Love&Affection | Larry Stylinson

8|8

"He's dead." Harry whispered. "That's the idea."

"He's dead." He repeats. "I mean his eyes are separate from his sockets and his spleen is somewhere mixed in with his teeth. So yes."

"You killed him!" He points. "Don't point what if he's shy."

"Oh god he's dead." I smack my hand over my head. "And the award for best directive goes to Harry Styles."

"Why?" He looks at me so I look over at him with the same look. "Why what?"

"Why did you kill him?" I clear my throat. "He, breathed."

"He breathed?" I nod. "Yes. He breathed and I didn't like it, so I- I hit him with a bat."

"Over- and over again." His hands rest on his cheeks. "He breathed funny."

"His brain looks like mince." He cries. "Well- oh hold up it kinda does."

"He's dead." Oh my god. "Hey, Lee Mavers called he wants you in his band." He lets out yet another shaky breath. "His heart is crushed."

"Aww, well I'm sure a very pretty girl is waiting for his arrival nearer to the gates of hell where they take awkward prom pictures and say dirty things to each other in secret."

"Louis you have the strangest ways of going about a conversation." I tut, waving my hand at him. "You're gonna make me blush."

"He was your best guard." I shrug. "I have others."

"Why'd you kill him?" I hum. "I don't actually know, he did something and I didn't like it so I just killed him. Why do you think it was bad?"

"You just removed a man from natural form because of something you don't remember, I think that calls for a therapy session- or some red boxes on your hands when you walk."

"Okay I think you've overstayed your welcome." He chuckles. "With duck slippers that when you walk."

"Harry." I warned. "Or how about you have blue boxes on your hands and a purple dress to match. We'll call it the speak now tour, all arenas include— the Manchester psych ward, the Bradfords recovery centre and best of all. Londons very own apartment complex for the weak and lonely."

"Harry, my patience is wearing as thing as your shirt." He freezes. "I like this shirt."

"I like that shirt. Doesn't make it any thinker- thicker, what the fuck. Stop looking at me." He stops in front of me. "See now you know what it feels like- hey we're the same height again."

"I don't like it when you do this." I step back a little. "Don't like what?"

"When you stand that close to me, Harry you know you're pretty and I hate it because you use it against me and it's awful."

"I'm not trying anything. I promise." I brush my finger under his chin. "I will lock you in the basement if you carry on," His cheeks turn pink. "Are you sick?"

"I fear I may be." Holding the back of my hands over his face I start to worry. "You're not warm, you're not pale. So if you're sick then what is it? Is it internal? Are you dying internally? Is it the mould? You'll get used to the mould. I promise it's really not that-"

"Louis." I shove my face into my shirt. "I'm sorry I'll leave." I start to walk away, walking right into the wall. "Pull your shirt down before you walk away. No?"

"If only my shirt was as thin as yours maybe then I'd be able to see through it," He smacks my head. "Sorry."

"Can I have a bedroom now? The seat is starting to have an ass print just my size right where I sleep. It's not comfortable."

"So it's not a very big dent then? Just move over to the side there's loads of room."

"Okay just because you have an ass it does not mean you have to comment on mine." I turn around. "Why are you looking at my ass?"

"Because you have one and, I am a man." I do not have an ass. "You're hardly a boy never mind a man. Also stop."

"Okay one, that would mean that you like boys that are barely boys and, two— it's just so cute." He squeezes his hands like a weirdo. "You ever do that with your hands again I'll cut them off."

"You give lots of empty threats. You say all of these things and you hold the blade close enough but you never actually do anything."

"Yes because yesterday you called me a bitch, I tried to cut your throat and you started moaning." He nods. "Yeah?"

"It echoed." He nods again. "Yeah?"

"How are you missing my problem here? Anything that goes over your head just sits in your hair, surely you'd find it eventually."

"You're not very nice you know. I know you like murder people for a living but for a gay person you're very mean." I could've pushed him down the stairs. "Yeah and for someone with such a weird head you'd think you'd have more knowledge on how things work."

"Huh?" I click at him. "Hello mr detective, meet stairs. Now may you all welcome in the man of the hour, my foot What will he be meeting? Your fucking stomach."

Kicking him down the stairs I turn away laughing at my own joke.

Hearing him laugh out a groan. "You so like me."

"And you are so not getting any food tonight." He scoffs. "You can not- I think I actually broke my foot. This hurts so bad."

"What?" I make my way over watching him laugh. "You like me.."

"Asshole." I spat through my teeth punching his chest. "You were worried about me. Now baby that is so cute. This does hurt though. My body hurts, I'm serious I feel ill."

"Yes well you are my hostage so I'm afraid I have to treat you as such." He nods holding his head. "I'm just glad your stairs are made of carpet. Also why do you like in a castle."

"It's a mansion... dumbass. My- my stairs aren't made of carpet they just have carpet over the marble." He nods. "Yeah, no see I knew that, I knew that."

"Sure you did." He hums. "Do I really have a weird head?" Fuck sake. "No." I sigh. "Why'd you say I had a weird head then?" I shrug, looking up at him. "Cause I'm mean."

"You should really fix that."