cool,” Harry replied way too loudly, his voice echoing off the sterile walls like they were in a cathedral. Louis slapped a hand over his mouth immediately, dragging him into the shadow of a vending machine.
“Shut up , you absolute donut,” Louis hissed, biting back a grin. “You sound like you’ve just escaped from a Grateful Dead concert.”
Harry’s eyes went comically wide. “Who’s dead?”
“Oh my God,” Louis groaned, shoving him forward. “Just walk, you gangly gremlin.”
They managed to make it about halfway back to their room before disaster struck in the form of Nurse Karen —or whatever her real name was. Louis had already nicknamed her in his head after seeing her earlier, the type of woman who probably lived for catching kids breaking rules. Short, stout, glasses perched at the very tip of her nose, with the suspicious squint of someone who thought every teenager was a walking crime scene.
“Back inside already?” she asked, eyeing them both like they’d just crawled out of a gutter.
“Yeah,” Louis said smoothly, flashing his most charming grin. “Lovely tour of the grounds, very scenic. Bit nippy out, though.”
Harry, standing beside him, swayed ever so slightly before chiming in. “Big fan of…grass.”
Louis jabbed him in the ribs so hard Harry almost yelped. “ The grass. ” Louis clarified, still smiling like butter wouldn’t melt. “Nice and, uh, green, very lush and sexy.”
“Very…grassy,” Harry added with a serious nod, like he was giving a TED Talk about the lawn.
The nurse stared at them, mouth pressed into a thin line, clearly debating if she had the energy to deal with whatever this was. Louis held his breath, practically willing her to just let them go.
“Curfew’s in twenty minutes,” she said finally. “I suggest you use that time to settle in.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Louis chirped, giving her a mock salute the second her back was turned. Harry, unfortunately, tried to salute too—except he forgot how arms worked and ended up smacking himself directly in the forehead.
Louis grabbed his arm and yanked him toward their room before they could incriminate themselves any further.
The second the door closed behind them, Louis collapsed onto his bed, laughing so hard his stomach hurt. “Jesus Christ, Harry, you’re the worst stoner I’ve ever seen.”
Harry flopped onto his own bed, face-down, voice muffled by the pillow. “I panicked! She looked like my old maths teacher.”
“Mate, your maths teacher would’ve known you were off your tits in about three seconds,” Louis snorted. “You’ve got the subtlety of a fireworks display.”
Harry rolled onto his back, grinning up at the ceiling. “At least I didn’t call the grass ‘sexy’ like you did.”
Louis froze. “I—what?”
“You said the grass was ‘lush and sexy.’ You were absolutely flirting with the ground.”
Louis grabbed his pillow and launched it directly at Harry’s face, and for the first time since either of them had arrived, the room was filled with real laughter—not the forced kind, not the defensive kind, just stupid, stoned giggles echoing off ugly beige walls.
It wasn’t paradise, but it was a start.
Still breathless from laughing, Louis flopped onto his back, arms splayed out like a starfish, grinning up at the ceiling like it had just told the funniest joke in the world. Harry was still snickering uncontrollably on the other bed, hair a complete mess, eyes glassy from the high and leftover giggles. It was the kind of laugh that caught you sideways, where every time you thought you were done, you’d look at the other person and it would set you off again.
Harry sat up suddenly, digging through his bag like a man on a mission. “What’re you doing?” Louis asked, turning his head lazily to watch.
“Mum packed snacks,” Harry said proudly, holding up a bar of Cadbury Dairy Milk like it was a winning lottery ticket. “Reckon we deserve a reward for not getting arrested back there.”
Louis’ face lit up. “ Yes , you fucking legend. Hand it over.”
Harry peeled back the foil, broke off a row, and chucked a piece across the room at Louis, who caught it in his mouth with a triumphant grin. “Talent,” Louis said, chewing dramatically. “Absolute talent.”
“Pure skill,” Harry agreed, tossing another chunk, which Louis promptly missed and let bounce off his forehead onto the floor.
They both absolutely lost it, laughing so hard Louis nearly slid off the bed. It wasn’t even that funny, but everything felt hilarious now—the way Harry’s curls kept sticking up at weird angles, the fact that Louis’ sock had a massive hole right at the toe, the tragic little room they were stuck in like a pair of misbehaving toddlers in time-out.
“I can’t believe this is my life,” Louis gasped between fits of laughter. “I should be at home right now, getting shitfaced at Niall’s party and making out with some fit stranger.”
Harry snorted, breaking off another piece of chocolate for himself. “I should be—” he paused, brow furrowed. “Actually, no, I’d probably just be off my face in my bedroom, crying to Fleetwood Mac.”
Louis wheezed. “Jesus Christ. No wonder your mum sent you here.”
“Oi!” Harry threw a piece of chocolate at Louis’ head, which Louis caught and immediately ate. “At least Fleetwood Mac’s a vibe.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Louis admitted, mouth half-full. “But mate, if you start crying to Landslide in the middle of group therapy, I’m pretending I don’t know you.”
“Oh, like you’re gonna be a model patient,” Harry shot back, grinning. “You already smuggled drugs into rehab . You’re the walking definition of a bad influence.”
Louis gave a lazy salute. “Cheers to that.”
They kept eating, the bar slowly disappearing between them, their laughter trailing off into soft, stoned giggles until it was just comfortable silence and the occasional rustle of foil. It was strange, Louis thought, how quickly they’d fallen into this rhythm—two strangers thrown together, bonding over contraband weed and cheap chocolate like they’d known each other for years.
“Reckon we’ll survive this place?” Harry asked eventually, voice softer now, like the question had been rattling around his brain for a while.
Louis glanced over at him, his smile turning just a little more real. “Reckon we’ll have to.”
Harry nodded, breaking the last square in half and passing one piece to Louis before popping the other into his mouth. “Team effort?”
“Team effort,” Louis agreed, raising his half like a toast before eating it.
And just like that, they were officially in it together—whatever it turned out to be.