Deadly. {Larry}

Thirty Eight

Its been a few days and It was the first day Louis had to go to work since he found out. Harry felt like he had to do something to prove to the man that he was taking his killing sobriety seriously.

He could see the hesitation in the man's eyes when the curly haired man grew closer to him and the short answers he gave him when he tried to start a conversation.

He couldn't think about anything until his gaze met the chest where his heart literally skipped a beat because that was a big leap.

I should throw them all away, he contemplated. That must mean that he is really into this guy because he had been building up his collection for years. But Louis was someone important to him. He had to do it.

So with shaky hands, he grabbed a trash bag from under the sink along with a cloth and made his way into the room. He slowly got down onto his knees, letting out a deep breath as he lifted the lid.

He smiled at his weapons, his fingertips dusting over the handles and the cold blades that brought him back to happy times. Well not exactly happy but pleasing.

He shook his head because as he reminisced, the tingling in his finger tips appeared. He grabbed the handle of the first knife on top of the pile, wiping it down carefully with the cloth to get rid of any fingerprints before placing it into the garbage bag.

That one hurt.

The next knives were easier but he grew more hesitant which each wipe of the cloth. He couldn't believe he was actually doing this. The emptier the chest got, the more his heart raced.

It took about thirty minutes to clean and put away all of the knives. He would have been finished but the last one was shining at him from the bottom of the box and he couldn't find himself to grab it and place it with the rest of them.

Am I sure I want to do this? This means giving up everything and for what? What if Louis doesn't forgive me and I just did this for nothing.

But i love him. And if someone can find their way into my heart this way then they deserve my commitment.

So with sweaty hands, he grabbed the handle of the sharpened kitchen knife, looking at his reflection to see that he had a slight tint of pink in his eyes. He groaned and wiped down the handle, placing it carefully inside to hear the light clank as it met the other weapons that occupied the chest moments before.

He stood to his feet with a grumble, taking the bag in hand to put inside his backpack because he had to discard the bag in the only way he knew he was comfortable with.

>>

The walk to the lake was silent. He didn't listen to music or have any thoughts. He just walked with his head held high and his hands squeezing at the straps of his backpack.