Torment || l.s.

2. Skimpy

Harry's POV

I told myself to socialize, to widen my horizons this school year. New school new life, they say. It gets lonely at times, having no one else other than a select few. It doesn't hurt to be skeptical and cautious because with my life, I have to be. But being alone in this new environment will be difficult. I have to try and sort out the ones I can at least sit with in class. It may or may not include my new roommate.

 "Uh...Hi. I'm Harry." I offer my right hand for a handshake, hesitating for a few seconds. Socialize? I can do that. Be nice. All it takes is a bit of courtesy and politeness, the two things I remember being drilled into my character with after school. Manners is a must for all society children. It's like eating, like walking –like breathing. 

 I take a glance at his face and see the disgusted look he gives my hand. It's an outright frown, as he raises an eyebrow at the specs of dust. Really, a gathering of dust won't kill him. It's not like I'll shove my hand down his throat and contaminate him with dust mites. Still, I feel embarrassment creeping up my neck and I wipe my palms on my jeans.

 "Right. Sorry," I mutter, turning around to focus on taking out my clothes from my trunk, trying to focus on my things. I've learned not to judge a book by it's cover, but it's impossible because first impressions are vital. His hair was in a state of disarray –an incredible mess as if he hadn't brushed it in weeks. I can't say the opposite for his facial hair, and rumpled shirts, either. I don't even know if the unruly look is deliberate or he just doesn't even care. I'm guessing the latter. 

 "You should be sorry." He says, and I fight the urge to turn around. Instead, I roll my eyes, trying to ignore the goading in his tone. I can hear it in the amusement lacing his voice and it's amusing how he's trying so hard to make conversation after that greeting. 

 There's the lingering smell of smoke and nicotine mixed with the sourness of alcohol in the air. It's bitter and dry, and I don't hide the grimace forming on my face as I immediately open the window to let the smell out. I return to my boxes, sitting cross-legged on the floor, trying to unpack all of my books. 

Damn, it's still there. 

 "He smells like smoke. Great." I mutter under my breath as I try to let out a harsh sniff. Quitting smoking isn't a one-day event. It took me months, and I'm still in the process. But all my efforts might go down the drain because this one roommate. This one person who smokes inside the room, leaving traces of nicotine –the one thing I'm currently avoiding. How's that for progress? 

 Thankfully, the room is relatively clean. Lavish. As expected of the school. There's a flat screen TV, a bathroom suite, two hardwood desks and mahogany closets. The locks are secure, with digital locks and the window panes are supposedly bullet-proof, so that's a plus. The only downside is the emptiness on my side of the room. Blank. 

 His side, on the other hand, is a mess, strewn sheets, unfolded clothes in a basket –just the typical male den. One thing I find curious, though is the row of pastel colored candles on his desk. Scented candles, I think. It clashes with everything else on his side of the room, but I guess I understand. He smokes, and he needs something to mask the smell. 

 I hear a bed dipping and the slight creaking coming from it. He scoffs. "You should have seen what's inside my bag first." 

I stop my movements, cocking my head to the side, before ignoring him. He must have been talking to himself. I can see signs of a faux alpha exterior as he tries to exert dominance over me. The sheets rustle and I hear his voice muffled from several layers of cloth, "Now, keep it down will you? I'll try to catch up with sleep. Alright?"