Undone, Undress (Larry Stylinson)

seventy-five

Louis asks about the scars later that night.

Figuring he shouldn't procrastinate any longer, he takes the opportunity as it arises. Harry is sitting naked on the countertop, eating raspberries off his fingertips and singing along to whatever Spotify playlist is playing on his phone.

"What're you doing?" Louis laughs, going to the fridge for a beer. He sees the cherry wine and pours himself a glass of that instead. His mind flashes back to all the times Harry has gotten drunk on cherry wine when he was upset, for god knows what reason. He pours Harry a glass too, and hands it to him.

"Eating raspberries. Want some?"

He lets Harry pop a couple in his mouth and then backs away to give him space again. "Why are you naked, then?"

"I dunno, I felt like it. You don't mind, do you?"

If Harry were anyone else, Louis would think he was trying to seduce him. He's not anyone else, though; he's Harry. His answer is genuine. At least as genuine as he can be with his legs spread, sitting naked on the countertop, licking drips of raspberry juice off his hand and wrist.

He leans against the refrigerator and takes a sip of his wine. "Nah, it's a nice view."

"Damn right," Harry agrees, laughing a little and tapping his fingernails on the countertop to the beat of the music. The noise sends chills of pleasure down Louis' spine, and he's thinking, how can he do that? How can such a simple action from Harry make Louis feel this way?

"Although probably more than a little unsanitary."

Harry pouts at him, brushing his hair out of his face with the back of his hand. "We have to clean the kitchen, anyways. We said we would do that this week."

He's right. Louis nods in acknowledgement and finishes his wine, still watching him. Harry remains sitting on the countertop, humming the melodies of the songs playing, gazing at Louis from across the kitchen with his bedroom eyes, gaze hazy and lustful.

When his glass is empty, Louis cross the wood floor and settles himself in the space between Harry's legs. He kisses him softly on the lips, just on the surface, not enough to add tongue. While intimacy with Harry is phenomenal, it's not his goal for tonight.

"Tell me about these," he asks eventually, stroking the soft skin of Harry's bare inner thighs. The red, circular blemishes. The tender skin. Some of the scars are newer, and that scares Louis.

"I already told you. My dad burned me when I was a kid."

"Have you ever done it to yourself?" He's worried of the answer, even though he already knows what it is.

You see, the thing about being in love with the most self-destructive person on earth is that it hurts so fucking much but there's nothing Louis can do about it. No matter what he says or does, nothing will magically heal Harry or make him love himself the way Louis loves him. The only person who can save Harry is Harry himself. That's all. It's the truth.

"Yes," Harry whispers, quiet and soft. As if the world isn't crashing down around them.

"Since you've met me?" He already knows. He tries to think of Harry with a cigarette in his hands, flicking open Louis' lighter and touching it to the end until it glows crimson. He tries to think of Harry pressing it to his skin with the intention of hurting himself, of creating a scar that will maybe fade, but never truly go away.

"Yes."

"Why?" He has to ask.

"Because it hurts."

"What hurts?" Just for clarification. Just to be clear. Just to give him the space to speak, if he wants.

Being alive, Harry might say. Being me. Just being. He doesn't. He says, "Burning myself with a cigarette."

"Why do you want to hurt yourself?"

Harry laughs, but nothing's funny. He lets Louis pull him into a hug. For once, he is completely still aside from the steady drumbeat of his heart. Louis is the one who's shaking.

"Because I hate myself," he says, as if it's the simplest fact in the world. "Because I want to punish myself. Because I deserve it."

Louis tries to hide his tears in the crook of Harry's neck, but Harry notices. He pulls Louis back and wipes the tears away with his thumbs, kissing all over his face in the process. He swings his legs back and forth before wrapping them around Louis' back and taking another sip of his wine. Louis cries into his shoulder, too afraid to let go. This is exactly what he knew and what he feared, all at once.

"Why do you hate yourself?" he asks, unable to keep the crying sound out of his voice.

Harry is surprisingly patient with him. "I'm an awful person, Lou. And every day I'm just waiting for you to see what I see."