In My Veins - Chapter 3
pairing: arry/Louis
rating: ature
summary: arry Styles is an arrogant pop star who has fallen into a black hole of drugs and self-loathing. Dr. Louis Tomlinson is hired to fix the unfixable; but not if Harry has any say in it. Coauthored wit onedirection5 she writes even numbered chapters, I write odd).
Pulling a striped t-shirt over his head as he stumbled out of his room in the spacious flat, Louis’s mind traveled back to the only topic that seemed to capture his interest lately: his newest, and certainly most intriguing client.
Louis had been counseling Harry Styles for three weeks now, and despite his attempts at sympathy, discussion, and interrogation, he had made little progress with the boy. It didn’t help that Harry clearly didn’t care about his therapy, as he made abundantly clear by showing up late to almost every meeting and then usually refusing to talk, instead choosing to scrutinize the psychology and philosophy books on Louis’ shelf or stare out the window while Louis talked at him.
To say that Louis was frustrated would be an understatement. His previous patients had at least shown him basic respect, even when they didn’t appreciate his presence. It had never taken him this long to crack a client before. However, Louis wasn’t angry; he saw Harry as a challenge, and he would be damned if he didn’t solve this puzzle.
Because that’s what Harry was: a puzzle. Louis could tell that the boy’s apathetic attitude and arrogance were merely a facade. Occasionally when Louis was speaking at him during their sessions, doing whatever he could to pull a reaction out of his patient, he could see the emotions that flickered through Harry’s mask of indifference. These slip-ups usually occurred when Louis brought up Harry’s days before he had won the X Factor, back when he was just the boy from Holmes Chapel who worked in a bakery.
It was safe to say that Louis had taken more than a passing interest in his mysterious new client. After his second appointment with the singer, he had immersed himself in interviews, performances, and video clips featuring the curly-haired boy, even renting the X Factor season to study Harry’s evolution from student to celebrity. The X Factor shows were what convinced Louis that the troubled young man that sat sulkily in his office thrice a week was merely a carefully constructed act that disguised Harry’s true self; the boy on those shows was a cheerful, friendly, outgoing lad who was rarely seen without his signature dimpled smile. He could hardly be recognized as the gaunt, sullen man who Louis was hired to repair. Louis couldn’t imagine what had caused this unseeming change, but he was determined to find out.
But he wasn’t obsessed. Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.
“Tea? I’m just about to put a pot on. No offense mate, you look like you could use it.”
Louis jumped at the voice intruding into his thoughts, blinking rapidly to pull himself back to the present. Liam, Louis’s flatmate, was smiling at him with far too much cheer than was normal for eight o’clock on a Tuesday morning.
“Can’t, sorry, I’m late.” Louis snagged his signature braces off the back of the dining room chair and snapped them on hastily, meanwhile using his free hand to search the cupboards for anything to serve as breakfast.
“Ooh, is it that Harry Styles bloke? That one you keep talking about? You’ve certainly taken an interest in that boy, haven’t you.” The smirk was evident in the taller boy’s tone.
Louis rolled his eyes. “He’s my patient. That’s kind of my job.” Failing to find anything that looked remotely edible in the pantry, he added, “Lili, be a doll and swing by the grocer, would you? We’re not starving college students anymore, we should stop acting like it.”
Liam chuckled. “Easy there Tommo, I’m not as whipped as you think I am.” Louis raised an eyebrow. With a snort, Liam said, “I’ll go shopping, but only because it takes a lot of calories to maintain a physique as stunning as this. Please remember that I’m not your wife.”
“Whatever you say, darling,” Louis admonished, smacking the other boy’s rear with a wink as he whirled out of the flat. Liam just shook his head incredulously and turned back to the now boiling kettle.
~
Damn, this bed sure is uncomfortable. I should really invest in a better mattress... not that I spend much time in it anyway. Harry groaned and rolled over, not realizing his mistake until he had already toppled off of his living room sofa and onto the hardwood floors. Oof. That was not gonna do a lot for the hangover. But at least it explained the discomfort. Harry slowly pulled himself to his feet, making sure to keep his eyes closed to block the light that was streaming through the window. He felt his way along the wall until he reached the kitchen; deciding it was safe to open his eyes, he let go of the doorframe and slouched over to the fridge, yanking it open and pulling out a bottle of gin and the carton of orange juice. After sloshing the two beverages together in the glass on the counter (was it even clean? Oh well, the alcohol will kill anything growing there) and swigging down the mixture, Harry attempted to recall the events of the night before. Niall definitely wasn’t there the blonde boy virtually never went clubbing with him anymore--not that Harry could blame him; the places Harry liked to frequent weren’t exactly Niall’s scene.
After a quick glance at his arms, Harry could say with almost absolute certainty that the only influence he was under the previous night had been booze and house music. Ha. And Simon doesn’t have any faith in me. I can control myself. Although in the back of his mind, Harry knew that the only reason he hadn’t taken drugs last night was because no one offered. He was never one to turn down a high.
Harry glanced around his kitchen as he chugged the remains of his drink, already feeling the comforting numbness the alcohol offered settling over his throbbing head. Glasses and dirty plates littered the countertops and it didn’t look like he had swept in years. Which was a distinct possibility. Walking to the doorway, Harry could see that his living room was no better. He winced as the smell of alcohol, sweat, and...oh dear god, please tell me that isn’t piss... crept into his nostrils.
God, that’s disgusting. Maybe I’ll just stay home today and do some straightening up. Harry hadn’t done any actual housework for ages, but he wasn’t a slob; at least he didn’t used to be. But clearly things changed. Well, maybe he could change them back. Baby steps, Haz, Harry thought with a sarcastic smirk.
He was in the middle of piling his dirty clothes into the washer when he heard his mobile vibrating from some undetermined location in the flat. Dropping the shirts in, he jogged after the noise, and after some searching found the elusive phone in the pocket of the discarded blazer by his door. Growling at the name that flashed on the screen, Harry reluctantly pressed “answer”.
“Where the bloody hell are you?” Simon Cowell snapped through the receiver.
Harry winced as the volume pierced through the gin-shield he had built around his recovering hangover.
“My goddamn house, is that a problem now?”
“Your appointment with Dr. Tomlinson started over 40 minutes ago. Since I’m being so kind as to get you the best help money can buy, I’d hope that you would at least show up. There’s a car for you waiting outside. You have five minutes.” Harry heard the line go dead and he tossed the phone onto the floor in exasperation. Pretentious assholes do not do much to help hangovers. Oh well. Maybe Dr. Tomlinson would give up today and stop talking his ear off without so much as a grunt in response. But Harry doubted he’d be so lucky.
~
Louis looked up as Harry stumbled into his office, puffy eyed and scowling.
“You’re late.” Louis said coolly.
“Fuck off.”
“Suit yourself. I get paid either way.”
Harry refused to make eye contact as he slumped onto the overstuffed patient’s couch. He hated the way Louis wouldn’t kowtow to his hostility and celebrity, even though he knew how arrogant that sounded. Just point to thing to add to the laundry list of things he disliked about the young therapist.
“So. Today I thought we could talk about your life before the X Factor, before you became...this,” Louis finished lamely, gesturing at Harry’s slouching form. As expecting, Harry didn’t reply.
“I did my research...I have brilliant sources, you know...and I see that you were in college studying English...brilliant marks, you played football, student council...quite the Renaissance man.”
As Louis shuffled through his papers, Harry took the opportunity to evaluate his tormentor. The older boy was wearing a blue and white striped shirt that hugged his fit frame, braces...braces? Harry barely caught the smile that threatened to break his cool composure. This guy is his own person, I’ll give him that. Harry’s eyes roamed up to Louis’s messy caramel-colored hair. It wasn’t really messy, now that he really looked at it, it seemed to be rather carefully styled. Harry also noticed the long, almost feminine looking lashes that fluttered over the boy’s delicate cheekbones as he read Harry’s files. This guy is almost...pretty. That’s the only way to put it Harry mused. But that didn’t stop him from being an irritating prick.
Louis looked up, coughing at the startle he felt when his eyes met the distinctive green of Harry Styles stare. The younger boy snorted at Louis’s reaction, turning back to his standard position of staring at the wall.
What’s wrong with you, Tommo? Louis thought to himself. You’ve never let yourself get unsettled by a client before; this won't be any different. “You seemed like quite the golden boy back then. You must have had loads of friends.” Louis saw Harry’s mouth twitch. Good. That meant he was getting close to something. “Do you keep in touch with any of them?”
Much to Louis’s surprise, Harry replied. “No. With the X Factor and all it was too hard to keep in touch. By the time it was over, it was too late. We weren’t the same people. I stopped calling them and they stopped trying. Big surprise.” There was a much softer look in the boy’s eyes, one Louis hadn’t noticed before, and he quickly scratched a note in his scratchpad: Relationship issues/abandonment?
Trying to keep the smug feeling in his chest from appearing on his face, Louis shuffled the papers as a distraction. Ah, sweet progress.
“I must ask, Harry, were all your relationships in your teenage years healthy? Any abusive friends...girlfriends.....” No response. Harry seemed to regret his earlier words, now trying extra hard to appear nonchalant.
“....Boyfriends...?”
Harry’s head snapped up. “Oh, you’d like that wouldn’t you, you faggot? Don’t lie to me, I’ve seen you staring. And with that outfit you aren't fooling anyone, believe me.”
Louis dropped the pen he had been twirling between his thin fingers.
“Excuse me??”
“You heard me. You like cock. You’re queer. Sausages over tacos. You get the picture. Even a drug-addled brain like mine can figure that out without much effort.” Harry grinned as he saw the obvious effect his words were having over the doctor. There, much better. Harry had finally gained the upperhand.
But to Harry’s surprise, his victory was short lived.
“The appointment is over. Please leave my office.” Despite the calmness of his tone, Harry could see something dangerous seething behind Louis’s clear blue eyes.
Glowering at the unanticipated turn of events, Harry heaved himself off the couch and stalked toward the door, slamming it shut behind him.
Louis shuddered involuntarily as his head fell against his mahogany desk. Please, not again.
~
Bursting into his empty flat, Harry threw off his blazer and made a beeline for his booze cabinet. Who gave a fuck if it was only four o'clock in the afternoon, he was a grown fucking man and could do whatever the fuck he goddamn pleased. Grasping the half-full bottle of bourbon and tugging off the cork with his teeth, he proceeded to gulp the contents straight from the bottle. No chaser. Chasers are for pussies.
Harry caught a glimpse of his reflection in the streaked mirror that hung across from the entrance to the flat. God, I look like shit. Getting drunk before 5, that's gotta be a new record. What was he so bothered by? He hadn't done anything wrong. Sure, he wasn't exactly being friendly, but Dr. Tomlinson was overreacting. All Harry did was state the obvious. If the doctor was so goddamned sensitive about it maybe he shouldn't dress like such a queen.
But Harry still felt nauseated. He couldn't get the shocked expression on the other man’s face out of his mind no matter how hard he tried. Harry knew that his actions were unjustified. The therapist was just doing the job he was paid to do and Harry had attacked him. He had fucked up again. He couldn't even maintain a civil relationship with his fucking therapist. The therapist with the soft features and bright eyes that had looked so raw and shattered after Harry had lashed out.
What the fuck, Styles, are you growing a uterus now? Get a fucking grip. He'll get over it. They're just words.
Despite the fierce inner monologue, Harry could not shake the feeling of regret and-- no, not guilt, Harry Styles didn't possess that emotion. Of course not.
Well, that's what you're here for. Harry thought as he cradled the bottle that was getting lighter by the minute. But he might need something stronger to get rid of all the unwanted emotions that refused to leave his head.
~
The knock echoed through the empty hallway of the apartment complex on the far side of London. Harry let his hand fall, knowing he would be kept waiting for at least a minute. He had visited this place many times before. He knew the drill. Soon after he heard scuffling on the other side of the door as someone fumbled with a the lock. The door opened to reveal a dark haired, exotic-looking man, whose lack of a shirt showed off his tanned upper body. Warm brown eyes looked up and down Harry's long body appraisingly.
"Harry, baby, it's been too long. I was beginning to think you had forgotten about me."
"Don't be stupid, Zayn. I'm not that dense."
"Ah, Styles, ever the charmer. So what brings you here this fine evening?" the man purred, leaning against the door and gazing at Harry through thick lashes.
"You know what," Harry said, pushing his way past the man into the poorly lit apartment. He walked purposefully into the tiny bathroom at the back of the flat, opening the cabinet and pulling out a needle and a tourniquet. "Zayn, where'd you hide the fucking smack?"
Zayn sauntered up behind Harry, slipping his hands into the curly-haired boy's front pockets. "Now this just won't do. You know it's a terrible idea to shoot up when you're unhappy. How about you let me put you in a better mood and then we can see what happens?" The man's hand traced slow circle on Harry's thigh, the thin fabric of his pockets acting as the only barrier between tanned fingers and pale skin. Harry shivered at the touch. "Come on, babe. For old time's sake?"
"Fine. Just consider this your payment." Harry had barely let out the words when he felt soft lips tracing up the side of his neck. Zayn pulled back and tugged Harry's hand, leading him to the bedroom.
Even as the warm mouth slid down his stomach and deft hands undid the buttons on his trousers, Harry could not banish those pained blue eyes from his mind.
rating: ature
summary: arry Styles is an arrogant pop star who has fallen into a black hole of drugs and self-loathing. Dr. Louis Tomlinson is hired to fix the unfixable; but not if Harry has any say in it. Coauthored wit onedirection5 she writes even numbered chapters, I write odd).
Pulling a striped t-shirt over his head as he stumbled out of his room in the spacious flat, Louis’s mind traveled back to the only topic that seemed to capture his interest lately: his newest, and certainly most intriguing client.
Louis had been counseling Harry Styles for three weeks now, and despite his attempts at sympathy, discussion, and interrogation, he had made little progress with the boy. It didn’t help that Harry clearly didn’t care about his therapy, as he made abundantly clear by showing up late to almost every meeting and then usually refusing to talk, instead choosing to scrutinize the psychology and philosophy books on Louis’ shelf or stare out the window while Louis talked at him.
To say that Louis was frustrated would be an understatement. His previous patients had at least shown him basic respect, even when they didn’t appreciate his presence. It had never taken him this long to crack a client before. However, Louis wasn’t angry; he saw Harry as a challenge, and he would be damned if he didn’t solve this puzzle.
Because that’s what Harry was: a puzzle. Louis could tell that the boy’s apathetic attitude and arrogance were merely a facade. Occasionally when Louis was speaking at him during their sessions, doing whatever he could to pull a reaction out of his patient, he could see the emotions that flickered through Harry’s mask of indifference. These slip-ups usually occurred when Louis brought up Harry’s days before he had won the X Factor, back when he was just the boy from Holmes Chapel who worked in a bakery.
It was safe to say that Louis had taken more than a passing interest in his mysterious new client. After his second appointment with the singer, he had immersed himself in interviews, performances, and video clips featuring the curly-haired boy, even renting the X Factor season to study Harry’s evolution from student to celebrity. The X Factor shows were what convinced Louis that the troubled young man that sat sulkily in his office thrice a week was merely a carefully constructed act that disguised Harry’s true self; the boy on those shows was a cheerful, friendly, outgoing lad who was rarely seen without his signature dimpled smile. He could hardly be recognized as the gaunt, sullen man who Louis was hired to repair. Louis couldn’t imagine what had caused this unseeming change, but he was determined to find out.
But he wasn’t obsessed. Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.
“Tea? I’m just about to put a pot on. No offense mate, you look like you could use it.”
Louis jumped at the voice intruding into his thoughts, blinking rapidly to pull himself back to the present. Liam, Louis’s flatmate, was smiling at him with far too much cheer than was normal for eight o’clock on a Tuesday morning.
“Can’t, sorry, I’m late.” Louis snagged his signature braces off the back of the dining room chair and snapped them on hastily, meanwhile using his free hand to search the cupboards for anything to serve as breakfast.
“Ooh, is it that Harry Styles bloke? That one you keep talking about? You’ve certainly taken an interest in that boy, haven’t you.” The smirk was evident in the taller boy’s tone.
Louis rolled his eyes. “He’s my patient. That’s kind of my job.” Failing to find anything that looked remotely edible in the pantry, he added, “Lili, be a doll and swing by the grocer, would you? We’re not starving college students anymore, we should stop acting like it.”
Liam chuckled. “Easy there Tommo, I’m not as whipped as you think I am.” Louis raised an eyebrow. With a snort, Liam said, “I’ll go shopping, but only because it takes a lot of calories to maintain a physique as stunning as this. Please remember that I’m not your wife.”
“Whatever you say, darling,” Louis admonished, smacking the other boy’s rear with a wink as he whirled out of the flat. Liam just shook his head incredulously and turned back to the now boiling kettle.
~
Damn, this bed sure is uncomfortable. I should really invest in a better mattress... not that I spend much time in it anyway. Harry groaned and rolled over, not realizing his mistake until he had already toppled off of his living room sofa and onto the hardwood floors. Oof. That was not gonna do a lot for the hangover. But at least it explained the discomfort. Harry slowly pulled himself to his feet, making sure to keep his eyes closed to block the light that was streaming through the window. He felt his way along the wall until he reached the kitchen; deciding it was safe to open his eyes, he let go of the doorframe and slouched over to the fridge, yanking it open and pulling out a bottle of gin and the carton of orange juice. After sloshing the two beverages together in the glass on the counter (was it even clean? Oh well, the alcohol will kill anything growing there) and swigging down the mixture, Harry attempted to recall the events of the night before. Niall definitely wasn’t there the blonde boy virtually never went clubbing with him anymore--not that Harry could blame him; the places Harry liked to frequent weren’t exactly Niall’s scene.
After a quick glance at his arms, Harry could say with almost absolute certainty that the only influence he was under the previous night had been booze and house music. Ha. And Simon doesn’t have any faith in me. I can control myself. Although in the back of his mind, Harry knew that the only reason he hadn’t taken drugs last night was because no one offered. He was never one to turn down a high.
Harry glanced around his kitchen as he chugged the remains of his drink, already feeling the comforting numbness the alcohol offered settling over his throbbing head. Glasses and dirty plates littered the countertops and it didn’t look like he had swept in years. Which was a distinct possibility. Walking to the doorway, Harry could see that his living room was no better. He winced as the smell of alcohol, sweat, and...oh dear god, please tell me that isn’t piss... crept into his nostrils.
God, that’s disgusting. Maybe I’ll just stay home today and do some straightening up. Harry hadn’t done any actual housework for ages, but he wasn’t a slob; at least he didn’t used to be. But clearly things changed. Well, maybe he could change them back. Baby steps, Haz, Harry thought with a sarcastic smirk.
He was in the middle of piling his dirty clothes into the washer when he heard his mobile vibrating from some undetermined location in the flat. Dropping the shirts in, he jogged after the noise, and after some searching found the elusive phone in the pocket of the discarded blazer by his door. Growling at the name that flashed on the screen, Harry reluctantly pressed “answer”.
“Where the bloody hell are you?” Simon Cowell snapped through the receiver.
Harry winced as the volume pierced through the gin-shield he had built around his recovering hangover.
“My goddamn house, is that a problem now?”
“Your appointment with Dr. Tomlinson started over 40 minutes ago. Since I’m being so kind as to get you the best help money can buy, I’d hope that you would at least show up. There’s a car for you waiting outside. You have five minutes.” Harry heard the line go dead and he tossed the phone onto the floor in exasperation. Pretentious assholes do not do much to help hangovers. Oh well. Maybe Dr. Tomlinson would give up today and stop talking his ear off without so much as a grunt in response. But Harry doubted he’d be so lucky.
~
Louis looked up as Harry stumbled into his office, puffy eyed and scowling.
“You’re late.” Louis said coolly.
“Fuck off.”
“Suit yourself. I get paid either way.”
Harry refused to make eye contact as he slumped onto the overstuffed patient’s couch. He hated the way Louis wouldn’t kowtow to his hostility and celebrity, even though he knew how arrogant that sounded. Just point to thing to add to the laundry list of things he disliked about the young therapist.
“So. Today I thought we could talk about your life before the X Factor, before you became...this,” Louis finished lamely, gesturing at Harry’s slouching form. As expecting, Harry didn’t reply.
“I did my research...I have brilliant sources, you know...and I see that you were in college studying English...brilliant marks, you played football, student council...quite the Renaissance man.”
As Louis shuffled through his papers, Harry took the opportunity to evaluate his tormentor. The older boy was wearing a blue and white striped shirt that hugged his fit frame, braces...braces? Harry barely caught the smile that threatened to break his cool composure. This guy is his own person, I’ll give him that. Harry’s eyes roamed up to Louis’s messy caramel-colored hair. It wasn’t really messy, now that he really looked at it, it seemed to be rather carefully styled. Harry also noticed the long, almost feminine looking lashes that fluttered over the boy’s delicate cheekbones as he read Harry’s files. This guy is almost...pretty. That’s the only way to put it Harry mused. But that didn’t stop him from being an irritating prick.
Louis looked up, coughing at the startle he felt when his eyes met the distinctive green of Harry Styles stare. The younger boy snorted at Louis’s reaction, turning back to his standard position of staring at the wall.
What’s wrong with you, Tommo? Louis thought to himself. You’ve never let yourself get unsettled by a client before; this won't be any different. “You seemed like quite the golden boy back then. You must have had loads of friends.” Louis saw Harry’s mouth twitch. Good. That meant he was getting close to something. “Do you keep in touch with any of them?”
Much to Louis’s surprise, Harry replied. “No. With the X Factor and all it was too hard to keep in touch. By the time it was over, it was too late. We weren’t the same people. I stopped calling them and they stopped trying. Big surprise.” There was a much softer look in the boy’s eyes, one Louis hadn’t noticed before, and he quickly scratched a note in his scratchpad: Relationship issues/abandonment?
Trying to keep the smug feeling in his chest from appearing on his face, Louis shuffled the papers as a distraction. Ah, sweet progress.
“I must ask, Harry, were all your relationships in your teenage years healthy? Any abusive friends...girlfriends.....” No response. Harry seemed to regret his earlier words, now trying extra hard to appear nonchalant.
“....Boyfriends...?”
Harry’s head snapped up. “Oh, you’d like that wouldn’t you, you faggot? Don’t lie to me, I’ve seen you staring. And with that outfit you aren't fooling anyone, believe me.”
Louis dropped the pen he had been twirling between his thin fingers.
“Excuse me??”
“You heard me. You like cock. You’re queer. Sausages over tacos. You get the picture. Even a drug-addled brain like mine can figure that out without much effort.” Harry grinned as he saw the obvious effect his words were having over the doctor. There, much better. Harry had finally gained the upperhand.
But to Harry’s surprise, his victory was short lived.
“The appointment is over. Please leave my office.” Despite the calmness of his tone, Harry could see something dangerous seething behind Louis’s clear blue eyes.
Glowering at the unanticipated turn of events, Harry heaved himself off the couch and stalked toward the door, slamming it shut behind him.
Louis shuddered involuntarily as his head fell against his mahogany desk. Please, not again.
~
Bursting into his empty flat, Harry threw off his blazer and made a beeline for his booze cabinet. Who gave a fuck if it was only four o'clock in the afternoon, he was a grown fucking man and could do whatever the fuck he goddamn pleased. Grasping the half-full bottle of bourbon and tugging off the cork with his teeth, he proceeded to gulp the contents straight from the bottle. No chaser. Chasers are for pussies.
Harry caught a glimpse of his reflection in the streaked mirror that hung across from the entrance to the flat. God, I look like shit. Getting drunk before 5, that's gotta be a new record. What was he so bothered by? He hadn't done anything wrong. Sure, he wasn't exactly being friendly, but Dr. Tomlinson was overreacting. All Harry did was state the obvious. If the doctor was so goddamned sensitive about it maybe he shouldn't dress like such a queen.
But Harry still felt nauseated. He couldn't get the shocked expression on the other man’s face out of his mind no matter how hard he tried. Harry knew that his actions were unjustified. The therapist was just doing the job he was paid to do and Harry had attacked him. He had fucked up again. He couldn't even maintain a civil relationship with his fucking therapist. The therapist with the soft features and bright eyes that had looked so raw and shattered after Harry had lashed out.
What the fuck, Styles, are you growing a uterus now? Get a fucking grip. He'll get over it. They're just words.
Despite the fierce inner monologue, Harry could not shake the feeling of regret and-- no, not guilt, Harry Styles didn't possess that emotion. Of course not.
Well, that's what you're here for. Harry thought as he cradled the bottle that was getting lighter by the minute. But he might need something stronger to get rid of all the unwanted emotions that refused to leave his head.
~
The knock echoed through the empty hallway of the apartment complex on the far side of London. Harry let his hand fall, knowing he would be kept waiting for at least a minute. He had visited this place many times before. He knew the drill. Soon after he heard scuffling on the other side of the door as someone fumbled with a the lock. The door opened to reveal a dark haired, exotic-looking man, whose lack of a shirt showed off his tanned upper body. Warm brown eyes looked up and down Harry's long body appraisingly.
"Harry, baby, it's been too long. I was beginning to think you had forgotten about me."
"Don't be stupid, Zayn. I'm not that dense."
"Ah, Styles, ever the charmer. So what brings you here this fine evening?" the man purred, leaning against the door and gazing at Harry through thick lashes.
"You know what," Harry said, pushing his way past the man into the poorly lit apartment. He walked purposefully into the tiny bathroom at the back of the flat, opening the cabinet and pulling out a needle and a tourniquet. "Zayn, where'd you hide the fucking smack?"
Zayn sauntered up behind Harry, slipping his hands into the curly-haired boy's front pockets. "Now this just won't do. You know it's a terrible idea to shoot up when you're unhappy. How about you let me put you in a better mood and then we can see what happens?" The man's hand traced slow circle on Harry's thigh, the thin fabric of his pockets acting as the only barrier between tanned fingers and pale skin. Harry shivered at the touch. "Come on, babe. For old time's sake?"
"Fine. Just consider this your payment." Harry had barely let out the words when he felt soft lips tracing up the side of his neck. Zayn pulled back and tugged Harry's hand, leading him to the bedroom.
Even as the warm mouth slid down his stomach and deft hands undid the buttons on his trousers, Harry could not banish those pained blue eyes from his mind.