Chapter Text
P R O L O G U E
“I don’t love you anymore, Harry.”
Harry's world falls apart as the silence of the evening is broken by words he never thought he would hear. The sentence hangs between them, lodged in the air like a shard of glass, too sharp to be real.
He blinks, hoping he misheard. It feels like a mistake, it can't be true. But Louis is looking at him with that annoyingly calm expression, the one he perfected during his police training, the one that gives nothing away. Louis stands across the room, arms crossed, as though he can distance himself from what he’s doing with sheer force of will.
“What?” Harry’s voice cracks, and he hates himself for it. He hates that he sounds broken, vulnerable - everything Louis is clearly not. He’d imagined a thousand ways their evening could go, but none of them were this.
“I said, I don’t love you anymore,” Louis repeats, the words somehow colder this time, more practiced. His eyes stay fixed on some invisible point beyond Harry’s shoulder, avoiding his gaze. There’s something robotic, rehearsed, about the way he says it, like he’s trying to convince himself just as much as he’s trying to convince Harry.
“No. No, that’s... that’s not true.” Harry feels his pulse spike and anger rushing in to fill the spaces between the cracks of his heartbreak. “You’re lying. I know you, Lou. This isn’t you.”
Louis doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. “Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think, Harry.”
The words sting, but Harry doesn’t believe them. Can’t believe them. He loves Louis with everything he has for two years, he knows this man better than he knows himself. He knows that Louis loves him just as much. He knows their plans for the future, that they are both it for each other. He knows how Louis’ voice softens when he says goodnight, the way his eyes light up whenever he visits him and waits at the rink, how his arms around Harry feel like coming home.
“Don’t do this,” Harry whispers, stepping closer. “Don’t say things you don’t mean. Just tell me what’s really going on.”
“What’s really going on,” Louis says, voice cool, raising his eyebrows, “is that I don’t love you. I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while now.”
“A while?” The betrayal in Harry’s voice is raw, aching. “So you’ve been pretending this whole time? You’ve just been… what? Playing along?”
Louis’ face is as unreadable as stone. “I’m sorry if that hurts you.”
“Hurts me?” Harry’s fists clench at his sides, nails biting into his palms. “God, Louis, you’re acting like you don’t care. Like none of this matters to you.”
Louis’ eyes flicker, just for a split second, something dark and fleeting surfacing before he buries it again. He draws in a slow breath, the kind that Harry knows means he’s preparing to be firm. “I’ve made my choice, Harry. This isn’t working for me.”
“Working?” Harry echoes, disbelieving. “This isn’t a job, Lou, it’s us. You’re just... you’re just walking away?”
Louis’ gaze is steel, his shoulders square. “Yes, I am.”
But Harry’s relentless. He can’t stop, not now, not when everything he thought was real is unraveling. “Then tell me why. Tell me why you’re doing this. You can’t just... you can’t just say something like that and go. There has to be more.”
“There’s nothing more,” Louis’ voice is level, but there’s a tightness in his jaw that Harry catches, something too subtle for most to see. But Harry sees it, knows that little tell in the way Louis’ muscles tense ever so slightly, like he’s bracing himself for a fight.
“Look at me,” Harry demands, his voice shaking. “Just look at me and tell me you don’t love me.”
Louis’ eyes finally meet his and they’re calm, too calm. Cold, ice blue, as if they belong to someone else. “I don’t love you, Harry.”
The finality in Louis’ voice cuts through him like a blade. He’s searching Louis’ face, desperate for any crack in the mask, anything that tells him this is all a mistake, a terrible, cruel joke. But Louis doesn’t waver.
“You don’t mean that,” Harry insists, his voice catching. He reaches out, grabs Louis by the wrist, holding on as if that alone can keep him from slipping away. “You can’t just leave. We had plans, Lou. We... we were happy.”
Louis doesn’t pull his hand back, but he doesn’t respond, either. His expression is carefully blank, a wall that Harry can’t get past. It’s the calm, trained exterior of a cop, the one Louis always prided himself on learning, the one that lets him stay composed even in the most difficult situations.
But this isn’t just a situation. This is them. This is everything they’ve built together.
“Is this what they taught you at the academy?” Harry’s voice is low and bitter. “How to turn off your feelings? How to make people feel like they’re nothing?”
Louis closes his eyes for a brief moment and when he opens them again, the cool mask is back in place. “This has nothing to do with my job. It’s just... I realised I need to move on, Harry.”
Move on. The words are so clinical, so detached. Harry feels the anger rise in him again, twisting his insides. “So that’s it? You’re done with me, just like that?”
Louis’ voice is barely above a whisper. “Yes.”
Harry’s grip tightens on Louis’ wrist, his knuckles white, desperation seeping into his voice. “Then why are your hands shaking?”
For a brief moment, something flashes in Louis’ eyes… regret, sorrow, something Harry can’t name. But it’s gone as quickly as it came and Louis pulls his hand free, stepping back.
“Goodbye, Harry,” he says, the words so quiet they’re almost drowned out by the sound of Harry’s own heartbeat pounding in his ears.
He watches as Louis heads toward the door, every step a blow to Harry’s chest. And just as Louis is about to leave, he pauses, his back to Harry. For a heartbeat, everything is still, and Harry sees Louis’ hand come up to his face, sees the faintest movement as he wipes quickly over his eyes.
And then he’s gone.
The door closes behind him and Harry is left alone in the quiet, his heart shattering into pieces he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to put back together. The sudden silence swallows him whole, heavy and suffocating, pressing down on him from all sides. He feels hollow, like someone has scooped out everything inside of him, leaving just an empty shell. But it’s worse than that, it’s a painful emptiness, a gnawing ache in his chest that won’t let up, that throbs in time with every beat of his broken heart.
For a moment, he stands frozen in the middle of the room, trying to make sense of what just happened, but his mind can’t keep up. It’s a jumble of Louis’ voice, that blank expression, the words echoing again and again, louder and louder.
I don’t love you anymore.
Every time the words repeat, it’s like a punch to the gut, a fresh wound tearing open inside him.
His knees buckle and he sinks to the floor, his hands shaking as he clutches at his chest, trying to hold himself together, but it’s no use. The pain is too much. It is as if the emotional pain becomes physical, clawing through him and he can’t breathe, can’t think past it. A strangled, broken sob escapes him, filling the empty room with a sound he barely recognises as his own.
He presses his fists against his temples, squeezing his eyes shut, as if he can force himself to stop feeling, but the ache is relentless. It’s like his heart has been ripped out, downright shattered and every broken piece is tearing him up inside, slicing through him until he’s nothing but pain.
“Why?” he chokes out, his voice raw and broken, as if saying it out loud might make it make sense. But there’s no answer, no comfort in the silence that surrounds him. Just the memory of Louis’ face, so cold, so distant, like Harry was nothing to him. Like the last two years meant nothing.
He punches the floor, hard enough to feel the sting in his knuckles, but it’s not enough. The pain isn’t enough to drown out the agony inside. He looks around and his gaze falls on the framed photo on the table - the one of him and Louis, laughing, arms wrapped around each other, the world forgotten in the warmth of that moment. They look so happy, so in love and the sight of it sends a fresh wave of anguish crashing over him.
With a yell, he grabs the frame and hurls it across the room. The glass shatters against the wall, fragments scattering across the floor, mirroring the pieces of his heart. But it doesn’t help. The room still feels like it’s closing in on him, filled with memories he can’t bear to face.
He lashes out, knocking over anything within reach - a stack of books, his phone, a coffee mug. Each crash and clatter is a release, a way to bleed out just a fraction of the torment ripping him apart. But the pain is insatiable, devouring every piece of him, leaving nothing behind.
He sinks to the floor again, his body curling in on itself as he wraps his arms around his knees, rocking back and forth, trying to hold himself together, with absolutely no success. The tears come hot and furious, spilling down his face and he doesn’t even try to stop them. His chest heaves, each sob tearing through him with brutal force and he buries his face in his hands, letting the grief consume him.
In the haze of his misery, fragments of memory flicker through his mind - nights tangled together in bed, Louis’ sleepy smile in the morning, the way his hand felt in Harry’s, warm and steady, like he was the only solid thing in Harry’s world. He remembers the way Louis used to look at him, like he was something precious, something worth holding on to. And now, that look is gone, replaced by that cold, detached mask. That look that said he didn’t care.
The thought makes him want to scream, to tear his own heart out to stop the unbearable pain. Because how could Louis not care? How could he just walk away like that, leaving Harry here to drown in the wreckage of everything they were?
“I love you,” he whispers into the empty room, the words trembling with the weight of his shattered heart. “I love you more than anything.”
He thought Louis was it, thought they were it. He thought they were going to be one of those stories, the kind where love endures, where it’s stronger than anything else. But now, all he has is this empty shell of a life, gutted and hollow, with no future, no direction, just pain.
A cold, hard resolve begins to settle in his chest, mingling with despair. He feels it crystallising, a bitter promise to himself, because he can’t go through this again. He can’t give someone his heart to anyone in the future, only to have it torn to pieces and left bleeding. Never again.
He won’t let anyone close enough to do this to him again. Louis took everything - every hope, every dream, every part of him that believed in love. There’s nothing left to give, nothing left to break.
He feels the weight of it, the emptiness settling into his bones, and he knows, deep down, that this isn’t something he’ll ever heal from. Louis broke him, shattered him in a way that can’t be fixed and he’ll carry that scar for the rest of his life.
As the tears begin to slow, a hollow numbness takes their place. The pain doesn’t fade, but it recedes, like a wound that’s too deep to bleed anymore. He sits there, staring blankly at the fragments of glass scattered across the floor, the remnants of their life together and he feels... nothing. Just a vast, aching void where his heart used to be.
And he knows, with a grim certainty, that he’ll never be the same. Louis took his heart, crushed it and walked away, leaving Harry to pick up the pieces. But he doesn’t want to pick them up. Doesn’t want to put himself back together, because what’s the point? There’s no point in being whole if he’s going to be alone, if he’s just going to end up broken again.
So he lets the emptiness settle over him, lets it numb the edges of his pain and vows to never let anyone close enough to hurt him again. Because he has nothing left to give, nothing left to lose.
Louis took the best parts of him, the parts that believed in love and happiness and forever, and he’s never getting them back.
This is it. This is all that’s left.
──⩹⛸️⩺──
It’s been days since Harry last set foot on the ice. Days since he cared about anything beyond the relentless ache that’s hollowed him out, leaving him raw and numb. The team had noticed his absence, of course. His coach had even called, a gruff concern evident in his voice as he asked if everything was alright. Harry gave some excuse he can barely remember now, something about needing rest, needing time, but the truth is he’s barely left his apartment since Louis left.
Every time he thought he’s ready to move, every time he tried to shake the heaviness weighing him down, he saw that empty space by his bed where Louis’ things used to be. He saw reminders of everything they’d shared, every promise they’d made and it dragged him under all over again.
But today, something in him snaps. He’s done, so fucking done, feeling like this. Done letting Louis control every part of him, even in his absence. If Louis could leave so easily, walk away without a second thought, then why should Harry sit here and fall apart? He won’t let Louis ruin his future, won’t let him poison his life any longer.
With that bitter thought in mind, he pulls himself together, drives to training and laces up his skates and heads to the rink.
The familiar chill of the arena hits him as he steps inside, the sharp bite of the cold air cutting through the numbness, bringing him back to life in a way he hasn’t felt in days. The ice gleams beneath the harsh lights, a perfect, empty expanse just waiting to be conquered. It’s always been his sanctuary, the place where everything else fades away, where the noise and chaos of the world quiet down until there’s nothing left but him and the ice.
He glances around, noting the handful of teammates scattered across the rink, warming up, their skates carving soft lines in the surface. He doesn’t bother with greetings or even the nods he usually gives. There’s a wall between him and everyone else, something dark and hard that he knows won’t come down anytime soon. Not after what he’s been through. Not after what he’s lost.
Love is weakness, he tells himself as he steps onto the ice, the skates gliding smoothly beneath him. Love is a distraction. A vulnerability.
Louis taught him that, even if he didn’t mean to. He taught Harry what it feels like to open up, to let someone in, to share parts of yourself - and what it feels like when they take all of it and throw it back in your face. He won’t make that mistake again. From now on, it’s just him and his career. Hockey is all he has left, all he can trust and he’s going to pour every ounce of himself into it. No love, no attachments, no weakness.
His gaze hardens as he pushes off, skating quickly across the rink, his movements fierce and unyielding. Every stroke of his skates against the ice is filled with a grim determination, a raw edge that wasn’t there before. He moves faster, pushing himself to the limit, skating like he’s running from something, like he can leave his pain behind if he just goes fast enough, hard enough.
The coach calls out a drill, his voice echoing through the rink, but Harry doesn’t need to hear it to know what to do. He’s done this a thousand times, but today, there’s something different in the way he approaches it. There’s no hesitation, no caution, just a reckless intensity that borders on dangerous.
He charges down the ice, his eyes fixed on the puck, his body tense and coiled like a spring. When one of his teammates tries to intercept, Harry doesn’t hold back, doesn’t give an inch. He barrels past, shoulder checking with a force that nearly sends the other player sprawling. There’s a shocked look from his teammate, but Harry doesn’t care. He can’t care. This is all he has now and he’s not about to hold back for anyone.
The scrimmage continues, each pass and shot a way to expel the anger simmering just beneath his skin. His teammates exchange wary glances, probably wondering what’s gotten into him, but he shuts them out, keeps his focus razor-sharp, blocking everything else out. The rink echoes with the sharp sound of skates cutting into the ice, the crack of sticks meeting pucks and he throws himself even more into it, pouring every ounce of his rage and bitterness into every movement, every shot.
There’s no room for hesitation, no room for mistakes. The ice is unforgiving and so is he.
He grits his teeth as he slams the puck into the net, the impact reverberating through his stick, satisfying in a way that nothing else has been in days. He skates back, breath ragged, feeling the burn in his muscles, the ache in his chest that has nothing to do with physical exertion. But it’s good - it’s better. He’d rather feel this pain, this raw, physical strain, than the empty ache of loss that’s haunted him since Louis left.
Suddenly his teammate Johnson skates over, giving him a wary look. “Harry, man, take it easy. You’re going to hurt someone… or yourself.”
But Harry just shakes his head, brushing him off.
“I’m fine,” he snaps, his voice sharper than he intended.
Johnson’s eyes widen slightly, taken aback, but he doesn’t push. No one does. They’re used to the easy-going, smiling Harry, the one who jokes around and laughs with them. This Harry is different - harder, colder, with a look in his eyes that tells them he’s not to be messed with.
For the first time in his life, he really doesn’t care. Let them think what they want. Let them wonder what’s changed. The only thing that matters now is his career, his drive to make it to the top, to prove himself in this unforgiving sport. Love made him soft, made him vulnerable and he won’t allow it to happen again. From now on, he’s focused, ruthless. He’ll work harder than anyone, push himself further than before and he won’t let anything - or anyone - stand in his way.
The pain is still there, a raw wound that refuses to heal, but he buries it deep, hides it beneath layers of ice and determination. He doesn’t need love. Doesn’t need Louis, or anyone else.
All he needs is this - the cold, unyielding surface of the rink, the burn of his muscles, the satisfaction of knowing he’s giving everything he has.
By the time practice ends, he’s exhausted, his body aching, every muscle protesting as he skates to the bench. He sinks down, breathing hard, sweat dripping down his face, but there’s a grim satisfaction in the pain. It’s better than the hollow emptiness, better than feeling nothing at all.
He glances around at his teammates, sees their guarded expressions, the worried glances they exchange. They don’t understand what he’s been through, don’t understand the cost of letting someone in, of trusting them with everything you have, only to watch them walk away. Can't they see how heartbroken he is? Did nobody hear the crack of his heart that evening?
As he sits there, catching his breath, he makes a promise to himself - a vow, cold and unyielding. He’s done with love, done with opening himself up only to be torn apart. From now on, his heart belongs to the ice, to the game. Hockey won’t leave him, won’t betray him, won’t break his heart.
He doesn’t need anyone.