Red Skies Above, Black Streets Below {L.S.}

iii

     TW: scene/mention of death

H
Tiny broken parts of me
Blistered, broken glass underneath my feet
And how was I supposed to know?
No man should reach for something he can't let go.
"Greyhound" - Ashton Irwin

Harry folds his arms behind his head with a sigh as the rain sends little patterns down the glass of his window. He closes his eyes as he lies on his bed, the grey skies casting little light into the room. Beth has been married for almost two weeks now, and since then, nothing extremely out of the ordinary has happened that has needed his dire attention. He had busied himself with making sure his affairs were in order across the city, and it had been a fairly nonstop ordeal.

But today is Sunday, and Sunday is a day of rest. "Nobody will be doing any killing on Sundays, Harry. Take a break." Zayn had told him over the phone once a few months ago. Harry had had to worry about a rigged horse race gone wrong, and he was almost at his wits end (not like he'd ever admit that). He had almost given up when the situation seemingly resolved itself, and he had taken that as a sign. Now, Sundays are his days. He'll brew a hot cup of tea, he'll finish his book, and there will be calm.

He hears a soft knock on his door, and he hums in acknowledgement, keeping his eyes closed as the door clicks open. Louis clears his throat, and Harry cracks one eye open to look at him. He is standing in Harry's doorway, fully dressed at this early hour, and Harry raises an eyebrow. "Going somewhere?" he asks, and Louis pushes the door open a little wider. "Yeah. Got some business in town, figured I'd get it over with sooner than later." Louis' voice is tersely casual, and Harry sits up, leaning onto his elbow. He's not the world's best judge of character (which has been made obvious over the years), but he has a suspicion that Louis isn't giving him all the details. "Alright. Need a hand?" Harry asks, and Louis shakes his head brusquely. "No, it's nothing big. I'll be back by noon." He begins closing the door as he speaks, and Harry watches him leave with his eyebrows furrowing. He hears the footsteps make their way down the hall, and then hears the front door open and shut.

Harry looks back out the window to where the rain had begun to pick up, blowing heavier against the window as the dark sky grows cloudier. He chews on the inner corner of his mouth as he watches the water droplets creating mazes on the window. He's not worried about Louis, or concerned about him. He is, however, concerned about what business he'd have in a city that is all but entirely foreign to him. He just needs to get out, Harry tells himself as he swings his legs over the bed. Wrapping his arms behind him, his face contorts as his muscles stretch, and he stands in front of the mirror that rests on the floor.

He looks at himself, letting his arms fall to his sides. He's only wearing his trousers from the day before, exposing his pale chest and arms. He cocks his head to the side, and shifts his body weight on his feet. He sees the muscles in his arms tense, and the tattoo on his bicep pulls taut. His eyes fall on the small conglomerate of tattoos that litter his upper body, and a smile tickles his lips for a brief moment. He stares at his chest as he places his fingers gently on the butterfly inked deeply on his middle. He traces one of the lines, and feels his raised skin under his fingertips. He presses his fingers harder against the tattoo, and sighs as he looks back up at his face.

His hair is falling weirdly onto his forehead, and he flips it up with a quick twist of his fingers. He also hasn't shaved in a few days, and it's not his favourite look in the world. His father rather prefers him to be clean shaven, and for a few years, Harry would purposely go days without shaving, just to get a rise out of him. But now, Harry keeps a clean face (for nobody but himself, he's convinced himself).

Louis wears a bit of a scruffle most times, Harry muses for a second.

He blinks at his own random through, and scoffs, rolling his eyes as he steps away from the mirror. Grabbing the shirt that is hanging over the chair sitting next to the bedroom door, he forgoes the buttons as he slips it on over his arms.