Dust Bones [Harry Styles]

046

note: filler, but hopefully i update tomorrow (:

We're finally settled in a bedroom. He lays on his back, barely breathing as it hurts when his diaphragm expands in his chest. I know that my eyes are puffy because I can feel them almost swollen and the skin around them itches with stained, salty tears. 

Marco walks up the stairs, only to find that I've locked the door. His constant knocking agitates me more than I already am, but as I wipe tears away from my face, I'm settled on caring for Harry's injuries. 

I find an elastic, then I proceed to tie my hair up from my face where it continues to bother me. My hands shake a little, but I want to use all my emotional strength to push away the hurt. 

Those same hands unbutton Harry's black shirt, gradually pulling both sides apart to reveal his bruising, toned stomach. I shut my eyes for a brief moment after witnessing the horrifying purple bruises that look like they could suffocate him within. 

My hands gently slip the black fabric from his shoulders. The warm skin beneath my palms seems fragile; a word never used before to describe anything relatively under Harry's personality or physical appearance. 

I finally have it off his body, tossing it aside for now. The stains of blood on his nose become too much for me to look at, so I use a small towel I found in the bathroom. It was now slightly damp, so I could wipe away the stains on his face. 

I settle on the bed, sitting beside him on my knees. I leaned over to get a look at his face, all bruised and blood-stained. 

Luckily, he stopped bleeding. I swiped it gently across his lips, my eyes briefly glancing upon his face. His eyes were staring up at the ceiling, seemingly lost and ponderous. 

I swiped beneath his nose. Down the bridge was an evident bruise. I lightly brushed my fingertips on it, sour frown on my lips as a result. 

He doesn't flinch when I continue to clean his wounds. Across his jaw were bruises that were obviously painful, more so painful for me to look at. 

As I continued cleaning his face, he wouldn't look at me for nothing in the world. Even when I accidentally swiped to sensitive spot, and I knew he felt pain, he did not look at me. He was silent. 

I was moving down the bed when his fingers wrap around my wrist. My astonishment becomes evident with wide eyes and a parted mouth. I watch as he slips his hand until it's at mine, holding it there in his. This is all he does. 

I'm back to trying to take care of him as best as I can, with only one hand considering his occupied the other. A sigh leaves my lips. The cool, damp towel in my hand wipes any blood stains that are left across his face. 

His breathing is short, which worries me. The severe bruising around his rib cage and his stomach make it hard for his chest to expand with every inhale. I brush my fingers through his hair, stopping my remedies for a moment to confront him about it. 

My free hand then gently feels around his ribs, feeling for anything unusual besides the bruising. I softly say, "Don't breathe like that, you'll encourage your body to hyperventilate."

He looks at me this time, and I add, "I know it hurts, but it's better than making yourself suffocate." 

Harry acknowledges my advice, and he breathes in deeply and out, jaw clenched tightly. God, my ruthless father hurt him so bad he can't breathe properly. I frown and for a moment, I have to let go of his hand to get off the bed and get more small towels. 

I don't have any ice, so I soak the towels underneath the running faucet in cold water. I wring them out a bit, and rush to his side once again. I slide a chair beside the bed, proceeding with my work.

The cold towels make him shudder as I place them across his torso. It won't be as effective as ice itself, but as long as cooling occurs the bruising may die down. After placing the towels and his body, another knock issues from the bedroom door. 

"Miss, you open this door right now! I don't joke!" His Italian accent is clear in his voice. 

I roll my eyes in agitation, though I don't speak; Harry does. 

He, agitated, rasps, "Someone fucking shoot his tongue off." 

The tone of his voice is so raspy and huskier than usual, evidence of his weakened state. I agree with him, but I don't respond. I use a hand to stroke through his curls, sighing heavily to myself. Harry's eyes gaze up at me as he clears his throat. 

His actions surprise me. A hand locks around the base of my chin, and he pulls my face down to his. As our noses brush, his eyes follow the entirety of my face. I am careful not to touch his injuries, leaving my hands at the edge of the bed. 

"I'm --" 

"Don't...say sorry again." 

An unfazed expression locks on his features. "-- thirsty," he finishes. 

I lightly blush with embarrassment and breathe, "Okay, I'll get you some water." 

He lets go of me as I stand. Marco is behind the door when I swing it open. His posture straightens, and he tries to take a peek inside the bedroom, but I shut the door in a haste instant.

"I really don't think it is safe for you to be in a room alone with the enemy," Marco rambles as he follows me down the stairs. I remember when Harry followed me around, but the glory of it was that Harry was quiet. And I remember finding that annoying.

My jaw clenches. I step feet into the kitchen to be greeted with a few other men that work for my father, all snacking on something they brought with them. I look into the fridge, and there is plenty of new things they have probably just bought. Including water bottles. 

I take one from the fridge, ignoring the crowd of men that seem to silence themselves at the sight of me. Marco tries to keep from going back into the bedroom once we reach the door. He grabs my wrist, and I shove at his chest. 

"Stop it!" I shout. "I'm sorry, but you're irritating the fuck out of me, so please go tell my father that he can shove any protection he's got up his ass!" 

The instant the words leave my mouth, I regret them, but I don't bother taking them back. Marco is silent as I slam the door on his face, inside now to face Harry, who's head is raised just to look at me from my distance. 

"That was...bold," Harry lowly comments. 

My furious expression softens a bit. I go over to him and begin to uncap the bottle. Harry pushes off the mattress, grunting at his pain. I widen my eyes and warn, "Wait, what are you doing? You're going to hurt yourself." 

"I'm fine," he assures me, pressing his lips together as he inhales sharply. "Fuck!" His frustration is obvious, and I only feel concern. I place the bottle down on the bedside table and help him sit up. He accepts my help with a frown, but when he back against the headboard, he seems a bit more content. 

I pass him the bottle of water, which he takes from me. He tips his head back and in two gulp he literally drinks half of the water bottle. I watch him sigh from the refreshment and I take the bottle from him. He leans his head back against the headboard, eyes gazing to me.

The towels I placed on his body are beginning to fall off, and I try to fix them, but he moves my hands away, which I fight at. "Stop it, you need to put something cool on the br--" 

"It's fine." 

"No, Harry --" 

"I said I don't need it." He protests.

I sigh heavily. "Can you just --" 

"Do you hate me?" Harry asks suddenly, the tone of his voice growing considerably serious.

My eyes snap up to meet with his. "No," I answer softly. "I wouldn't be taking care of you if I did." 

"You should hate me. I fucked up," he confesses huskily. 

"Well, I love you, you bastard," I admit once again. 

Harry pauses for a moment, but then he murmurs, "I love you."

My cheeks are pink, though I remain silent. 

note: <3 thanks for reading