Irresistible, [boy x boy AU]

{Commence - 12}

Note: So I've recently been reading a few books recently...

Warning: May require some vague triggers of rape, please skip the italics if the idea is unbearable. Thank you.

--@--

He doesn't remember how or where he fell asleep, all that came to mind, is that he was at a bloodlust stupor, lots of giggling, lots of screaming, then finally, in what felt like centuries, his mind finally blanked out, and he finds himself in yet another pinnacle haze.

Is he high?

Very unlikely.

If he was quote on quote, possibly 'high', this feeling shouldn't be branded onto his chest, shouldn't even feel like a fucking tattoo from the cheap marihuana that he managed to purchase from a shady guy with a black hoodie, black pants, black shoes--black everything really.

He couldn't place where he was, nor can he see, or even smell where he lay. He wishes it was something nice, like a colourful (yet hopefully decent-smelling) flower garden, can probably be some gritty sidewalk that smells like gravel and rocks? He's not sure how to describe a rocks scent, but anything can be be better than flat out piss on the floor; he's hoping that it hadn't come down to that.

But, with all this haze of confusion spiraling along his mind, all he felt was the hands that prodded at him like he was in embodiment of a limp doll, feeling as if all the energy that powered every cell in his body flicker on and off, as he manages to weakly push whatever was touching him, achingly (with all the strength he is left with) away, then, as if the rug was snatched away right from under him, his ability to move became laboured.

He thinks he can feel the groan bubbling in his throat, the air finding itself down his shrunken, oxygen-deprived lungs, but he felt so ethereal, like he had no body to even mediate to anymore, like he was nothing but another cloud to float by a rainy day; a new type of high per se.

Really, he should feel blissful, should feel unreal, and probably magical, but..

But thing is, he shouldn't feel this scared, this fucking terrified to fall. He thinks he can see the edge of a 600-foot building from the gravel right beneath his feet (so wait, what? He's standing now?), thinks that he's already in the brink of falling down, both hands bound behind him, and either one or both eyes mangled and bruised, vision in complete distortion, with no indication of what direction he would possibly be headed.

He felt like he was in vertigo the moment rough winds brushed along his flushed, sweat-damped skin, felt like that was the only thing that gave him the push, that little shove that sent him barreling down to the unknown--to the wretched thing they called Earth.

And then, and then he felt his mouth slacken, felt it like a glass of week-old molasses, felt his throat constrict as the pressure on his lung increases, ribs digging at his organs as he screams, screams even if he himself could not hear it, screams for the help he so desperately needed, screams at the small possibility that his family will hear his quiet plea, screams for his own stupidity, his own arrogance, naiveté--screams for salvation.

He remembers his ears ringing at the sound, remembers the slick, nimble, yet foreign fingertips forcing themselves down his mouth, felt it as clear as day, as he sputters, and chokes, chokes on fingers that remained, chokes on the saliva dribbling down his cheeks, chokes in the moment he's living in--chokes on the world.

He thinks he can feel the hot breath tickling his ears, can feel the sound of soothing words that is meant to remedy the situation, to try and make him feel better, to feel safe, but Harry's too far gone in within himself to even notice anything other than the strong scent that prodded at his nostrils, that scent that somehow managed to keep him rooted to the floor in some weird, intangible way. That smelt of musk that probably came from a daily use of cigarettes, and wait, does he smell gardenias?