Introvert

20

 warnings for: misogyny and mentions of both homophobia and self-harm/self-destroying

'splutter shall I with your smile

hold your hand for a while

and in deep embrace all I seek

is a kiss which makes me weak.' ~ Anonymous

||Louis||

"Will you go to prom with me?" 

I stare, dropping my magazine to land on my stomach, ignoring the fluttering of pterodactyls in my stomach. His nervous smile is enough to make me hard, and suddenly I hate this. I hate that a straight guy would ask me to prom, and I hate that I want it more than anything. Mostly, I hate the fact I ever fell for a guy who was always been, and always will be, my best friend.

"What." It's deadpan, dry, slightly hysterical. Oh, good. At least it matches how I'm feeling. His eyes are wide, evergreen glinting from the lamp on my desk.

"I-I mean. Y-you don't have to? I just. I know you're not, like dating. And I'm not. And, like. I can tolerate you. So? Prom. Just. We don't have to." He's stuttering, red burning through his milky cheeks, and in this moment, as I stare at his red cheeks and bright pink lips, I probably love him more than ever. 

"I. Harry. I, um. I hate to break this to you, but you're not gay, Harry." I whisper, trying to stop fear and hatred for this and love for him so that I don't just burst into tears. I did it when I came out to my mum; cried for hours. She was fine with it. But the thought remained that something would be changed. Really, all that changed were the pronouns.

Harry looks pained, suddenly, red wiped from his cheeks. His eyes are watering, slightly, and he looks sort of desperate. For what, I have no idea. His lip trembles, shaking as he reaches to hold it between long, thick fingers.

"I." He chokes, and he's crying. He's crying, and I don't know what to do, and I stare as he just shakes and sobs into his palms as he presses them to his closed, leaking eyes.

Except I do know what to do, because I've been doing it for years. I rush up from where I lay, and step around the dirty trousers on the floor, and I wrap my arms around him.

He's grown, kind of ridiculously, but he makes himself ridiculously small, like a tiny dog trying to find a way not to be in trouble with it's owner.

"Oh, hush, love. You're okay. Calm down, you're alright. I've got you. I've got you." I promise, kissing his curls as he shakes, whines into his hands, moans like there's nothing else he can do. As if all he has ever known is torment and hatred. It isn't. Everybody loves Harry. I love him, a ridiculous, pathetic amount. I want to touch his c o c k. Really bad. Right now, though, I just press kisses to his hair and hope to God he'll be okay. 

"God, Lou. Fuck. Fuck." He whispers, and suddenly, he's not sobbing any more. The tears are still on his face, and his lips are bright pink, but I don't see that then, because he's kissing me.

||Shyanna|| {Chemistry}

Experiments are, in most cases, more fun than writing lessons. Not that I don't love writing, because I really, really do. But, mostly, writing in chemistry means equations I barely understand. I know if I cared, if perhaps I had paid more attention to the subject, that I could get quite far with it. But, as life declares and brings, I am truly and wholly indifferent towards anything that is not writing nor poetry.

So, it is fair to say, that I let out a relieved sigh when Tendra announces that we will be doing a classic experiment that's pretty much void of anything except perhaps joy. And masochism, if you layer the soap bubbles too thinly. It burns like hell fire, smooths the skin away and sizzles if you're not careful. I've retained knowledge on how to get away with no burns. But these are things I don't want to share with the general public. Everyone knows the mistakes I made back in year ten. the scars are as present now as they were then. Now, they're more mental.