Homeless (Larry Stylinson)

Chapter 1

 I hope this doesn't suck like the last ones I wrote.

Harry ran for his life. He had been caught again; and this time he wasn't going to get out of it. He had tried to steal bread from the bakery last week, and had almost gotten away. This time, Harry tried to be more unconspicuous, but failed miserably. The manager of the bakery saw him and had called the cops. When he heard the sirens, he knew it was for him and began to sprint. The city was bustling, but Harry was still afraid. He ran and ran and ran, but he wasn't fast enough. The sirens were getting louder and soon there'd be a dead end somewhere; sidewalks don't go on forever. And he couldn't be caught because he'd have no one to bail him out. He had no family or friends; he had no one. He was homeless and hungry and he'd end up dying in there. And do you know what happens to pretty gay twinks like him in jail?

Harry stopped abruptly, too out of breath to run anymore. People on the streets walked passed him, looking at him oddly. He was afraid that they knew he had stolen something. But that was stupid; of course they didn't know that. He was just paranoid. They were just looking at him because of the horrible condition her was in. His hair was a curly, tangly mess and his clothes were basically rags while everyone else's were mostly fancy or at least actual clothes from a store. Harry did not fit in; he stood out.

He heard the sirens get louder and louder, but he was too dehydrated to run anymore; he had been running for 20 minutes straight. This was it, Harry thought. This was it....but it couldn't be it.

"I'm not going to jail," Harry muttered to himself, then swiveled his head around to see the police car just down the street. Then he looked up at a townhouse he was next to, panicked, and ran up the steps. He prayed to god the door wouldn't be locked and it wasn't. He had made it just in time; the police hadn't seen him. Once he was inside the house, Harry leaned against the wall to catch his breath, coughing loudly because it was so cold and again, he wasn't in the best living condition. Once he had contained himself, he picked his head up and looked at the space in front of him. There wasn't much in the house; there was a couch, a tv, and a coffee table with stacks of newspapers on them. There was a small, dainty kitchen with the paint on the walls chipped off. Harry peered around the corner and saw a small bedroom that was surprisingly clean and looked fairly nice unlike the rest of the townhouse.

There seemed to be no one there. This was a good thing, Harry thought. But he didn't know when the residents of the house would be back; and he also didn't know how long he should stay. He didn't know if the police are still out and about. He was scared and nervous and didn't know what he was going to do, but for now, Harry was just glad the house was warm. He didn't have a house after all; he always sleeps in freezing cold warehouses or behind buildings even in icy cold temperatures like today.

Harry walked over to the fridge and chugged the rest of the milk that was left, then took a seat on the couch. It felt so nice to sit down and feel at home. For some reason he felt at home here, but he didn't know why. Harry decided it was best to stay for another ten minutes, then leave out the back door. For now he'd just have to wait so he decided to go through the magazines on the coffee table. He shuffled through them, then came to the sudden realization that they were all playgirl magazines. He chuckled to himself. There must be teenage girls living here, he thought, wanting to look at a bunch of muscled guys. Now, Harry wasn't a teenage girl, but one particular playgirl magazine caught his eye; one with the hottest guy Harry has ever seen on the front cover. Maybe it was because he was posed, photoshopped, and had hundreds of people working on his hair, but Harry thought he was so fucking sexy, he couldn't resist picking up the magazine. He flipped through it to find more pictures of the man, or boy, Harry didn't quite know. He looked young, but he didn't know how old you had to be to actually be a playgirl. He didn't even know playgirl was a thing.