In The Depths

Loneliness is like a deep dark void, with nowhere to go and nowhere to hide. As much as I try, I just get deeper into the depths of loneliness, and into the depths of my soul. I just want to get out. I don't deserve this.


8. Sleep

I go to Harry’s house.

It was a subtle invitation. He asked if I was tired, I said yes. He asked if I would like to crash at his place. Of course I said yes.

Now we’re at the front door of his place. He says his mum is not here, she wouldn’t be here for a few days. I don’t ask why, but just cherish the fact that I am going to be alone with Harry.

“Nice place,” I say, my mind drifting off.



“You’ve already been here.”

Stupid, stupid! “Oh yeah,” I say, blushing. “Sorry.”

We go up to his bedroom. Luckily, it’s a lot cleaner than last time. The green comforter is laid neatly across the mattress. The carpets are plucked clean. His nightstand is empty, except for one thing:  a journal. I see Harry eyeing it, playing with his bottom lip.

“What’s that?” I ask. I walk over to the nightstand, picking it up. The smooth, brown, leather is soft under my thumb. The light of the lamp reflects off my tattoos, making a bluish glow.

“Oh yeah.” Harry chuckles under his breath. I feel his presence behind me, warm and comforting. “That’s just my journal. I like to write in it sometimes, just things that pop into my head. There are jokes and poems and that stuff.”

I turn around, startled when I realize how close he is to me. His body heat is radiating onto me, his smooth shirt practically against mine. A strand of his hair is tickling the top of my left ear. As he speaks, his breath smells of bittersweet champagne, making me smile. “I-it’s silly,” he stammers, meeting my glance.

“It’s not, though.” I gasp as his slim fingers take a hold of my hand. I wrap my smaller fingers into his, intertwining them together. I’m at a loss for words.

“I used to draw tattoos in there before I had them,” he says, inching closer to me.

I swallow.

“They express my thoughts. My love that is un-worded goes into my tattoos.” He cups my chin with his other hand. My heart is racing, and I feel my palms start to sweat. “When I was in the closet, I got most of my tattoos. They symbolized what I had to hide. Now I don’t have to hide anything.”

“H-Harry,” I stammer, knees shaking with the pure pleasure of being touched by another being.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, stepping back. I immediately breathe out, realizing I’ve been holding in my breath. A wave of sadness washes over me. I want to be touched by Harry again.

“What? Harry, what?”

“I’m rushing into things. Louis, it’s obvious we both like each other, but, we seriously just met. I don’t think we should start anything yet. It’s too strange.”

“But, Harry,” I sigh. “We both like each other.”

“Yeah, we do, Louis. It’s too strange.” He furrows his brow. “Too strange. And I don’t really want to like, get into these things. I’m eighteen. I think.” He looks down and scratches his scalp.


“Just, I think I like you, but do I? I don’t really know you, Lou.” He chuckled, hiccupping after the outburst. “That rhymes.”

I stare at him, searching through his musky eyes for a change of appearance. Darker? Glazed over?

And suddenly, realization hits me. Harry has been drinking, obviously. The downfall of his emotions and physical state are a result of bitter alcohol streaming through his veins. He’s drunk. He’s drunk and tired and just needs to sleep.

“Harry, I think you should get some rest,” I say, placing my hand on his shoulder.

“I’m not drunk, Louis. I know you’re thinking that.” He bats my hand away.

I guide him over to the bed, placing my hand on the crevice of his lean back. He huffs, but doesn’t protest. I have to admit, his state of alcohol infused sleepiness makes me fall into the void of love with this guy, and it’s stupid. I should scold him for being drunk; alcohol is not a good substance. But instead I’m head over heels for this messy haired punk.

“Yeah, Harry, you kind of are drunk.” He sits on his bed lazily, and I sit next to him. “Your voice sounds like gravel and you have designer bags under your eyes.”

“I’m not drunk but I’m tired.” He peels off his shirt, preparing for bed. His tattoos spring out at me, wonderfully beautiful. Birds and butterflies and flowers and cards pop out against his tan skin, illuminated by the bedside lamp. His tone muscles send a chill through my body, lulling me into a sweet sensation of lust.

“Then go to bed,” I say quietly. I watch as Harry climbs under the covers. He pulls the sheets over his head.

“You can sleep downstairs,” he mumbles. “Or here, I guess, if uh, you…”

“It’s okay,” I swallow. “I think you’ll be safer- I mean,” I pause. “Since you’re drunk maybe I should sleep next to you, just to be safe.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“You are.”



“Fine. But I know you’re just saying that so you can sleep in the same bed as me.” Harry moves to the side, and I see a curl slip out from under the covers. “And don’t lie.”

“Yeah,” I laugh, climbing into the bed. “That’s the reason.”

Lights go off. All is silent.

Through the rest of the night, I watch Harry fall asleep. It may sound creepy, but I can’t help it. As sleep takes over his body, his face loosens. His eyelids fall against his eyes in peace, as his fingers uncurl from their grasped position. His bare, tattooed chest rises and falls. Slumber floods through his system.

And I feel somewhat protective of Harry. From what, I don’t know. I just feel that I need to be present, to save Harry from anything and everything. Bad dreams, sleep troubles, hangover. I need to make sure he is okay.

So I leave a kiss on his cheek, for safety reasons.

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