One Word | H.S.

Chapter Forty-Six

Quiet, they'll hear you.

~

Eve.

~

Pretty Boy is foolishly chasing me around in the nude.

Being-so-honest, we're both wildly exposed at the current moment. His wondrous four nipples, my two common-like mounds, both flaunted as I'm walking the broken glass of life-and-death.

His sweatpants sit comfortably in my palm, my legs pouncing over any littered piece of furniture as I've stollen his needed clothing.

I just wanted to act-out the book of Genesis, fight like Adam and Eve, but Harry quickly shot down my wonderful proposition.

Now, I'm naked and sad.

'Nothing new, I suppose.'

The pesky pillows have been scattered throughout the room, Pretty Boy taking no inanimate object as prisoner, while he continues to viciously hurl them to the side.

Nearly catching my elbow, Harry proves to be essentially worthless in the game of tag as I outrun him, yet again. "Presley fuckin' Symmes!" His voice bellows throughout the dense room, my smile stretching ear-to-ear from the angry, itty-bitty toad.

I'm unsure what the ultimate goal is here, why he's angry. His tadpole fell victim to my bustling pond and now he's shouting around like an irritable toddler, makes zero sense.

"Pretty Boy fuckin' Styles!" Intending to match his aura, I simmer up the 'ole vocal cords to meet his tone, rival him. "Holy shit, this is fuckin' ridiculous. Give me my pants, now." He slows down, resting his hands on his hips as he breathes heavily through his nose.

I've heard that one-too-many-times, experienced it just as much. Good Christ, a little run-for-the-money mood of the evening, rehashing the past memories as though they're current.

Seeming as though any-and-all pants are optional after my sexapades, the past never fails to repeat itself. Never been the type to relish in the pesky leg sweaters, but we all have our vices.

'The ten shots of vodka are really having an immense effect.'

My legs halt any forward movement, head whipping around as though it's engaged in a free-trial of nonstop gym-rat excitement as Harry's seriously fuming. "Oh, no! You're naked!" I point my finger in the direction of his Tootsie, "Adam!" His jaw falls from the name, shaking his head in sheer disappointment as the suppression of laughter is rather difficult.

There's something so riveting about angering this temperate bunny, the narrowing of his eyebrows being more exciting than any shot of vodka, line of cocaine.

'Oh?'

"You're acting manic, Red." He pinches the bridge of his nose, completely fed-up with my childish ways. "Like, scary manic. I truly don't understand what the fuck goes on inside your head." My smile grows prouder, the compliment seeming slim given we're still naked.

Romeo and Juliet; Adam and Eve.

"Hey, remember when you basically told me that you loved me?" I point my finger in an observational manner, forehead wrinkling to peak leather as Pretty Boy breathes the longest, most regretful sigh. "I say loads of shit I don't mean." His sentence means absolutely nothing, the cutesy toad deflecting as my heart smiles with pride, adoration.

Would've said something revolutionary, obviously. Though, I was too distracted by his sinful expression, the admitted murder, and my need to obliterate any seething tension that clogged the refreshing air to do so.