Ink Stains, Razor Blades, and High Notes (Larry Stylinson)

I don’t know what this is, or what it will be. I’m so sorry.  

Warnings: gay bashing/slurs, homophobia, verbal abuse, self-harm

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Some names and characters have been altered or changed, mostly for the fact that I have a very hard time portraying any of the boys’ actual family members as abusers, so I’d much rather create another character to fill that horrid role. I dunno, it just doesn’t sit well with me to write them that way.

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If Harry was being honest, he thought about death a lot. Like, a lot a lot. Like almost all the time. Seriously…a lot. Like he’d be sitting in class with a pencil in his hand and he’d wonder how fast he would bleed out if he rammed it through his throat. Or when he had the window seat in English on the second floor, if he would survive jumping out of it. Or if he just threw himself down the stairs, maybe his neck would break…no…hopefully his neck would break.

Harry sighed from where he sat huddled under the bleachers, trembling and gasping for breath-his blade was in his bag-crying a bit, no a lot, crying a lot-15 seconds and it would be in his hands-mind spinning, whirling, dizzy-just a small cut would do, just to catch his breath, just a little one, he’d promise, he’d swear, he’d…

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For someone as morbid as he was, his day had started off relatively well. He woke up, showered, ate breakfast, and was out the door in good time. He hadn’t gotten any new texts, which was a little weird but it didn’t bug him much, he’d see his friends at school.

He walked, which was dumb but he preferred it that way instead of being chauffeured. It was…annoying. The sun was shining, the walk was pleasant though long, and he made it to school with a few minutes to spare.

That changed when he walked into school though. The halls went quiet, and people stopped and stared at him. Harry frowned, and placed his hands in his pockets, hands sweating at the attention.

A boy he recognized walked up to him, his expression showing a deep loathing that had Harry take a nervous step back.

“Faggot.” the boy said, and Harry’s world stopped.  

“He’s a faggot.”

“Is that Styles over there? I heard he’s a freakin queer.”

“I have class with him, oh my God that’s so gross.”

Harry swallowed thickly, before quickly making his way out of the hallway, away from accusing stares and cruel words and-

Harry yelped as he was shoved to the floor, face smacking the tile harshly. People laughed around him and he quickly stood up, face burning, running to the back of the school through another door, out to the bleachers.

From there, he stat down and tried to think of exactly what was happening, why it was happening, how they even found out, the quickest way to die…