Gods & Monsters

Chapter 13 (Part 3)

"So what did you end up buying? Just a bunch of rubbish that'll rot your teethies out?" Louis asks with a smirk, before Harry suddenly holds up a pack of two black Sharpies. He raises one brow. "Alright. And what's that for, then?"

Harry grins, already opening up the packaging, never breaking his gaze. "So you can give me a tattoo," he explains calmly.

Louis stares. "Give you a tattoo," he repeats blankly. "What the actual fuck are you on about, pup?"

Shaking his head, Harry laughs, already unscrewing one of the markers and shoving it into Louis' hand. "I told you I want a tattoo but I don't know what I want. So draw me one! I'm giving you full permission." He beams like he thinks of himself as a genius.

Louis stares at him like he's an idiot. "You realize how dangerous it is to give me full control, correct?"

Harry nods, seemingly holding back laughter. "Yes, correct."

"And yet..?" Louis prods, slowly nearing the tip of the pen to Harry's skin, a mischievous tilt to his mouth, a questioning arch in his brow.

"And yet I give you full control," Harry concludes, and only thrusts his exposed arm at Louis that much more, excitement buzzing from him.

Honestly, this child...

"Alright, then," Louis consents with a sigh, smirking when he sees Harry roll his eyes. He pauses, Sharpie midair, as he contemplates what to do. Sure, he could go the usual route and draw a penis. Sure, he could write something childish and insulting that would make Harry guffaw like the kangaroo that he is. It would be funny. It would be harmless.

But...

Hm. He could draw something a little more poignant, like a butterfly. Or...

And then it hits him. The most obvious choice. The one thing he's always written, everywhere, all his life, whenever he's had the opportunity. The one thing he actually takes seriously, carries with him—the thing that he's come to associate with Harry. In so many ways.

His impish grin smoothing out, he sets the cool tip of the marker on Harry's skin, feeling the boy's eyes on him as he grips his hand gently in his own, words flowing out as neatly as he can write them along Harry's underarm, stretching to his wrist. The letters look small and scratchy, harsh against pallid flesh.

"To live is the rarest thing. Most people exist, that is all."

With a definitive lick of the lips, Louis caps the marker, nodding to himself as he watches the ink dry under the streetlamps.

Harry tilts his head to read the words, keeping his arm in Louis' lap, mumbling them under his breath. When he finishes, he looks up, eyes thoughtful and a little far away. "What's that from?"

"I'm not sure," Louis admits, blinking down at the dark cut of the words against Harry's unmarked skin. "I just remember hearing it at a very young age and it always stuck with me." Shrug. "Made sense to me."

Nodding, Harry hums, looking back down at the words and reading them again and again, whispering them in a breath and blinking in the spaces.

"I know the feeling," he mumbles after a moment, still inspecting the sentence with quiet eyes.

Louis stares at him, an unexpected lift in his heart.

And then suddenly he's grabbing Louis' arm and pulling it into his lap, a small smile spreading.

"What are you—" Louis starts, watching as Harry rolls up the sleeve of his jacket.

He looks up, grins mischievously. "Your turn," is all he says, and it's enough for Louis to half-smile, letting Harry continue.