Hide and Seek

Chapter 22

I love how your demons dance with my own.

*NARRATOR POV*

Sweaty and hard and demanding and perfect. That's what Harry looked like above Louis, sweat

dripping down his chest and all. The repetitive motion of his hips between Louis' thighs - crafted

for football and other strenuous sporting deeds - was hypnotizing.

Emotions such as bliss and pleasure and lust, all rolled into one firework that was at its brink

within Louis' self control. Little sparks of his extreme enjoyment escape between moans and

grunts.

Louis lost it when Harry started to move faster, his blunt but shaped nails scraping along Harry's

back. He enjoyed the feeling of Harry's skin reddening and rising to his touch in goosebumps

despite the chill.

"Har-" Louis starts but the boy he was calling smashes their lips together, his thrusts taking on a

sporadic nature and becoming sloppy.

Louis feels that pit within his depths, a deep pool that only Harry's touched - literally - and he sobs

in a choked off manner as it nears.

Suddenly, it's gone. And he's sitting up in bed with a painful throb between his legs, tenting his

sweatpants. He wipes away a layer of sweat from beneath his fringe, making the tuft of feathery

hair stand up slick and damp. He reaches for the glass of water that was always kept next to him.

Something cold wraps around his wrist, demanding his attention to be drawn out to his

outstretched arm.

The flesh is blue and black, flakes of decaying skin dotting the surface. The fingers are long and

bendable at regions it shouldn't be. He gets pulled off the bed, fear choking his screams as he's

plummeting into blackness that shouldn't be present in a hole in his floor.

He chokes and gasps and hurriedly wipes the salty tears from his cheeks away. His palms are

stinging like a dozen needles and his eyes are fighting with nothing to adjust. He squints to see

nothing. Sliding backwards in this abyss, where the only thing he's certain off is that he's on a cold

floor, his back hits a wall and he decides to never move.

"It's a nightmare." He tells himself. "Wake up."

He starts rocking with his knees to his chest like a child. "Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake

up."

He even pinches his wrist above his vein until it hurts. It hurts but he doesn't wake up. More tears

run down his face until they can be tasted on his lips, the once plump and pink swollen lips

becoming raw from too much saliva and salt. They try too quickly and strain painfully when he

moves his mouth anyhow.

"Come on. Wake up!" He shouts into the darkness and finally, a light comes on.

He recognizes the room. The Lost Lake house. He's back there.

"Oh fuck." He scrambles back, only hurting himself against the wall behind him.