"Dancing with the Devil." | Larry Stylinson. TRANSLATION

VII. "Sharp Tongue"

Two weeks.

It had been two weeks since what happened after Harry woke up from fainting after he learned that he had practically been the one who had caused his cousin's death.

For starters, he had been under observation for one day due to his lack of food and bad appearance. He slept thanks to the tranquilizer in the serum and ate well before returning home. Then came the news of Brad's funeral, and the curly boy fainted as soon as he heard it.

Had it become some kind of trauma? He didn't know exactly, but he assumed it was because of the images that haunted his mind when someone named his deceased relative, the way he died. He remembered the word Castrati and burst into anxiety attacks. So bad that he believed he would die.

Finally, it was when he remembered that, seconds before he had fainted in the hospital, the Devil hadn't held him. He hadn't felt the protection of his arms, he hadn't felt anything and internally he was grateful because at that moment it was the first time that he had been afraid of him the way everyone else was.

Fear that he would do something to him, even though he knew he was taking his soul.

Harry's father had returned home, after a couple of days he was told about his nephew's death and locked himself in his room for more than three days. He was always in the house, but when Harry arrived he would go somewhere else, even if it was another room, he would just leave. He didn't even look at him, he prayed constantly -even more than before- and the boy ached because he was waiting for an apology... an apology for wanting to burn his skin, for hitting his mother, etc.

But what hurt Harry the most about this whole situation wasn't fainting or constantly living with anxiety or bearing the guilt of a person's death and harming his own father, not even knowing he was surely going to hell for free.

The real pain was that after waking up that day in the hospital... Louis was gone.

Completely. He no longer felt the beeping in his left ear, he didn't feel the constant uneasiness, nor did his body continue to deteriorate.

He even got better. He no longer looked like a corpse.

And even though at first he had been scared to see Louis again, it definitely didn't compare to the pain of having him away, of not feeling his embrace at night. It was all utterly horrible, and the knot in his throat didn't diminish even when he cried noisily in his mother's arms, who didn't understand her son's sadness when she thought everything was okay. She decided to blame herself because she would never let her little one take the blame for anything.

Finally, after two weeks Harry went back to school. His parents had signed the authorization for the cohabitation trip. "The journey in which God guides your way!" They said, but God didn't guide anyone who had the name "Harry Styles" and he knew it.

Fionn Whitehead was still annoyed that he wasn't going, Harry was afraid to go because he knew the seniors would go, and that meant that Dylan Moisset and Parker Jenkins were going. "The bullies," so to say. They made the lives of the two teenagers impossible, all because they weren't stereotypical and because they were innocent. Fionn was a rebel without a cause, even though he was as small as Harry, but in high school, he clearly didn't look that way. Harry, on the other hand, was the same everywhere.

Dylan Moisset was the one who always followed Parker. The latter had had a terrible life, falling into an orphanage and being adopted by a wealthy family because he was extremely beautiful. No one knew he was adopted except for Harry's parents, who got along well with Parker's parents. The curly boy had heard when Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins confessed it to the Styles, but he never said anything.