Toxic (Harry Styles)

Chapter 12

Chapter 12

It was ridiculously cliché, and before I didn't even understand what people meant when they described 'indescribable feeling'. I didn't know how you were supposed to know when you felt this feeling. Apparently you 'just did'.

I don't remember how blood could've gotten on me, surely it wasn't my own, or I'd still be bleeding. I think back to the recent events; the images of the fight still fresh in my mind, and they may never go away. I only recall hold one thing and that was Harry, who didn't get so much as bruised. I remember gripping his arm and the side of his shirt─

The sudden realization hits me like a train.

"Shay, what's wrong?" Harry asks, seeing the worry in my eyes. We've now neared the door we came in, on the outer edge of the crowd, after Harry collected his jacket.

I ignore his question, shoving his left arm out of the way of his side. It didn't take long to find in, since it was quite obvious. A large, red stain has started to dry on his white shirt.

I gasp, "Harry. What happened?"

He follows my intense gaze to his wound that seems to be blotting. Harry's expression turns solemn but winces when he twists around a bit too much. So that's why he looked like he was limping the whole night. And when he started to hit Evan─ I shiver when I think about Harry's fist connecting with Evan's jaw ─the wound must've opened up again. But the question is: how did he receive it?

"It's nothing, Shay," he says.

I disregard what he says, looking at his side and then survey the area around us. When I find what I'm looking for, the restroom, I tow a resistant Harry behind me.

***

"You call this nothing?" I ask Harry as he sits shirtless on the graffiti covered sink.

Once Harry finally gave up which was a struggle, he followed me into the ladies restroom. Apparently, males in the women's room weren't uncommon because when we walked in there was already a couple making out, and if we didn't interrupt them, possibly much more. But when they saw us, they stagger out, clearly drunk and giggling.

Harry had pulled his white shirt over his head, sitting along with his jacket on the floor. I'll admit that I did slightly stare at his torso, tracing the lines and curves of his toned chest and biceps. He noticed and called me out on it, which made my blush red.

I then turned my full attention to his side and felt like being sick when I saw what I did. Harry's side was caked with dry blood that ran down to his hips. I can see where the wound had started to scab over, and then pulled apart by his rough actions.

"I've had worse," he answers with amusement.

I hastily grab a paper towel from the dispenser, and wet in the other sink, purposely disregarding what he said. I don't want to think about the kind of injuries he could've had. I could feel Harry's gaze on me even as I move back to his body. I press the cool towel to the cut; Harry tenses his abs fractionally, most likely not in pain but from the sudden cold. I gently start to dab rather than wipe off the blood.   

"How did this happen exactly?" I ask even though I might not want the answer, for I might now be able to bear it.

"The truth?" He looks at me with raised eyebrows. I hesitate for a moment before nodding once. "I had a rough run in with a guy. I'll spare you details, but I didn't know he had a knife, and when he pulled it out, he sliced me."

I was intent on Harry's gash through the story, but when he finally told me how he received it, my breathing caught. I forced myself to not gasp, and keep my head lowered, but my eyes fall closed.