Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Time.

An aspect of life that we are ruled by; creating restrictions and schedules. Yet, it’s a construct that we once didn’t have access to, back before clocks were invented. Civilians simply calculated time through the sunrise, sunset and misty skies. A lavender blue hue highlights the edges of the wispy clouds that are thin like paper straws; tired and ready to make way for nightfall. Soon the faint stars will be overshadowed by moonlight seeping through the whitewashed hospital blinds.

The length of time passed hangs in the balance, and all Louis can do is lay there and watch the day turn into evening, perhaps even into sunrise. His body is craving sleep, yet his mind is whirring with possible scenarios, outcomes and timeframes of recovery. Again, he feels confined by that four letter word; time . 

His body feels controlled by medicines which successfully numb every ounce of pain; except for the emotional turmoil that’s involuntarily immune to the substance. It’s unfortunate and more so when the Specialist looms at the foot of his bed. The lump that was already emerging in his throat rises and increases in size. His mouth runs dry and the greeting sticks to his tongue like glue. Louis’ certain that his brain will explode with the crushing scenarios which are clouding up every inch of it, each as ludicrous and far-fetched as the next. With bated breath, he nervously waits for the results. The pulsating heartrate floods his ears, whilst unshed tears sting the backs of his eyes, a threat of potential escape. He blinks, a hope to partially succumb to the overwhelming wave of emotions, resulting in failure.

When the doctor heightens a clipboard tightly grasped in his left hand, pen at the ready, Louis' body tenses in preparation for the words he'll air; filling the partially silent room. A monotonous beep from the heartrate monitor appears louder, despite its unwavering symphony. 

He exhales heavily, feeling little to no relief even as his head softly sinks into the newly-plumped pillows. Fingertips instinctively coil the bedlinen, being mindful of the minor grazes that litter several fingers. Louis’ palm sporadically brushes over the freshly established crinkles that grace his abdomen. It's not the most satisfying of materials yet it's a blanket nonetheless; a shielding from what could potentially lay beneath the white linen. As his mind entertains the prospect, he speaks, voice hoarse and distinctive; clearly from the regional area with the elision of consonants. 

‘Evenin’, Mr - Tomlinson - is it?’ The doctor peers over his thinly rimmed glasses, which are dangerously teetering on the bridge of his nose, earning a slow nod of confirmation when words remain stuck in Louis’ throat. ‘I’m Dr Phillips; Orthopaedic Surgeon and Trauma Specialist.  How are you feeling? Are you comfortable enough?’ he asks, eyes briefly darting to the heartrate monitor beside Louis when the monotonous beeping suddenly shortens its three second symphony, outwardly concerned. 

Louis hums, wincing as he shifts slightly to get comfortable. ‘A little sore.’ He sneakily tugs the duvet upwards, to tuck his trembling hands beneath it, voice wavering in deceit, ‘but I’m comfortable enough.’

‘That’s understandable, given the current circumstances,’ he assures him, eyes narrowing at the paperwork on the clipboard, a hovering pen following his eyeline. He taps the ballpoint a couple of times against the documentation. ‘Last dose of medication was - roughly two hours ago.’ The doctor hums prolongedly. ‘I can ask the nurse on duty for -’
‘No - um- thank you - I’m good,’ Louis lies, surprising himself with a sudden ounce of bravery. He figures it’s the realisation of how slow the time has passed; those two hours have felt like twenty-two. 

The specialist nods. ‘Very well. I shall be raising the prospect of upping the dosage with the Ward Nurse in between patient calls.’ He clears his throat, clipping the silver-plated pen onto the pocket of his white overcoat. ‘So, Mr Tomlinson -’
‘Louis is fine,’ he corrects politely with a smile.

‘Noted,’ the doctor comments, voice barely audible, eyes glaring at the documentation. Louis swallows the lump of uncertainty in his throat whilst his trembling fingers involuntarily caress the polycotton sheets. It’s a self-soothing mechanism when placed under pressure. He knows staying calm is the only solution to this tragic ordeal. ‘Would you like someone to accompany you for the results; perhaps a relative? I’m sure your next of kin or emergency contact will be in the vicinity by now…’

It's standard procedure to ask a patient if they'd require a loved one present, but it's often more associated with bad news; devastating even. Louis isn't all that sure he can stomach the doctor's findings, never mind alone. Yet, given the choice, he's always going to decline, fear of being perceived as a weaker link in the family. Louis has a tendency to be headstrong and it only amplifies when placed amongst a crisis; it's no surprise when he politely declines the offer, voice betraying him when it wavers. 

‘I appreciate the sentiment, but I'm happy to continue as we are.’ He motions for the specialist to proceed, tilting his chin upwards to signal faux confidence.

The doctor nods, buying into Louis’ request with ease as he overturns the leaf of the document. He slowly licks his bottom lip, before airing a soft cough. With bated breath, Louis awaits for audible confirmation; even though their demeanour speaks volumes about the presumable outcome, a stalling of words when he gracefully teeters at the foot of Louis’ bed. The clipboard balances over his thighs, when their eyes meet. 

For a moment, the doctor is expressionless and Louis contemplates whether he’s a professional poker player in his recreational hours. Expectation fails to linger for too long when he finally speaks, yet the first three words indicate a rehearsed spiel, one he potentially airs to patients numerous times a day.

‘First and foremost, I sincerely apologise for the delay in obtaining your scan results.’ The doctor purposefully pauses and Louis nods in understanding, eyes flickering over his face. Gauging his reaction feels impossible. ‘I’ve had three sets of expert eyes on these files, alongside an equal amount of observations from corresponding consultants; in regards to your injuries.’

'I see…' Louis croaks. 

‘Um,’ he continues, the confidence in his voice wavering, ‘would it help if I provide you with demonstrative graphics during the explanation?’ 

Louis isn’t sure. Seeing the scan results would possibly clear up any possible queries he may have, but visible evidence allows little to no room for possible malpractice. He’s conflicted and it must be clearly painted across his face when the specialist questions him about needing further time to ruminate. Although Louis cannot commit one way or another, he finds himself wordlessly objecting.

‘Very well,’ the specialist replies. ‘Perhaps I could leave the file in your lap, results enclosed and if you decide to glance over them during or subsequent to our consultation then it’s purely within your self-judgement.’

His fingertips brush over the taupe folder, flicking up the corner. Louis licks his upper lip, eyes absorbing its ambiguous cover; blank, aside from his name and patient number in block capitals at the top right corner and along the spine. A silver paperclip outlines the offending exhibit, a finger brushing over its rough edging, partially curving to assist in a revelation of the contents. Louis falters, opting to draw circles over the cover with a wordless gesticulation of recommencing.

‘Louis,’ he mutters, hands falling between his thighs. A gold-plated wedding band is illuminated when the artificial lighting bounces off it. He exhales, seemingly unsure how to continue the conversation. Their eyes meet; Louis holds his breath in anticipation. ‘It appears due to the unfortunate impact of your fall that there are greater consequences than previously anticipated.’

The blood is pounding in his ears; his heartbeat quickening. It earns a momentary flicker of curiosity from the Specialist, when his eyes trail over the machine that’s erratically bleeping to correspond with Louis’ sudden rise in pulse rate. He smiles wearily, a hope it will console the possible niggling doubts in the doctor’s mind.

‘There is a smaller scaled tear on one of your lower ribs, located at the right-hand side. It correlates with the spinal fracture and corresponding bruises on the adjacent ribs.’

Louis falters, the words jumbling together, blended and incoherent like a persistent echoing. He is certain of the absorption of context, knowing his hearing was crisp despite the congregation of blood pooling in his eardrums. There’s no need for further clarification, Louis internally confirms, though it’s short lived when the Specialist delves further.

‘I understand this must be a lot to absorb. Please accept my deepest sympathies.’ Louis nods in acceptance of compassion. ‘On the contrary, I wish an instil of hope can be procured from knowing that your derived injuries are borderline a blessing, perhaps an oversight of higher guidance, in that you marginally escaped paralysation.’

‘Paralysation?’ Louis stammers, eyes wide. He wasn’t expecting that, even though his injuries go hand in hand with the potential outcome.

The Specialist pauses, partially derailed by his reiteration. ‘Unfortunately that was a potential risk, yes.’ Tentatively, he licks his upper lip, twisting the ends of the ballpoint between his fingertips. ‘Would you like a moment or two to ruminate over our exchange, before I proceed with the recuperation alternatives?’

Louis isn’t sure, his mind still focusing on the intensity of his injuries, despite the narrow margin of severe debilitation. It’s not until he speaks again, that Louis realises the doctor is awaiting a verbalised response; prompting him with an addressing of his forename.

‘So,’ he begins, clearing his throat; a waver in his voice is prominent. ‘It’s not the easiest of recoveries, but then again, not many are. So please don’t be too disheartened by the length of time estimated.’ Louis nods with bated breath; unsure where this is going. ‘From evaluation, including your scan results and trained eyes; along with my previous witnessing of similar circumstances, I’d say, we’d be looking at,’ he takes a swift pause, no longer than a heartbeat, ‘three months.’

Louis’ lips part, his heart plummeting at the prediction. Naturally, his defensiveness struggles to take a backseat any further, the words rolling off his tongue before he can retract them, ‘you say, similar. So, surely this estimated period could be far longer than necessary?’

It seems to hit a nerve or sway the doctor, because he nervously wipes the corners of his mouth before pushing his bottom lip together. ‘Louis…’

He knows then the response is not going to be one Louis hoped it would be, a glimmer of hope that he’s over-analysed it dwindling. If the Specialist repeats it one more time, he’s not sure how he will react going forward. Louis swallows thickly.

‘I can only empathise with you in regards to how difficult this must be to hear. Today has been extremely unkind to you, nevermind the unfortunate outcome' the Specialist calmly emphasises. ‘But, due to the nature and extent of your injuries, this will unfortunately be the minimum timeframe. Please accept my deepest sympathies.’

Louis is astounded, rendered speechless, until somehow his voice betrays him, the anger settling in, 'but what about my job?' He temporarily stutters; incoherently. 'I'm self-employed. How am I going to make ends meet if I can't work?' Louis massages his temples in frustration. 'It's my livelihood and the sick pay will barely cover any living expenses…' 

The Specialist nods, presumably in agreement yet not liable to comment. 'Your body will need the period to recuperate and heal from the impact. It's an overall trauma and it's been scientifically proven that time is a great healer.' 

Science. He is trying to blind Louis with science, but the doctor is unprepared for his forthcoming reaction. Ticking off the items on his fingers, eyes glazed over with fury. 'But, time won't pay my gas, electric and water rates, my van insurance fees, my food bills and every other god-damn living cost.' Louis exhales deflatedly, sinking into the plumped pillows with force.

'Louis, you really need to calm down,' he scolds gently, eyes flickering to the heartrate monitor that's erratically bleeping. 'It's going to hinder your recovery, the additional emotional stress.' 

'Calm down,' Louis scoffs, eyes glistening with tears. 'I'm out of action for three whole months . Completely and utterly useless…' he blurts, the anger transpiring into tears. That's the truth, the top and bottom of it all, the feeling of being useless; Louis can't bear it. 

The Specialist extends his hands, a wordless instruction for Louis to uncoil, his tension resembling a coiled spring. 'Please, sir, otherwise I'm going to have to ask for assistance in going forward,' he threatens with stern eyes.

Louis pulls a face of reluctancy, but rolls his wrist regardless. 

'I must stress the importance of your recuperation, in that you're deemed, on some level, fortunate, so to speak,' he tells him, hands still outstretched to signal a pause in the exchange of words. 'If you fell from any greater height, your chances of rehabilitation could have been on a slimmer scale, meaning less chance of overall recovery and mobility.'

He opens his mouth to speak, unsure what words will surface, yet the Specialist waves a finger.

'Also, if the homeowner wasn't present to witness the ordeal, the aftermath to be precise, then it could have impacted your overall health. Someone was definitely looking down on you today, Louis…' 

Louis wants to make a remark, a query of how someone could possibly be doing so to cause such a devastating incident. Yet truthfully, he knows what the doctor is trying to insinuate. The onset of anger is subsiding, transferring into rationalism.

'The tennant was quick off the mark, to initiate the call, knowledgeable at providing our team with the much needed information to aid us in attending to your needs in a swift manner,' he informs. 

He smiles, albeit weakly. 

The doctor glances down at the opened file. 'But please be assured that your nerves are in working order, which will inevitably aid your recovery process, meaning less physical rehabilitation schemes.'

'That's good, right?' Louis queries, voice etched with uncertainty. He's heard so much information today, mostly negative, that he's no longer sure which is which anymore.

He nods. 'Oh, definitely. Though, again, that's fluctuational.'

'Fluctuational?' Louis reiterates. The Specialist nods. 'How so?' 

There's a pause. 'Dependant on the method of recovery you desire.' He clears his throat, hands ready to supplement the verbal options, 'you can either, choose correctional surgery or a lengthier yet more holistic approach to healing in some ways-' 

'What's the latter?' Louis interjects. 

'A brace. Which will be worn from present, right through to the remainder of your healing process. Though it may come with a possible need for rehabilitation therapy, the time scale being unknown,' the doctor explains. 

Louis immediately knows which option he's going to choose without a second thought. He hates surgery at the best of times, not that surgery is ever a positive experience. 'I'll opt for wearing the brace.' 

'Are you sure, Louis?' 

He's undoubtedly certain. Louis loathes being confined to this uncomfortable hospital bed, the mattress springs offering no ease of discomfort. A desire for home is arising and Louis knows the decision of surgery would only extend his stay.

The Specialist purses his lips, eyes focusing on Louis' tentative features. 'In that case, we must negotiate and discuss your current living arrangements, as some alterations may be required.'

'Right…' Louis answers, unsurely. 

He scratches his patchy beard, pen at the ready, presumably to scribble some notes. 'Are there any occupants in your household? Any dependents or pets?'

Louis nods, a fond smile tugging at his lips at the mere thought of his answer. 'I have a dog, Cliff. But as in regards to general dependents, no.' His smile dwindles at the realisation that his beloved companion is perhaps in distress and undoubtedly wondering where Louis is. Mentally, he makes a note to ask Lottie to check in on him. 

The doctor hums thoughtfully, scribbling down Louis' answers. 'Um, due to the nature and extent of your injuries, it would be strongly advised, required even, in stronger terms, to have someone present during your recovery period to cater for your needs.' He pauses. 'What about a next of kin?'

Louis feels like he’s been kicked in the gut, no amount of preparation can ever ease the heartache when asked such a question. He’s had an articulation period, granted, but it fails to aid him every time, becoming a stuttering mess prior to responding. ‘Unfortunately not. My mother is no longer with us, god rest her soul. In terms of my birth father, he’s estranged, much like my step-father.’

‘I see…’ the Specialist mutters, apprehensively making notes. He falters. ‘What about siblings?’

‘I have plenty of those,’ Louis confirms, his tone a shade lighter; amusement coating the revelation. 

The doctor’s scribbling pace shifts, outwardly appearing more at ease with Louis’ orchestration and presumably the positive alteration in his speech. ‘Wonderful.’ He fiddles with the ballpoint, ‘and are any of them of age to provide temporary live-in care?’

Louis stills. He’s the renowned carer in the family, multitudinously and none of the reasons are in relation to the belief that the eldest should naturally take the role. It’s purely based on instinct, a personality trait by nature to provide and care for those dearest to him, something he's inherited from his mother, Johanna.

‘Louis?’ 

‘Um, apologies…’ he mutters, mind momentarily drawing a blank, until their eyes lock and the query seems to magically resurface. ‘Yes, my sister, Charlotte - Lottie. She's just shy of turning twenty-five in a matter of months.’

‘Great,’ the doctor begins, pressing the tip of the pen into the paper. Louis is sure it’s going to make a hole, or tear the document completely. ‘Do you think she’d feel comfortable providing the necessary care?’

Louis’ uncertainty merges with his inbuilt belief of needing assistance is a weakness. It goes against the grain to do so and his words always catch in his throat when the occasion arises. Subconsciously, Louis’ mind creates a verbal deflection, ‘I couldn’t possibly speak on her behalf.’ The Specialist’s face of concern alarms Louis, causing him to blurt, ‘but I can definitely ask her.’

He nods, licking his upper lip in slow motion. ‘Louis,’ there's a pause, ‘I must stress that the carer's responsibility is profound and strenuous in some ways, be it mentally.’ Louis opens his mouth to speak, utter his uncertainty and firm request for a registered carer to aid him, but the Specialist continues, ‘their main duties would be providing refreshments, consistent medication and overall hygiene to ensure your own comfort is met. Discomfort can hinder your recovery, even the smallest of imbalances.’

‘Can you, um,’ Louis falters, his belief of powerlessness rears its ugly head; he can't be seen as weak, even though there's a break in his voice, a transparency, ‘elaborate…’

The Specialist nods with ease. ‘Absolutely.’ He seems a little stuck for words, eyes surveying Louis and it only heightens the discomfort and embarrassment he's already unwilling to embrace. ‘We can issue you or your carer with any attire or essentials that would benefit your overall comfort and preserve your dignity, be it during times of bathing for instance.’

Louis can feel his cheeks burn. The thought of his sister witnessing him in such a state of helplessness and vulnerability intensifies his suppressed shame, never mind the worry and anguish that he's going to put on her shoulders. He shouldn't be doing this and contemplating it makes him feel like a burden already. Louis' unhealthy coping mechanism to deflect his emotions resurfaces, scoffing when he remarks, ‘dignity? I think that ship will have sailed well and truly, never mind already…’

‘I can only empathise in understanding how impacting this can be, for your own mental health.’ The doctor scribbles a few consecutive lines. ‘But rest assured, we can supply and assist in any means necessary to ensure your caregiver and most importantly yourself are supported throughout this process.’ Louis smiles appreciatively. ‘And on that note, Louis, would you require one of my colleagues or superiors present during the revelation of your predicament?’

Finally, something Louis can be certain on. His self-consciousness and self-preservation speaks for him, ‘considering the circumstances, I think it would be better coming from myself, without any outside influences. Though I do appreciate the offer.’

The Specialist nods in understanding, promptly rising to his feet. ‘As you wish. However, if you do have any concerns, you can use the nurse alert button,’ he pauses, lowering the device to the duvet; Louis’ hands immediately reach for it in appreciation, ‘do you have any further questions?’

Louis thinks for a moment then declines with a shake of the head. ‘Um, but could you do me a favour, actually please?’

‘Sure. What can I do for you, Louis?’ He asks, already halfway through the door.

‘My sister, Lottie Tomlinson, will be wearing out the linoleum flooring in the Accident and Emergency department with her frantic pacing, so I was hoping you could perhaps escort her to my room, if possible please?’

The Specialist smiles. ‘Absolutely. Please take care of yourself, Louis. I’ll inform the Ward Nurse about your current dosage and see if there’s any way it can be increased.’

When the door closes, Louis is left with an unwelcomed silence and his interrogative thoughts. Amongst the flood of confusement, bewilderment and discontentment he mentally replays the unfortunate series of events, covering every inch in vividility with a fine tooth comb. It’s disrupted when the door slowly opens, his peripheral vision creating a new point of focus; the black stain on the wall opposite him forgotten.  

‘Louis…’ She stammers, concern prominent in her eyes. 

Louis beckons his sister over, nodding towards the vacant chair at the opposing side of the bed. It's adjacent to the freestanding IV drip. He smiles, hoping to ease the worry, earning a smile in return.

Lottie immediately reaches for his fingers, being overly mindful of the cannula on the back of his hand, the tube firmly hooked up to the morphine drip. Her stature has barely made contact with the upholstery when their fingers intertwine. ‘I'm - I was so worried - I-’ 

‘Everything is going to be OK,’ he reassures her instinctively. Louis gently squeezes her hand. 

‘Is it though? I mean, I didn't know what was happening, I didn't know how you were, nothing. They wouldn't tell me anything,’ Lottie blurts, expelling the anguish with tears as they involuntarily roll down her reddened cheeks. Louis presumes she's already been crying subsequently; the red rings outline her puffy eyes. ‘I wasn't sure how I'd - I'd find you,’ she swallows thickly, ‘like, like, you know. But I'm so, so relieved.’ 

Lottie intakes a sharp breath, wiping a hand beneath her chin to catch the endless stream of tears. Louis can feel his own eyes brim, despite the consecutive blinking. Seeing his sister in understandable distraught, is bringing him no end of suffering. He just wants to reach out and hold her, offer one of those renowned cuddles that always put the world to rights or magically vanish away every ounce of pain, so Lottie always claims. The feeling of helplessness is intensifying, knowing his injuries are the sole reason he cannot offer the one thing she needs in this given moment, Louis opting to squeeze her hand instead; thumb caressing over her soft skin.

‘I'm sorry…’ she mumbles, wiping the corners of her mouth with a finger and thumb. With an inhale, false composure arises; voice betraying her, ‘what did the doctor say? Is it serious? What happened?’

Louis shuffles a little, discreetly wincing.

‘Lou,’ Lottie whispers, eyes wide. ‘What is it? What do you need?’ She rises to her feet, their fingers still intertwined; motioning to the plumped pillows behind him, ‘more pillows? Do you need them readjusting?’ Lottie hums, barely taking a breath, ‘because I can do that, I can ask the nurse for some more - medication - I can -’

‘Lotts,’ Louis interjects calmly, hoping to mitigate consolement.

Lottie flushes, slowly sinking into the armchair. ‘Sorry, I’m fussing again aren’t I…’ She clears her throat, tucking one of her blonde locks behind her pierced ear. ‘I’m just -’ Lottie massages her temples, ‘I was going out of my mind with worry. I’m sure they’ll need to re-lay the flooring in that department and restock the water cooler-’

‘Is that all?’ He teases, earning a fond eye roll.

‘Only you could make a remark in the worst of circumstances,’ Lottie mutters, her lips curling into a smile.

Louis mimics her. ‘Anything to make my little sister smile.’ 

‘I just worry, I’m a first class worrier; something we both inherited from mum,’ Lottie confesses; leaning closer. Her trembling hands caress the backs of his, their eyes meeting. ‘Whatever it is, Louis, we can face this together. I know you’re scared-’ Louis’ brow arches; faux obliviousness, ‘I can see it, clear as day. Now, one question at a time; starting with what the doctor said, please…’

Louis braces himself, a vague idea of how she'll respond; borderline hysterical with concern. She's only just managed to control her stream of tears,  now a brief sniffle. Her fingers coil a little tighter whilst a smile of reassurance surfaces.

'Now, the predicament has been surveyed by multiple experts,' he informs, hoping to take the edge off her impulsive reaction; a possible accusation of malpractice with a demand for a second opinion. Lottie nods. 'I have two options to choose from, both resulting in full recovery minus the expected complications and longlife impaction.' 

Lottie continues to nod, eyes flitting over his face. Her fingers gently caress a bruise that's taken shape over his middle knuckle. She wordlessly stares, signalling for Louis to elaborate.

He hates this more than anything in the world. The pain behind her glossed over eyes, her lips sore from where she's been nibbling them, something Lottie does when she's nervous. She's been beside herself with understandable worry and Louis is the cause. 

'I can undergo reconstructive surgery -' he pauses, bewildered by his sister's expression; possibly conclusive. 'What?' Louis prompts. 

Lottie shrugs, lips partly curving upwards in amusement. 'Just, even the mere mention of surgery and yourself in the same sentence already gives me clarification of your response to that suggestion.' She exhales, 'I can only imagine your reaction to the doctor's proposal, never mind the look of horror on your face at the mention of the ordeal. Especially after what happened last time …' 

'Alright, let's not relive that monstrosity today. Please can you at least spare me this, considering the current circumstances?' Louis pleads, the recollection of shame retinting his cheeks.

She fondly rolls her eyes with an exaggerated sigh; faux disappointment. 'Fine. I'll let it slide, just this once. But rest assured I won't forget to assist you in hearing and reliving every last detail in the near future-' 

Louis scoffs. 'Forget? You haven't forgotten yet and the monstrosity took place almost fifteen years ago.' 

'Oh, come on, Lou. That's an exaggeration right there and you know it,' Lottie remarks; faux offence at his accusation. Louis smirks. 'Do I dare ask…' 

He shrugs nonchalantly. 'Maybe I've conveniently remembered the time -' 

'No!' Lottie interjects with a groan, bowing her head; hand immediately covering her face in embarrassment.

'You know, the time you…' 

'Louis please,' she begs, rapidly narrowing her eyes at him in defeat. 'Fine… I won't bring it up, ever again. Happy now?' 

With a grin and a soft chuckle, he nods vehemently, 'very much so.' 

'So…' Lottie begins, seemingly wishing to divert the attention elsewhere, 'what is the second option?'

'Um, about that…' Louis stalls, mind whirring with endless sentence structures; unsure which words can explain the predicament whilst softening the blow. A wish to explain a requirement for round the clock care without outrightly asking her seems virtually impossible, more when Lottie speaks up again; voice soft with elements of concern. 

'Louis.'

He falters. Their eyes lock, fingers still entwined. Neither of them move an inch, as if time has completely stopped. 

'What happened, today?' Lottie asks, voice wavering with uncertainty. It's quickly followed up with added reassurance, 'if you feel you want to share. I mean, I can ask the doctor to tell me if it's too difficult, Lou?' Louis manages to shake his head. 'Are you sure?' He nods.

'It's nothing um, overly disastrous,' Louis assures gently. He's already said this in a similar fashion, but the need to reassure his sister feels greater than before. 'I have sustained some injuries, which explains the preliminary option.' He swallows thickly, feeling her grip tighten around his fingers. It unnerves him. 

'In his words, I have a small scaled tear on one of my ribs, lower down, on the right hand side-' Louis pauses, waiting for Lottie to wordlessly usher him on to continue. She nods slowly; outwardly apprehensive. 

'He says it corresponds with the spinal fracture and the evident brushing on my adjacent ribs.'

Louis holds his breath, eyes darting over Lottie's face; her skin a paler shade, eyes wide and parted lips.

'I - Lou - I'm sorry,' she finally manages to say, her voice barely audible, more so when it cracks. Louis shakes his head, blatant refusal to let her feel any kind of remorse or hurt. It intensifies when she blurts, 'I'm sorry I wasn't there to call an ambulance, avert the disastrous and heartbreaking ordeal or I don't know, I'm just sorry.' 

Lottie bursts into tears, hand opting to wrap around Louis' wrist, presumably to avoid the cannula. There's tears glossing over his eyes, highlighting the pigments of blue. She opens her mouth to speak, but Louis silences her with words of reassurance. It appears a failure, until he smiles, albeit weakly. Lottie is quick to reciprocate.

'So, where do we go from here?' She asks with a sniff.

Louis always knew his sister would offer him no end of comfort and support. It was a wordless affirmation, always had been. Though hearing her use inclusive terms, makes his heart swell; while the tension in his shoulders lessens. 

'Louis,' she gently prompts and Louis continues to falter, the words stuck to his tongue like glue. He needs the assistance, but asking for it feels nion-impossible; until Lottie glares at him expectantly, the silence clearly unnerving her. Louis needs to put her out of his misery, override the pride and niggling doubts of weakness.

'I'll need a carer,' he says finally, eyes darting over her face. Louis can't read his sister's expression. 'I mean, I'll be wearing a brace for the best part of twelve weeks. So, um, I'll be on strict bed rest, bed baths, medication -' 

'I can do all of those things,' Lottie interjects simply. Louis falters, his mouth agape in surprise at her instant offer. 'I'm serious. You need the utmost care, treated like royalty and as your sister, I'm right here to offer it to you. All of it.' She smiles, tears glistening in her eyes.

Louis swallows. He's a little stuck for words, borderline stunned. 'I -' 

Lottie continues, 'after everything you and I have been through, from you fighting my battles as a kid with your verbal threats to those kids that taunted me no end, useless - pig headed boyfriends, to caring for me when I was sick and the way you held this family together after mum died, this, this is the least I can do.'

'That's my job as your big brother. That and because I love you, care for you,' Louis confesses. 

'No, Lou. You didn't do it because it's 'your job' or because you felt 'obliged' nor your love and kindness alone. You did it because that's who you are. You'd go to the ends of the Earth for me, for all of us. And now, now I'm going to do it for you.'

Louis sniffs, blinking away the tears that fall from his eyes. Lottie is quick to wipe them away with the pads of her thumbs. 'But it's not going to be easy. I'll be completely useless. I won't be able to bathe, feed or even cloth myself…' 

She shrugs. 'And? We'll just make sure your needs are met, along with your dignity and privacy. I'll buy whatever is needed -' 

'The hospital will provide those,' Louis tells her. 

'Wonderful. If it doesn't meet my standards, then rest assured I'll buy what's required to make you as comfortable as possible.' Lottie smiles reassuringly. 'And you're not useless, you never were and you never will be. You're recovering - healing.' 

Louis hums, finger ends picking at the bare threads on the duvet. His voice breaks, 'I just don't know how long I'll be like that, be a burden to your life…' He exhales defeatedly, eyes flickering towards the mottled ceiling; vision obscured by tears.

'Louis…' 

He fleetingly looks at her, before returning back to staring at the ceiling, observing every scuff and crack.

'It doesn't matter how long it takes for you to get back on your feet, be it weeks, months-' 

'But what about your life, your job, your living payments-' 

Lottie shakes her head, forcing him to fall silent. 'What about it? None of those are relevant. None of those matter or are important without my brother to share it with.' She sniffs, wiping rogue tears away with the cuff of her violet cable knit jumper. 'I can work at your house, clear out the spare room a little to avoid your belongings being in view when I live-stream the goods as an ambassador.' 

'And what about the deliveries, they're all registered at your address?' Louis queries. 

'I can register a temporary location, no problem.' Lottie winks, 'the company won't mind, I'm their biggest seller.'

Louis smiles. It warms his heart just how positive she can be considering the current circumstances. 

She squeezes his hand and their eyes meet. 'I've got you.'

A soft knock on the door interrupts their heartfelt talk, nurse Jasminda apologising profusely when she enters. 'It's only me. I'm here to check your blood pressure and-' the nurse pauses to lick a finger as she overturns the leaf of the documentation; tapping a lower section of the page, 'and give you some more pain relief. It says here your last dosage was almost four hours ago - drip morphine.'

Louis nods. 

'I can offer you tablet morphine to help ease the discomfort?'

'Sadly not,' he croaks, earning a look of perplexion from Jasminda. 'I'm allergic.' Her eyes are wide.

Jasminda hums, rolling a pen between her fingers. 'Um, what about codeine? I'd offer co-codamol but that would mean absence of paracetamol in between doses, the medicine effects lasting for six hours.'

'Codeine should be fine, I reckon,' Louis agrees.

She nods. 'Alright. I tell you what, I'll get some now and that can be working whilst I take your blood pressure, OK m'love?'

The door softly closes behind her, before Louis can acknowledge. Instead Lottie fills the silence. 

'I'm not sure why they don't read over the allergies list, that's glaring at them in the face when they open the documentation.'

'It's fine, love,' Louis reassures her. 

Lottie objects. 'No, it's not, because what if you weren't fully conscious and I wasn't here-' 

'But I am.' Louis can hear the anguish and desperation in his sister's tone. It pains him that he's the cause of her heartache and there's nothing he can do to rectify it, unless a miracle occurs; a time machine to turn back the clock or wave a magic wand. Instead, Louis has to swallow his guilt and brace the storm; somehow.

Jasminda breaks their conversation, Lottie appearing thankful for it. She hands Louis the plastic medicine cup, the contents rattling. He blinks, perplexed as to why there are two capsules; powder coated.

'Paracetamol and Codeine. It should do the trick, keep things at bay for you for a little while at least,' she explains, clearing up the confusion. 

'Oh,' Louis mutters, necking them back with a nonchalant shrug. 'Could I have some more water too, please?' 

Jasminda unhooks the pen from her cobalt blue overalls, clicking it on when she examines the paperwork, turning over the page with a finger and thumb. She palms over the crease; nib of the pen dragging across the page. 'Of course. Could you just hold your arm out for me, please?'

Louis obeys, watching the nurse wrap the band around his forearm; seconds before pressing an array of buttons. It inflates, her eyes flickering upwards to observe the digits flashing across the screen; the numerics increasing, decreasing and stuttering before levelling out.

'That's looking great. It's really lowered in the last two checks which is reassuring,' she admits, removing the device.

'So, it was high before, like, concerning, level high?' Lottie asks, barely taking a breath. 

Jasminda shakes her head, tucking the pen into its rightful place. 'Not concerning, no. It was exaggerated, due to the natural rise in stress levels, a trauma response in other words. Sorry, I should have made it clearer from the off.' She smiles reassuringly, picking up the half empty jug of water, 'can I get you anything else, lovely?' 

Louis shakes his head. 'Unless you can find a replacement for my bruised ribs and broken back, then, I'm good, thank you.'

His humorous remark, an attempt at deflecting the anguish earns a soft chuckle of appreciation from the nurse. 

'Good ole Tomlinson charm, ah?' Lottie quips, when Jasminda exits. Louis arches a brow. 'Oh, come on. What good is being in here, with all these beautiful doctors and nurses if you don't have some harmless, flirtatious fun?' 

'Don't let her partner hear you say that…' Louis mutters, drawing a look of perplexion. He taps his ring finger. Lottie's eyes are wide when she utters a curse word. 'Yeah. I don't fancy becoming more battered and bruised, thank you.'

She rolls her eyes fondly. 'Tut. Anyway, what about the doctor? Was he dishy instead?' Lottie wiggles her brows.

'He's not quite my type and also very taken, I noticed. Would you like me to ask him for the digits of a single friend, perhaps even a relative for you?'

Lottie pulls a face. 'Ha, hilarious. I'm quite happy with my current dating options, thank you. It's you I'm worried about.'

'Me?' Louis queries, voice rising.

'Yeah. It's been a while since I've attended a wedding…' Lottie mumbles deflatedly.

He scoffs. 'I doubt I'll be walking down any aisles anytime soon, love-'

'Not now!' She taps his forearm playfully. 'But a nice man, woman, wouldn't go amiss in your life.'

'Pft. Can't say it's on my list of priorities right now,' he teases. 

'Stop splitting hairs, Lou.' Lottie sighs, deflatedly; gently squeezing his arm. 'And on that note of hairs, I best try to flog some more serums, dyes and electronics before I pack up some belongings for my new accommodation.'

Louis smiles appreciatively, reaching for her hand. 'I really can't thank you enough for this, Lotts.'

Lottie reciprocates the smile, thumbs dancing over his slightly bruised knuckles. 'You don't need to thank me.' She picks up her handbag, dropping it onto her knee; hands rifling through the contents. 'We're family and that's what we do, us Tomlinson's; we stick together.'

'Love you,' he whispers, feeling the emotions consume him in a way that's unexplainable with words, those two being the only ones left that he can muster.

Today's ordeal has been a breakthrough, Louis realising just how precious and short life is. His injuries could have been costly, on a much larger scale; leaving his sister with unthinkable news. None of it was of his own doing, yet somehow, he feels partly responsible for placing such a demand on Lottie's shoulders. Objection isn't in the Tomlinson vocabulary, yet, Louis wouldn't have been offended if she'd declined. Asking for help isn't one of Louis' greatest strengths either, he's a firm believer in being the protector at all costs, until today, the universe providing him with no choice but to break the mould.

Lottie's voice is full of softness and sincerity, her words accompanied with a kiss to his cheek before dropping a silver pendant into his palm; the chain casually falling between his fingers. 'Love you too.' 

'I -' he stutters, blinking away the tears that are obscuring his view. Lottie is smiling at him, the handbag thrown over her shoulder; a beige scarf draped over the fastener.

'It's Mum's.'

'Yeah, but Mum left that for - for you. I can't -' 

Lottie nods, cupping Louis' tear stained cheeks with her hands; the pads of her thumbs eradicating his sadness. 'Yes, you can. I'm giving it to you. Her strength is still with us with every moment that passes,' she pauses, voice breaking whilst holding back the tears that are threatening to break, 'her perfume still lingers on this chain. And, when times get hard, you can hold this, wear it even as a reminder to keep going, to stay strong and know that Mum is still with us.'

'I know she is. I can feel her presence, always,' Louis confesses, voice weak with sadness. 

Lottie inhales sharply. 'Because Lord knows, as much as I need a hug right now from Mum, you need it more.'

Chapter Text

‘Be careful. Slowly does it, please,’ Lottie whispers, gently supporting his hip with an extended palm.

Louis winces. The pain radiates through him like lightening bolts, right on cue when he puts a foot forward. His knuckles become a paler shade, fist clenching around the wooden handrail. He’s certain it will crumble beneath his grip, whilst an intrusive, fearful vision of himself tumbling down the staircase invades his overly occupied brain. An added fear of taking his sister with him only heightens the pressure to make it a safe distance away from the staircase.

Focusing on the never ending set of steps, Louis pushes through the pain, slightly heightening each foot to place it upon the step ahead. It’s minimal movements, a shuffling of posture; the incline gradual, yet unpleasantly effective. He groans deflatedly, reaching just short of the halfway mark. Louis feels beyond exhausted. 

‘Think I might take a rain check on that marathon training,’ he jokes, forcefully composing himself with a deep inhale. The desperation to take the weight off his feet and the wound overriding any niggling defeat. Stepping foot on the adjacent step, Louis continues, ‘just for today at least.’

‘If I didn’t know you any better, your sense of humour at least, a deflection of suffering,’ Lottie begins, hand  against Louis’ fingers. Their fingers move in sync up the handrail, ‘then you, Louis, would give me actual heart failure.’

Louis naturally visualises her fond eye roll, complimented by an equally fond smile. ‘And what if I was being serious –’

Lottie sighs heavily, clearly unimpressed by the continuation of humour. ‘You’re not funny, at all, not even remotely…’ 

Louis is quick to feign outrage, ‘ouch!’  Vocalisation, breathing patterns and even the smallest of chuckles alone, ungraciously remind him of the extent of his injuries. It’s a small pin prick to his diaphragm, mostly, though his whole body is continuously crying out for a need to lay completely horizontal; sooner rather than later. It stirs up a wave of determination; the notorious banter with his sister aiding and distracting the below par movements.

‘Oh, don’t give me that façade, Lou,’ Lottie banters, pitch swiftly morphing into concern when the handrail is millimetres from discontinuing, ‘whoa, wait – wait-’ 

‘Here’s a prime example when aesthetics doesn’t aid the purpose it’s intended for…’ Louis mutters. Inhaling sharply, Lottie on hand aiding his incline, he steps forward, aiming for the final step. It’s achieved. 

Lottie’s verbalised strings of praise certify his achievement. ‘So, so proud of you Lou. This is incredible.’ Her eyes gloss over with unshed tears of pride. ‘Only yesterday, you could barely walk a few strides nor climb even half a dozen stairs. Now look at you!’

‘But only with assistance and guidance, mostly you,’ Louis confesses shamefully. ‘This is so hard Lotts. Harder than I could ever have imagined...’

Lottie smiles wearily, brushing a palm up and down her brother’s upper arm. ‘I know, Lou. Baby steps.’ She pushes the bedroom door open with a free palm, ‘I’m here to help, no matter the roadblock. But, you’re getting so much stronger each day.’ 

Louis falters, uncertainty looming when the divan seems a hundred steps away; wading through treacle. 

‘I know it doesn’t feel like it right now. I’m a bystander looking from the outside in, but I can see it, Lou,’ she continues gently, tucking a rogue strand of hair behind his ear.

Louis feels anything but stronger. It’s borderline helplessness. His independent nature is taking a nose dive, a solid dent in the framework; the amour dwindling each moment that ticks by. Self-sufficiency is a learned behavioural trait, embedded in the bloodstream, natural and subconscious like the air he breathes. 

‘Almost there,’ Lottie soothes. ‘Are you sure you don’t need the bathroom, before we get you settled?’ Louis shakes his head. ‘Alright. Just a few more steps, yeah?’ 

Bare feet tentatively shuffle across the flattened beige carpet, while fingers instinctively fly towards the outer corner of the wardrobe. A sweaty handprint tarnishes Louis’ previous hard work; leaving a smeared stain across the built-in mirror. Needle-like pain disperses through the lower part of his back. His balance subsides, Lottie quick to rectify the unaccustomed weight.

‘Shit. Sorry,’ Louis stammers. 

‘No apology needed. It’s alright,’ Lottie assures. ‘Besides, it’ll build up my muscles, so it’s a win-win. Will be cancelling my overpriced gym membership by the end of your recovery.’ She winks. 

‘Overpriced is one word for it,’ Louis contributes. 

 Lottie supports his waist, gently instructing him to reach for the bedside table. Carefully manoeuvring Louis’ posture to a full U-turn, she aids in his lowering of stature. He sinks into the divan, a slow recline follows a raise of one leg followed by another; Lottie on hand to steady his movements. Her holding of limbs eases a portion of constricted anguish. 

Louis exhales, accomplishment settling within. A relief in pressure on the injuries decreases; back finally meeting the mattress. 

‘Perfect,’ Lottie praises. ‘Take a little siesta while I prep the next dose of medication.’ She pauses, delicately heightening the duvet to his waist. ‘Then, perhaps, we can think about changing your clothes into something less restricting? Too much moving right now may be excessive…’ 

He smiles weakly. The presence of home comforts and his sister’s efforts entwine with immeasurable gratitude. ‘Thank you, Lotts.’

Subconscious reflexes arise; fingers curving in expectancy to feel the black, thick, soft curls of his companion's fur coat tickle against his skin. Louis misses the warmth against his thigh and the pressing of Cliff’s body weight. He’s a perfect personal radiator during the colder spells in temperature, making the morning arousals a little more pleasant. Though, during the recovery period, Louis has to regretfully watch the canine from afar, curled up in a wooden basket while hearing his deep contented snores across the room rather than up close.

In light of Lottie’s suggestion, Louis allows his eyes to flutter closed. He’s naturally a side sleeper; the difference in position is  noticeable. It’s uncompromising. Shuffling in desperation of release in discomfort draws a whimper of further dissatisfaction; the components of the brace nipping against his bare torso. Louis thanks his lucky stars for the nurse that offered to shave off the chest hair prior to fitting the support mechanism, in avoidance of further anguish when it retracts together. 

Physical exhaustion extends into emotional exhaustion, the dual blend overriding his autopilot need for partial coherence. 

‘Louis,’ he hears, muffled beneath the heavy onset of slumber; ignorance is bliss, Louis figures. ‘Lou.’ It’s a little clearer and concise; defined reality when fingertips lightly comb the dampened strands of his hair. 

‘Hm.’

‘Lou, it’s me, Lotts. You’re safe,’ Lottie soothes. Her lukewarm fingers brush over his bare forearm while her breath tickles his ear, ‘shush. I got you,’ 

Louis forces himself to open his eyes; his skull weighed down by the emotional turmoil and physical ailments. 

‘Hot,’ he stammers. ‘So, hot.’ Louis blindly tries to reach for the blanket, it’s absence apparent when warm fingers brush against the contrastingly cold brace. 

‘I removed it. You were burning up,’ Lottie explains, swiping his fringe upwards. A welcomed gush of cooler air latches onto his clammy forehead. 

Louis partially musters up a groan. It’s welcomed with verbalised strings of comfort, reassurance and soft phonetics. Lottie’s composed breaths pave the way for Louis’ own to synchronise. Trembling fingers and limbs subside by the fourth exhale; every intake of breath falling short when sheltering the diaphragm from any further anguish. 

‘Amazing. I know that wasn’t the easiest,’ Lottie empathises. She squeezes his hand with equal empathy. ‘Feeling up to a sponge down, to get you out of these damp clothes?’ 

Louis nods. It’s a catch twenty two situation; the task at hand feeling mountainous, perhaps unobtainable; shoes are a little on the tighter side, nipping at the edges of his feet, a minor injury adding insult to injury. Though, his opposition is appealing, a chance to eradicate the smell of disinfectant, bleach and sweat. It’s a smell, distinctive to clinical settings and Louis’ stomach contracts.

No more than one hundred hours ago, Louis was independently hopping in and out of the shower; without a second thought spared. The shoe is firmly on the other foot, for the foreseeable, the tables have turned, possibly upside down in some metaphorical universe and the rug once tucked comfortably beneath his feet has been pulled from under him. Louis is the comical definition of falling backside first onto the cold harsh floor of reality. 

‘Wonderful.’ Lottie smiles proudly; a carbon copy of the way their mother, Johanna, more commonly known as Jay, would. ‘Let’s take it really slow, one garment at a time, yeah?’ Her fingers curve, awaiting consent. It’s granted. She carefully unfastens the buttons on Louis’ shirt by unhooking the first two buttons; a millimetre above the brace. She nibbles her lip, a apprehension to vocalise the mishap apparent. The words eventually materialise as a stammer, ‘it’s, um, stuck.’ 

‘Cut it open,’ Louis suggests. ‘It’ll be quicker and easier on your fingers. Besides, it’s already on its last legs after being forcefully fastened over the unsightly brace.’ 

Lottie falters, fingers hovering above the button that refuses to budge. Her voice is soft, ‘but, are you sure? I mean, it’s one of your favourites.’

‘I’m sure. It’s inevitable,’ Louis confesses. His eyes close, bracing himself for the sound of tearing fabric. A sharp inhale of composure from his sister, makes way for the blades of fabric scissors to follow; the saddened reality of helplessness unmistakably ringing in his ears. It ends semi-abruptly, minor discomfort adding a silver lining to the unforeseeable circumstance. He forces himself to evaluate the damage; a slow opening of eyes. Either side of his hips, lay unevenly cut, dishevelled chunks of fabric. Louis smiles wearily. 

‘Shall I...’ She proposes softly, purposefully refusing to complete her suggestion; scissors hovering above the upper seam of the left sleeve. Louis nods, unwillingly immersing himself within the deteriorating state of powerlessness. Cold air clings to his newly exposed forearm. The scissors separate the fabric with ease; gliding down towards the cuff. Lottie lightly raises his wrist; destroying the final portion of the garment; it’s tighter stitching proves little difficulty for her top-notch scissors. Awaiting a verbal confirmation to repeat the process on Louis’ right arm, she wastes little time in ripping off the plaster; unwearable chunks of fabric littering the divan. 

‘At least I’ll have a few rags to clean windows with when I eventually go back to work,’ Louis muses, forcing himself to find humour in the situation. 

Lottie smiles warmly, gathering up the offcuts. ‘And there he is, my dearest brother, always finding the glass half full in every occurrence,’ she adds wistfully. 

Louis half turns onto his side to aid Lottie; the excess fabric sandwiched between the mattress and the back of the unsightly brace is gently tossed onto the floor. 

‘Shorts next?’ She proposes, opening and closing the scissors in theatrics. 

‘I’m beginning to inadvertently fear for my crown jewels,’ Louis jokes, drawing a semi-hysterical laugh. ‘I’m serious...’ he continues, forcing his expression to remain neutral.

Lottie partially composes herself, words hitching in wavering humour, ‘I’m a professional seamstress, come former dressmaker-’ 

Louis’ brow heightens. ‘You scored ninety percent on your textile GCSE. You hold an A Level stitching qualification and made less than a handful of dresses.’

‘Merely hair splitting,’ Lottie banters in faux defence. She irons out the creases in the navy linen fabric, lightly parting it between her fingers. The scissors glide along; two symmetrical cuts falling beside his upper thighs. ‘How should we tackle the waistband?’

‘Try the two snips in the front, the two in the back method; minus the back ones of course?’ Louis suggests. 

Lottie hums. ‘It should fall apart if I cut it sharp enough.’ Parting the ruffled fabric between her fingers, tips facing downwards. She awkwardly cuts; the fabric tension snapping immediately. It falls apart in two uneven halves beneath the pre-laid blanket across his lap. ‘I’ll just quickly gather the bathing essentials,’ she informs, blindly reaching for the discarded fabric. Dropping it into the waste paper basket, Lottie disappears into the room adjacent to Louis’.

A dust-web catches Louis’ eye line, focus diverted from the dot-to-dot he was mentally collaborating from the popcorn ceiling effect. The thin line of congested dust has cocooned itself around the singular artificial lighting fixture. Louis recalls dusting it less than a fortnight ago, risking his life when he balanced on the edge of the divan to sprinkle it with the feather duster. 

‘I think I have everything,’ Lottie mumbles, stumbling through the doorway;  arms piled high with essentials. She promptly drops the contents onto the rug, body falling forward to compensate for the unbalanced weight. 

‘I don’t remember them giving us luxury body wash and shampoo,’ Louis queries, squinting at the label of an unopened bottle. It’s presentably displayed between a soft looking towel; Lottie’s ambassador prowess shining through. She smiles sheepishly. ‘It was you. Are those stolen samples?’

‘Borrowed, to be precise,’ Lottie corrects, waving the bottle between her fingers. ‘Besides, they won’t exactly miss them, considering I’m their point of sale, advertiser. That, and you are a potential guinea pig for their top tier products-’ 

Louis shakes his head in disbelief. ‘Are they aware of this impromptu promo?’

‘Ooh, this has a newly added scent; exclusive to this particular range...’ Lottie mumbles, deflecting the question. ‘Lavender to be precise.’

Louis’ lips curl upwards. ‘Unbelievable,’ he mouths. 

Lottie grins. The faux innocence makes her eyes sparkle. ‘Only the best for my brother.’

‘A sentiment I simply cannot refuse,’ Louis muses, receiving a broad smile of satisfaction. ‘So, what else did you steal, I mean, borrow?’

‘Um,’ Lottie mumbles, sifting through the trusty box of pampering essentials, ‘luxury sponge, fluffy towels and flannels, lotions, oh and some nail enamel.’ Her voice pitches in surprise at the final object. She heightens it for closer inspection. 

Louis objects without question, examining his low length nails, wicks outlining the edges. The knuckles are bruised, chapped and coated in minor grazes. ‘I don’t think some paint would solve this monstrosity, not even remotely,’ he jokes, wiggling the backs of his hands mid air. 

‘I originally had myself in mind, placed it here in a blind panic and conveniently forgot about its misplacement.’ Lottie smirks. ‘Although...’

Louis splutters. ‘Nada. Not happening. Zilch chance.’ Lottie pouts. ‘I endured enough of that, unconsented, might I add, whilst I was asleep, many moons ago.’

‘But you were a great model for me to practise on,’ she whines, fluttering her eyelashes. 

‘I don’t think there was much to paint back then, never mind now,’ Louis confesses, brow poising. He watches Lottie busy herself with emptying the bowl; neatly displaying the trio of bottled products beside the wardrobe. ‘You’re the best sister anyone could have. Have I ever told you that?’ Louis mumbles, eyes glossing over with tears of appreciation. 

Lottie smiles. ‘Once or twice, give or take.’ She presses the edge of the bowl into her hip, hand reaching over; fingers curved for additional support. ‘I’ll just nip to the bathroom and get this filled up with some warm water.’

‘Mum would be proud of you.’ Louis’ voice breaks at the past tense. He tries a weary smile, Lottie reciprocating with damp eyes. ‘I’m serious, Lotts. I’m beyond grateful, for all that you’ve done and are committing to do going forward.’

She reaches for his fingers, lacing them between. ‘You would do the same for me in a heartbeat.’ Louis confirms wordlessly. ‘If mum was here, I wouldn’t get a look in. She’d be fussing over you something rotten.’ Lottie chuckles wetly, offering his hand a parting squeeze. 

Louis mulls over his sister’s words, her movements across the hall slightly muffled. He knows every word is coated with truthfulness and sentiment. It’s moments like these which make Louis wish for the powers beyond human ability to will his mother’s guidance and support in physical formation. His palm overturns on instinct, fingers curving slightly. No warm contact arises. Louis stares at his hand, millimetres from the edge of the divan. He blinks away the tears of heartbreak and absence; sinking further into the pillows. His vision behind closed eyelids fills with memories of her airing words of comfort and reassurance; fingers softly brushing strands of hair from his face. A faint remembrance of fingertips parting soft curls, whilst Louis whimpered in pain, during his younger years, makes his eyes sting with tears he can no longer hold back. It slots between his eyelashes, creating a singular line over his cheekbone. Louis can feel it teeter at his chin, the back of a palm swatting it away before more tears follow suit. 

Composure is temporarily restored. A dull ache of desperation niggles and the temporary distraction of memoirs are eradicated. The contractions intensify, his need to expel urine sending signals of urgency to his brain. It’s a consumption of all thoughts. He’s thankful for Lottie’s appearance, though the embarrassment causes a stuttering of words and filled silences. His cheeks tint.

‘Um…’

Lottie practically drops the bowl; panic stricken. Water droplets splash over the edges. ‘What is it, Lou? What do you need?’ She barely takes a breath, hands instinctively reaching to lace her fingers with his.

He shakes his head, hoping to dispel his sister’s whirring thoughts of the worst case scenario. It’s jittered speech, the phonetics tumbling over one another in a blind panic. Louis is struggling to ask for assistance. The independent nature within priorly forced the words to retract, ‘I need the bathroom.’

‘Of course,’ Lottie assures, shuffling around the base of the divan to locate the unzipped overnight bag of essentials; discarded in a far corner. She rifles through the mountain of items; a rolled up pair of used socks fall into her lap. ‘I definitely need to chuck some stuff in the washer as soon as,’ she continues. Her voice wavers in pitch when she extends an arm above her head in triumph; the portable urinal is tightly supported by her grip, ‘ah, here it is.’

Louis smiles appreciatively when it exchanges hands; Lottie unscrewing the cap mid motion. It’s lowered further down the divan, Louis’ hands struggling to aid his sister’s attempts. An airing of consent paves the way for Lottie; hands tentatively manoeuvring the urinal towards Louis’ upper, inner thighs; once tucked beneath the blanket that’s marginally aiding his privacy.

‘Up a bit, bit more…’ Louis instructs gently. ‘Ah, um, that’s…yeah,’ he adds humorously, feeling the plastic make unwelcomed contact with his lower region.

Lottie apologies, profusely. ‘Sorry, I, oh my…’ Her cheeks flush, posture heightening. ‘It’s going to take some getting used to, I fear.’

‘It’ll become a fine art, probably when it’s becoming less required,’ Louis muses, blindly adjusting himself, ‘which I live in hope that  said time is sooner rather than later.’

‘Always the glass half full kind of spirit,’ she compliments, jabbing a finger over her shoulder to wordlessly query whether her absence is accepted. Louis nods in assurance. ‘Perfect. I’ll bung these in the washer and give you some privacy. Holler if you need me, OK?’ Lottie continues, stuffing a wad of bunched up clothing into the crooks of her arms. 

The door gently closes to, the latch pranging against the frame. Louis is partially thankful its left ajar, should his voice need aid in travelling down a set of stairs and through at least two, presumably closed doors. He sinks further into the pillows, mentally instructing his body that the wanted release is welcomed.  

A few days prior, Louis would have whistled, relieving himself in a naturally deemed method; something he took for granted without batting an eyelid. The expel patters against the plastic for a period of seconds. Fumbling beneath the blanket, he attempts to loosely screw on the lid. Forced pressure is prohibited. Louis’ inner sense of self worth depleting, the negative colourful wave of shame tainting the crystal clear sea of positivity a darker shade.

‘Lou.’ Lottie’s soft voice of uncertainty filters through the gap. 

‘Yeah, I’m decent,’ Louis muses, nudging the urine holder further down the divan with the back of his hand. It barely moves an inch, but becomes within a dignified distance nonetheless. He watches her effortlessly retrieve and securely fasten the unsanitary device. ‘I tried to tighten it the best I could.’

Lottie politely dismisses the low-level attempt, gently waving it mid air. ‘All fixed.’ She disappears across the hall, to the bathroom. A sound of gushing liquid echoes against the ceramics. Her voice pitches to compete with the flusher, ‘running before you can walk, can set you back greatly.’

‘It’s just the thought of you having to unwillingly divulge in clearing up bodily fluids, my bodily fluids to be precise,’ Louis confesses, picking at the specs of lint on the blanket. 

‘It’s not unwillingly at all. I offered to assist in your recovery,’ she assures. The smell of disinfectant travels across the hall. ‘Besides, I’d rather do it, know you’re getting the right and royally deserved care.’ Gushing water accompanies a pressing of the soap dispenser. Her voice competes, ‘all of that, combined with the fact you’re my brother and not some stranger. If you were a stranger, that might have been a different story,’ Lottie muses.

Louis smirks, a renowned phrase springing to mind. He recites, the wording altering marginally to fit with the context, ‘now that definitely has disaster written all over it.’

A singular phonetic of laughter travels across the hall, her voice increasing in volume, ‘I remember picking up wild and obnoxious phrases from you, growing up.’ Lottie settles in front of the bowl, knees pressing into the rug. ‘I thought I was cool, what we’d now say as ‘down with the kids.’ It made me feel intelligent, even if I never truly understood the definition of the phrases.’

Louis hums, eyes widening. ‘You mean, like the time you stole my CD player –’

‘I think you’ll find, dear brother, that it was ‘borrowing without asking’ actually,’ Lottie interrupts smugly.

‘Which is defined as stealing. Hence the ‘without asking,’’ he corrects humorously. 

Lottie swats the subject aside. ‘Pft. Regardless, it was worth it for the karaoke thereon after the dispute.’ She smiles, wringing a flannel over the water. ‘And not forgetting the excessive jumping on the bed to imitate wicked dance moves.’

‘Ones that would cause us to ‘come through the ceiling,’’ Louis muses, air quoting his mother’s illustrious words. 

Her laugh of reminiscence causes a wave of content within Louis. His lips curl upwards, the pang of guilt scratching the surface; Lottie failing to laugh, or crack a smile since his accident. The sadness within her eyes is fleetingly spared, mind focusing on the memories they created as siblings. 

‘I don’t think the excuse that the exertive dancing was purely for my academics washed after the tenth use,’ Lottie shares. Humour taints the syllables, light inhales of breath capturing a minority of composure. 

‘Who said it was an excuse?’ Louis confesses softly. Lottie’s brow heightens. She stutters, him nodding in confirmation. ‘Yeah. You were struggling, feeling inadequate. What kind of brother would I be, if I didn’t do all I could to assist; even if it meant I had to indulge in actions that involved a reprimand or two?’ His voice softens, ‘‘you should know better at your age.’’

Lottie smiles appreciatively. ‘You really did all of that for me?’ Louis nods. ‘If it’s any consolation, the theory worked. I definitely went feeling less inadequate and that’s how I won the award for best dancer in a matter of weeks.’ She exhales wistfully. ‘You were the loudest there, whistling and cheering the family name, bantering it around like it was common knowledge.’

‘There’s no niggling regrets on my part,’ Louis confesses warmly in her direction. He watches her lightly sponge over the flesh; marginally heightening it to promptly wipe beneath the pits. Her expression softens into empathy, eyes glossed over with tears when the flannel brushes over his bruised fingers.

‘I’ll hand you a flannel shortly and you can do that area yourself, the best you can,’ Lottie explains softly, sponging over the exposed collarbones, water trickling over the brace’s padding. She reaches for the luxury towel at the foot of his bed. A finger hooks beneath the material. Lottie dabs over the support mechanism with feather-like pressure. ‘After that, we can dry you off, before moving onto the legs and so forth.’

Louis nods slowly, heart restricted by shame, embarrassment and guilt. Although Lottie has profusely explained her desire to aid his recovery, the niggling feeling of placing pressure on those he loves never quite fades too far into the background. Louis silently watches his sister tentatively cleanse his skin; apprehension heightening around the areas closest to the brace. Droplets fall onto the blanket while she sponges beneath his armpit. Louis winces; wordlessly expressing discomfort from elevated limbs.

‘Sorry, shit, sorry,’ Lottie blurts, retracting her movements; features softening further. ‘We can just dry off and move to the legs; be less uncomfortable for you.’

‘No,’ Louis stammers, exhaling a sharp breath; punctuating the syllables, ‘it’s OK. I’m OK.’ Lottie’s brow arches, scepticism heavily settling. ‘OK, I’m far from OK, but you know what I mean...’

Lottie smiles wearily, wringing out the sponge. ‘Are you sure – because...’ He nods, her sentence cut short by a continuing motion. Soft applications of pressure accompany audible inhales and exhales of breath; some longer and louder than others. ‘All done. You relax, whilst I towel it all off,’ she assures softly, dabbing at the flesh with a soft towel.

‘Isn’t that one of those fancy, new Egyptian towels, made only for special occasions and guest-like treatment?’ Louis queries, forcing his limbs to relax. His eyes flutter closed, a forceful immersion in Lottie’s feather-like touches.

‘Mhm. Royalty comes under that and treatment of royal kind is the least of what you deserve,’ Lottie affirms. Her movements falter and disappointment settles within Louis when his eyes flicker open. ‘Do you feel ready enough to flannel yourself or shall I move to your legs and feet next?’

Louis hums. His voice breaks, ‘legs and feet?’ A groan and change of outward expression captures Lottie’s undivided attention. ‘Um-’

‘More codeine?’ Lottie queries, dropping the sponge like a hot brick. It conveniently drops into the bowl, creating a small splash. Louis partially nods, beads of sweat forming over his brow. He opens his mouth to mumble his manners; a second nature, when she cuts him short with a shake of the head and a hush. ‘No need for any manners. Let me check your dosage time frame. It shouldn’t be too far off...’ 

Louis is left with his thoughts, unconcealed anguish, a half completed strip-down bathe and a crooked lampshade above his head to stare at. It’s due for replacement, the plastic fasteners well-worn. He ponders how the bulb hasn’t yet fallen on him during nightfall or how the plastic has not eroded. Louis cares for his home, but a repaint job has been looming over him for a while; something pushed further down the ‘to-do’ list. 

‘This should help,’ Lottie assumes, gently handing over a medicine cup. Louis’ brow furrows at the quantity. A low exhale of discomfort rises when he struggles to shift his weight slightly upright. ‘I threw in a paracetamol,’ she clarifies, clearing up the confusion. Lottie’s hands frantically dash to the assortment of pillows behind Louis; gently lowering him into the newly heightened cushioning.

‘Thanks,’ Louis stammers, voice tainted with audible hurt. Tossing the medication into his mouth, Lottie supplies the water, fingers tentatively grasping the straw. Swallowing the pills, Louis allows his body to fall limp; awaiting the twenty to thirty minute window of relief.

Lottie offers to continue the bathing schedule, wringing out a cloth over the bowl. With permission wordlessly granted, she sponges over the lower thighs; curating circles over his knees before gently wiping in a downward motion towards his toes. ‘To avoid any knee jerk reactions for a probable kick in the face,’ she muses, ‘I’ll just lightly dust over the feet.’

‘What about the aftermath of the knee jerk reaction, regarding my unfortunate sustained injuries, Lotts?’ Louis quips. His lips marginally curl upwards at his sister’s smile.

‘Lou, you know full well I need minimal bruising and facial alteration to sell my products,’ she playfully reminds him, following up the remark with a tut.

Louis rolls his eyes, fond settling heavy on his features; masking over the turmoil of pain. ‘Priorities, eh...’ Lottie nods profusely. ‘You’re lucky I can’t toss a pillow at you right now...’ He smirks proudly, ‘Charlotte.’

‘Gees, I haven’t heard my name pronounced so vowel-like and distinctive since, Mum,’ Lottie mumbles.

‘Translation being, ‘in deep shit,’’ Louis adds, air quoting his unwritten dictionary definition. 

Lottie splutters a laugh, nodding in agreement. ‘Oh yeah. There’s been some times I made mum tear her hair out.’ She dusts over the dorsal surface of Louis’ feet. ‘It’s a wonder she didn’t sprout grey hairs any sooner than she did.’

‘Just mum?’ Louis emphasises; brows poised. He purposefully reaches for a lengthy, grey curl. ‘Ahem...’ Lottie shakes her head in disapproval. ‘Do I need to remind you about ‘bugs bunny...’’ He rolls his eyes. 

‘It was Bugsy, actually,’ Lottie corrects defensively.

Louis scoffs. ‘Sorry, did I just lower his non-existent street cred?’ His toes twitch at the feather-like contact. ‘He was a wannabe gangster, Lotts and you know it-’

‘A hot gangster and you know it,’ she compliments, raising a finger.

‘Sure. If mohawks and black eyes are your thing – and I don’t mean aesthetically,’ Louis mumbles, recalling all the times the thug would coincidentally somehow end up on the wrong end of a physical disagreement; Lottie taking some backlash for being his then girlfriend.

Lottie wrings out the flannel, letting it teeter over the edge of the bowl to replace it for the towel. She begins drying between the toes. ‘Please – like you haven’t pathetically crushed on a bad-lad-wannabe.’

Louis can feel his cheeks heighten in temperature. ‘Don’t even think of bringing Luke into this...’ He groans, massaging his temples in embarrassment. 

‘We’ve all been there,’ Lottie confesses softly, towelling over the tops of his feet. ‘Feel up to the final step? Then we can toss on a fresh shirt and briefs.’ 

Louis nods apprehensively; confidence slightly raised by the positive effects of the medication taking hold. She smiles in reassurance, reaching forward to clasp the damp flannel between her fingers. It exchanges hands. Inhaling a composed breath, Louis lowers the cloth beneath the blanket, wincing at the slight pull of defiance against his injuries. Two haphazard strokes later, he internally decides that suffices. Lottie swaps the flannel for the towel before busying herself with opening up the contents of Louis’ sparse wardrobe. She slides the neatly hung garments along the silver plated rail, airing a hum of dissatisfaction and possible uncertainty, until her fingers pause their fleeting dance over the shoulder seams of an oversized button up linen shirt.

‘How about this?’ She queries, letting the metal loop of the hanger balance over a fingertip. ‘It’s loose fitting enough, probably one of the most loose fitting items, if you discard the overhead jumpers for the moment.’

‘Just thinking about trying to wrestle my way into a sweatshirt feels excruciating,’ Louis comments, brushing the discarded towel aside.

Lottie rolls up the left armhole of the shirt, letting the hanger cascade to the floor. It narrowly misses her bare feet. She gently slots the wide angled cuff over his extended, limp hand. Her movements falter at Louis’ wince; the garment brushing over the faint bruises. Ruffling the linen shirt sleeve up his forearm, Lottie offers words of comfort. Gently tugging the body portion of the material downwards, between a slithered gap, she promptly moves onto securing his right arm into the item.

‘I’m not entirely sure the buttons will comfortably stretch over the brace...’ Lottie concludes, lips twisting in thought. ‘But if you’re a little on the chilly side, I bought extra blankets.’ Louis smiles appreciatively. ‘Now, briefs or no briefs, that’s the question...’

‘I’m not sure I have the energy, in all honesty,’ Louis confesses, partially inaudible. ‘But what if –’

‘Sheets are all machine washable. Accidents do happen and that’s exactly what they are, Louis – accidental,’ Lottie reassures, tossing the towel over her shoulder. She arches forward, fingers spreading over the bowl to secure its grip between her hands. ‘I’ll place the urinal on a stool, beside the bed for quicker access, but don’t fret if the urge overrides.’ 

Louis offers a weary smile, eyes darting to the familiar ceiling fixture, seconds before boredom hits, along with a desire to bore holes into something new. Admiring the architectural structure of how the curved coving meets the ceiling itself was something Louis never envisioned he’d find himself doing. His fingers twist the loose woollen fibres on the blanket draped over his lower abdomen and upper thighs. It’s a self-soothing mechanism, one habitually learned for as long as he can recall. 

‘Here we are,’ Lottie whispers, capturing Louis’ undivided attention. She places the portable urinal onto a fold up chair beside the bed. ‘Is that close enough for you, but not too obstructing if you need to get out of bed?’ Louis extends his arm, fingers clutching the narrow neck. ‘Smashing.’ Her smile is a welcoming comfort. 

‘How’s Cliff? He should be due for a walk around now...’ Louis shares, frustration settling at the absence of independence. Walking his one constant fixture in his life was a highlight to Louis’ days; morning, afternoon and evening.

‘He’s good. I gave him a cuddle and a kiss. Doreen has taken him for a walk –’

‘As in next-door-Doreen?’ Louis splutters. His eyes widen. Lottie nods in perplexity. ‘He’s not going to like that one bit...’ She blinks, evidently falling behind on the memo. ‘Cliff and Peanut have a, um, very unconventional relationship.’

Lottie’s brows furrow. ‘Right... And how so?’

‘They just don’t see eye to eye on many things.’ He pauses. ‘Since the across-the-road neighbours bought a female poodle – the alphas around here have been taking their chances, once or twice.’

‘Maybe she’ll have labradoodles before long,’ Lottie teases, shooting him a playful wink. 

‘Don’t even place that thought into the universe, Lotts,’ Louis warns. ‘Let’s just hope Doreen doesn’t live to regret her generosity.’

Lottie waves the suggestion away. ‘She popped by with a card, flowers and an assortment of biscuits – Waitrose’s finest to be precise.’ She whistles in admiration of the neighbourly expenditure of goodwill. ‘I was in the middle of prepping the flowers for your bedside when Cliff nuzzled his way between my legs, whining for a stroke from Doreen. That escalated into her offering to walk him, thrice daily for the foreseeable.’

‘That’s very kind of her. I just hope he’s no bother,’ Louis mumbles. His eyes sparkle with mischief, ‘luxury biscuits did you say?’

Lottie chuckles, mock saluting. ‘Your wish is my command.’

The corner coving is tainted yellow, a hint of overly indulged nicotine within the walls, despite Louis’ attempts to step outside; push open the window latch at best. His eyes narrow in search of the empty cigarette packet, baring three untouched rolls. It’s unobtainable, ponder settling in, in regards to the exact coordinates of his recent misplacement. Lottie disperses his thoughts, except for the one that’s craving something sweet. His stomach verbally applauds the presence of biscuits, tucked beneath Lottie’s forearm.

‘Room for another two?’ She queries, heightening the unopened box. Louis’ brow heightens, then softens when the sound of paws scatter along the floor. His heart swells at the sight of his best friend; loving eyes tainted with contentment at being reunited meet his own. ‘Be careful, Cliff,’ Lottie chastises humorously, watching the canine spring onto the bed and curl at Louis’ feet.

‘Always enough room,’ Louis answers, petting under Cliff’s chin with curved toes. It earns a satisfied grumble.

‘Remember when we’d tell mum that the reason all the biscuits were gone before the festivities was purely because they needed sampling, to ensure they were suitable enough for the big day?’ Louis smiles warmly, sinking into the newly heightened pillows. He examines an overly sugar coated biscuit, turning it over in his hands. 

‘And we’d outwardly criticise and compliment each one, like we were the judges of some dessert and cookery show...’ Lottie supplements, resting her head against the headboard. She sighs wistfully. ‘Like it was yesterday.’

‘Or today...’ Louis proposes, motioning to the batch. 

‘No, Lou, I couldn’t. They’re a get well gift, for you,’ Lottie protests gently.

Louis shakes his head. Pressing a finger to his lips he devours the biscuit in a prompt manner. ‘Nonsense. You’ve gone above and beyond since the accident, a way in which words could never suffice –’ 

‘And luxury biscuits can speak volumes,’ Lottie muses, snapping a chocolate coated one from the plastic tray. She giggles, licking her fingers to eradicate the melted chocolate. Her gratitude is muffled by a hand covering brown tinged lips, ‘thanks. Though, the base could do with being a little on the softer side. Not feeling the crunch.’

Chapter Text

Fifty days, one thousand two hundred hours, four million three hundred and twenty seconds; the timeframe in which Louis’ recovery days mentally translate into. The calendar pinned to the wall opposite says otherwise, 12th April; fifteen days post accident. 

He watches Lottie fold a beige tea-towel in half, his own fingers curving to reach the tip of the cutlery. Louis seethes, the independent nature battling to prove his worth. It forces him to repeat the desire to make contact with the fork. Aired frustration mixes with clenched fists residing at his lap.

‘Hey, hey,’ Lottie soothes, kindly slotting the fork between his newly lessened grip. ‘You’re already sitting at the table, a fortnight on. This is a huge step. The rest will follow,’ she assures, loosely knotting the tea-towel around his neck.

‘Sometimes it feels like two steps forward and then ten steps backwards.’ Louis’ voice is bitter. ‘I think because it happened so unexpectedly; one minute I was on the steps and the next –’ He exhales, eyes widening in disbelief.

Lottie settles beside him. Her plate clatters against the placemat. Twirling the cutlery between slender fingers, Lottie tucks into the meat-free mince and mixed vegetables. ‘I tried to mash up the carrots and broccoli the best I could. I also figured mince is easier to slide onto the fork as well,’ she explains.

Louis smiles appreciatively, taking in the blended concoction of food. It resembles an artist’s paint palette; mid design and an overspill of colours. Gliding the angled fork across the plate, Louis plays chasing the goods for a second longer than usual. By the fourth mouthful, patience is wearing thin and the tea-towel is dotted with chunks of vegetables and vegan mince that missed his lips.

‘I bet it feels like having a child, doesn’t it?’ He muses, haphazardly wiping the dregs from around his mouth with cupped fingers.

She chuckles. ‘It’s not that bad. Much better than the time we tried soup, partially laid down...’ Lottie bites her lip in remembrance.

Louis smirks. ‘It did improve those off-white, rough as sandpaper duvet covers though.’ Lottie feigns offence. ‘You, admittedly, might I add, only palmed them onto me for the exact same reason.’

‘Touché.’ Lottie clicks her tongue in defeat. She presses a finger to her lips, eyes widening in remembrance. ‘Oh, um, so you know I mentioned the other day about popping to collect my new batch of ambassador products?’

He tentatively takes a mouthful. A few dregs of mince cling to the fabric of the makeshift bib. ‘Yeah? That's today, right?’

Lottie hums in agreement. ‘So, due to the current circumstances, my boss kindly -’

‘You mean Alison thought about someone other than herself and her profit margins, for once?’ Louis remarks.

‘Shocking, I know.’ Lottie chuckles. ‘Credit due where credits due, the ice in Ali’s heart can sometimes melt.’ She swirls the lukewarm tea, taking a small sip to wash down the cooked vegetables. ‘Anyway, she's offered to have the products delivered. So, I'll just be offloading them in the study rather than leaving you alone altogether.’ Lottie smiles.

‘I wouldn't have minded if you needed to collect them,’ Louis assures, mimicking his sister's actions. The brace abruptly reminds him of the restriction, hands falling short of grasping the travel mug of tea. Lottie figured it would be easier; less spillages and potential burns. He bites his lip. His understandable irritance draws a heavy exhale. Louis’ subconscious reflex signals a twinge of pain; palm flying to reside at the brace. Lottie repeatedly queries his well-being, despite her brother's reassurances. She slips the newly uprighted mug into Louis’ awaiting grasp; positioning her body in a stance of expectancy and preparation for further assistance. Louis assures her otherwise.

‘What about some paracetamol?’ Lottie offers, rising to her feet. ‘It's not a patch on codeine, but perhaps it'll ease some discomfort?’ 

Louis accepts the suggestion. It's better than nothing, even if he perceives the pain relief as weak. He needs a dose of codeine; a singular round of the prescription drug would lessen the continuous niggling.

‘And then tomorrow we can start up the codeine again,’ she explains, popping the blister pack of paracetamol. Two capsules fall into her palm; a free hand supports a freshly poured glass of water. 

Loading the pills onto his tongue, Louis washes them down with the offered refreshment. It tastes bland, the powder sticking to the roof of his mouth. A second mouthful of water eradicates the unpleasant aftertaste. An absence of welcomed serotonin disappoints him. It falls in line with a tedious, borderline thirty minute wait period. The medication marginally numbs the pain, enough for Louis to finish the meal.

‘What time is the delivery due?’ He queries, polishing off the lukewarm tea.

Lottie stacks the discarded kitchenware, carrying them to the partially empty dishwasher. She loads the machine; eyes darting to the oven clock. ‘Um, in the next couple of hours I presume. But don't worry, it won't take me too long to unbox.’

‘It takes as long as it takes,’ Louis assures, hoping to eradicate any concerns. He shifts uncomfortably, the paracetamol taking little effect.

‘Let's get you laid down for a little, shall we? Take the weight off your wounds,’ she suggests, wiping the backs of her hands across the outside legs of her trousers. 

Louis’ weight is partially shifted; an arm haphazardly draping over his sister's shoulder. He shuffles, the soles of his feet gripping against the wooden flooring. An exhale and wince of discomfort orchestrate an instinctive reflex of reassurances from Lottie. Climbing the staircase leaves him breathless, discontented and exhausted. Soft paws thunder up the staircase and a head pokes around the ajar door, forcing it to open wider.

‘Go steady. Eager beaver,’ Lottie muses, patting Cliff’s head when he collapses onto the divan, beside his owner. ‘That's a good boy.’

Cliff barks in expectancy. His head shoots up; enthusiasm springing into his tail.

‘Cliff,’ Louis chastises playfully, swatting away the companions tail. ‘Almost took my eyes out.’

‘Think someone is hoping for a treat,’ Lottie continues; kissing noises accompanying her excitable tone.

‘For nearly making me blind or for responding to being a good boy?’ Louis remarks.

Lottie rolls her eyes, offering the canine a treat. The doorbell chimes, interrupting their lighthearted discussion. ‘You two behave. I'll be two shakes of a lamb's tail,’ she sings, letting the door swing partially closed. Her pace quickens, voice trailing up the staircase when informing the delivery driver of her awaited arrival.

Louis exhales. Pleasantries accompany light chuckles, a door closes and footsteps ascend the staircase.

‘I'll be as quick as I can, Lou,’ Lottie calls. She huffs; a box tumbling to the office floor with an unexpected thud. Louis jumps. He glances towards a sleeping Cliff, a hope his abrupt movements fail to startle him. A smile forces his lips to curl upwards. Though his sister’s caring nature is more than enough to fulfil Cliff’s needs, it doesn't override or eradicate the intense guilt Louis unwillingly embraces. Cliff  solely relies on Louis. He needs to become stronger, healthier and less dependent; enough just to fill the bowl, take a small walk together or a game of fetch at best. Louis needs this, more for Cliff than his own selfish independent nature that's rearing its ugly head. 

‘Just one, Cliff,’ Louis mumbles, eying up the transparent pill tray. One of the clips is unfastened. He peers at the lettering, observing that it's coincidentally tomorrow's. ‘I can replace it, as easily as it's gone,’ he assures, reaching to wrap his fingers around the blister pack.

Louis successfully slides it off the dresser. Panic stricken by Lottie’s query of his well-being he slings it beneath the blanket. He's quick to reassure her, clearing his throat on repetition of the affirmation. 

Her concern causes Louis to pause for thought; the contemplation to restore the pills in their rightful place. He captures a sleeping Cliff in his peripheral. It sways him, the primary decision taking ownership. 

The dusting sits pleasantly on Louis’ tongue. He inhales contentedly, eyes gently closing when the cool water aids in flushing it into his system. His mind is less cluttered, other than an internal ticking of time, knowing within ten minutes minimum the codeine will begin to disperse the pain. The level of suffering will be depleted.

Louis will be free.

In the safe knowledge that a pill occupies the holder; his deceit covered; Louis sinks into the pillows. He succumbs to the welcoming absence of discomfort.

‘Looks like that paracetamol did the trick,’ Lottie muses, poking her head around the ajar door. Louis stirs; heavy eyelids obscuring his vision. ‘It all fell silent, so I just thought I'd check on you, see if you fancied a cuppa?’

Louis groans. He blinks consecutively, shifting a little. ‘Have you finished already?’

She chuckles, propping her head against the doorframe; hand wrapped around the handle. ‘Eh, so-so. It's unwrapped, just needs sorting and filing, put it that way.’ Lottie smiles. ‘Figured a pit stop was in order. Got any of them luxury biscuits left?’

‘Surprisingly,’ Louis quips. ‘Not sure how many or how altogether considering the amount you were dunking and losing in your tea the other afternoon.’

‘I had to do the dunk test. It would have been a crime not to. If it fell apart mid practice, then the only person at fault is purely the manufacturer,’ Lottie remarks, offering him a playful parting wink. ‘Anyhow, that kettle won't boil itself. Tea?’ She continues, voice competing with the distance between them.

Louis accepts the offer. ‘And some of those biscuits wouldn't go amiss, if you can refrain long enough to transport them up.’ 

His sister's laughter echoes up the staircase.

‘One freshly brewed tea, splash of milk,’ Lottie mumbles, twisting the handle to face Louis; sliding the breakfast tray across the dresser. ‘Now for the main event,’ she enthuses, unfastening the tin lid. Slotting it beneath the container, Lottie nestles beside her brother.

A coconut ring slides over Louis’ middle finger. He habitually nibbles the outer edges, enthusiasm dwindling. A hand brushes over his stomach; the karma from abusing the three-day void heightens. Louis is creating additional embarrassing complications. Giving up; the biscuit resembling a crescent moon, he discards it on the table. Louis inhales, the pressure in his stomach tightening.

‘Let me read over the medication dosage rota. You might be due for another dissolvent,’ Lottie ponders. She shovels the biscuit into her mouth, licking the excess from her fingers when she heightens her posture. A hum accompanies her finger that glides across the paperwork neatly pinned to the corkboard Lottie installed recently. It aids with retaining information, organising and storing essential contact details. ‘Looks like you last had a mixture at breakfast. It's been a good chunk of time, if you feel ready to face another?’

Louis nods. ‘It's becoming more than uncomfortable.’ He swallows down the guilt, emphasising the white lie, indicating a delay in organ response, ‘and adding to the loss of appetite.’

‘I'll make up the mixture, give me two ticks.’ She smiles assuringly, palm gracing his shoulder on exit.

Idle fingers are embedded between the slightly matted fur of his faithful companion. A sense of relief is scuppered by the taunting of wrong doings. Louis feels shameful, lying through his teeth; the taste of deceit sour on his tongue. Shaking his head, the thoughts disperse, a focal point regained; a soul reminder of why he's pursuing the exceeded doses. Independence is on a level playing field with oxygen; an essential requirement to survive. Louis is barely scraping by, his breathing metaphorically deteriorating. 

‘Here we go, all stirred and prepared.’ The crystallised components swirl then sink to the bottom of the sippy cup on placement. Lottie fixes the lid accordingly, flicking it for good measure. ‘A mint at the ready,’ she muses, dropping a bag of mints onto the dresser beside Louis’ steaming cup of tea.

‘I think I might need something a little stronger than a mint. It's vile, to say the least,’ Louis complains. He winces, bracing his tongue for the aftertaste. It barely sticks, the mint masking every inch of powder. ‘Fuck.’

Lottie chuckles. ‘Worse than tequila?’

‘Marginally,’ Louis mumbles, phonetics slurred by the sweet. ‘But worth it, if it gets things moving. The first one was borderline hell .’

‘I think Doreen would have popped by if the vocalisations of distress went on much longer,’ Lottie teases.

Louis’ eyes are wide. His cheeks taint. ‘That would have been a joy of fabrication,’ he mumbles.

Lottie chuckles lightly. Sinking into the rear of the divan, a mere centimetre from Louis’ uncovered toes, she hums thoughtfully. The ends of her fingers gently dance over the tips of his toes. A smirk accompanies her exchange of glances between Louis’ feet and his curious eyes.

‘Nope. Na-da. Not a chance,’ Louis heartily objects.

‘Oh go on, Lou.’ Lottie pouts. ‘No glitter pink sparkles, I promise,’ she pleads. ‘It's good marketing for my ambassador program.’

Louis’ brow arches suspiciously. ‘And how would my bruised, wide angled, brittle toenails promote any kind of wanted custom? - Regardless of a lick of paint.’

‘Because they'd look absolutely glamorous with a pastel shade coated on top. Besides, the colour would hide all the blemishes,’ she enthuses.

Louis sighs defeatedly. ‘Go on then.’ Lottie cheers. ‘I wouldn't hear the end of your selling spiel until I caved, be it three hours or thirty,’ he continues.

‘You're the best. Any increase in sales for this and I will provide you with a cut, I promise,’ she rambles, pressing a parting kiss to her brother's cheek. 

It reminds Louis of the memoirs they recently spoke of, ones created long before any unforeseen losses; be it, friends, partners and the worst one of all - loved ones. Their childhood innocence was something Louis wished he could have captured in a glass jar, ready to open when he fell on hard times; the current predicament a prime example. 

A pang of guilt taints the drive behind the caving of his sister's wishes. His betrayal runs deep, Lottie’s innocence still apparent in her eyes. It resembles the same appearance, the excitement of making those around her feel good from a slight dusting of cosmetics. 

He remembers the way she'd strut around in jelly heeled shoes, decorated with princess faces and glitter. A messy, lopsided bun would accompany the makeshift dress of elegance and an uneven circle of blush pink powder had burst across her cheeks. Lottie would flash Louis a toothy grin through smeared red lipstick. 

It is endearing as the primary moment and thereafter.

‘I brought the entire cosmetic case, filled with every shade and tool known to mankind,’ Lottie explains, dropping the essentials onto the carpet. A thud signifies the intensity of the products.

‘Did you offer to sample the entire back catalogue?’ Louis muses.

‘Just about,’ Lottie contributes, playing along with the charade. She rifles through the contents, heightening a range of shades for closer inspection. ‘What colour are we thinking?’

‘Clear? Opal?’ Louis quips. Lottie rolls her eyes. He sighs, ‘fine, you choose; as long as it's not your famous hot pink glitter.’

Lottie exhales in deflation through pursed lips. Her eyes flit between the two shades laid across her palms. ‘Palma violets or blue bonbons?’

‘Are you offering inedible confectionery?’ Louis muses. 

‘No,’ she protests, dragging out the vowel. ‘It's the name of the enamel. Some have distinctive colour palette names, others are resembled as sweets.’ Lottie smirks. ‘Sometimes they're scented for that bonus appeal.’

Louis winces. ‘Please tell me those selected are not sweet smelling?’

‘Regretfully, no.’ She chuckles, switching up her tone to playfulness, ‘I mean, I could always choose one.’ Her fingers dance over the tops of the bottles.

‘Don't you dare,’ Louis threatens, voice matching his sister's light hearted manner.

Lottie pouts. ‘But it has been my signature staple for as long as I can remember-’

‘Since the day you began learning how to sneakily apply it whilst I was asleep, you mean to say,’ Louis intervenes. ‘Let's spice it up a bit with the palma violets.’

Her brow arches; fingers lightly unscrewing the cap. ‘You've changed your tune. Secretly enthused to be pampered?’

Truthfully, Louis wants to appease his sister; derail any chance of her gaining wind of his dishonesty. ‘It wouldn't do any harm. Could improve my overall mood, I suppose,’ he partially lies.

‘So you do listen after all,’ Lottie teases. She smirks proudly. ‘All the self-help spiel finally sunk in; no “in one ear and out the other” scenario.’

Louis rolls his eyes. ‘More like I was hypnotised by you feeding into my subconscious.’ He reciprocates her smile of appreciation. ‘But, not all hope is lost, it seems.’

The applicator is pressed against the rim of the bottle; excess droplets fall into the container. With gentle strokes, Lottie begins applying the enamel. ‘As they are already fairly short, minor jagged around the edges and such, I figured skipping those extra steps would be acceptable,’ she explains, focusing on the task at hand.

‘I trust your judgement,’ Louis confirms. ‘But know that if there is any mishap, in any shape or form, I will expect a refund of sorts.’

‘It's nion-impossible to reimburse a free treatment,’ Lottie muses, slotting the applicator into the bottle. ‘I'll leave those to dry first, otherwise I'll only end up smudging them, resulting in a zero star review.’

Louis smirks. ‘I mean, reimbursement doesn't necessarily fall within the category of income. It could be something as simple as a returnable favour.’ His tone pitches at the planting of a seed. A nonchalant shrug accompanies it. 

‘I see what you did there.’ Lottie clicks her tongue. She smirks in appreciation for her brother's wit. Reapplying the enamel to the remaining two toes of Louis’ left foot, she probes, ‘is there anything in particular you'd perhaps like to shed light on, in regard to a favour?’

Louis hums theatrically, dragging out the phonetic consonants. ‘A foot massage wouldn't go amiss, or an overall; where accessible.’ He motions to the unopened basket of potions on the dresser. ‘Be a shame to waste those samples.’

Lottie agrees humorously. ‘I'm sure there's one for sensitive skin. A dermatitis breakout is not ideal, especially given the circumstances,’ she clarifies. ‘Failing that, I'll enquire for some dermatology friendly samples to be delivered pronto.’

‘It's only a returnable favour, should you make a botched job of the pedicure,’ Louis reassures gently. Pressuring his sister into additional, unnecessary care wasn't the intention behind his museful request.

‘Relax. I'm more than happy to partake. It'll be good for the muscles, considering their sudden shift in exercise.’ She lathers up the applicator, repeatedly dipping it into the enamel. Applying it to the right foot, Lottie continues, ‘without a good massage and expansion, they'll only seize up.’

Louis admires her continued wisdom. She's matured beyond her years; an aura of stapled youthfulness surrounded his sister's growth towards independence. He smiles, capturing Lottie’s focused attention in respect of the task at hand. ‘Hiring a specialist is a possibility, until potential rehabilitation falls into play,’ he proposes.

‘Nonsense. I'm more than happy to oblige to any need in aiding your recovery, be it a foot massage.’ Lottie smiles assuringly. ‘Accepting the opportunity to be your soul carer, unless a snag occurred; requiring additional assistance, is something I took into consideration. Regardless of the potential obstacles and unfortunate mishaps.’

Louis appreciates Lottie’s commitment. ‘But this is neither an unfortunate mishap, nor an obstacle. It's merely a playful request for additional comfort, at best.’

‘And your comfort alone is an essential part of the recovery process,’ Lottie quips. Fastening the bottle, in a sign of completion, she confirms, ‘and therefore, a massage at the very least is what you shall receive.’