Titanic: A Larry Stylinson Novel (Boyxboy)

xiii

"Oh, so the queer's gonna smooch me now, yeah?" he murmured, his dark eyes sweeping my face for any sign of hesitation.

I balled up my hand into a rock-hard fist, the knuckles cracking as my fingers clenched tight. "No, you son of a bitch. But I think my fist is taking a liking to you."

Releasing his shirt collar for a fraction of a second, I fastened my legs to the carpet and swung with all of the power in me. I grimaced in slight pain as my thin joints slammed into the man's cheek before they struck his nose, and when he lurched back from the force of the punch, small drops of crimson landed onto the carpet and a few flecks onto the white-washed wall.

But I didn't stop there. While he remained on the floor, almost in a prostate position before me, I felt almost a rush of energy surging through my veins. And with this rush, my feet flew to his side, kicking and booting him with the fury of a dozen until the hands of my loved one took a tight grip on my arms.

"Louis!"

Harry almost sounded like my mother when she would chastise me. Save for the usage of my entire name, the tone of his voice and even the pitch was nearly identical to mum's. My violent limbs and anger all vanished in an instant, like water evaporating in the desert.

My eyes lifted to Harry, away from the grotesque sight of the victim. Funny how the tables have turned and the roles switched in the blink of an eye. What was even more hilarious was that I've never roughed up anyone in my life before: just minutes ago, Harry was the only person outside of my family I've ever inflicted physical pain on intentionally.

"Lou, stop," he insisted. Harry's arms manoeuvred from my shoulders to around my waist, holding onto me comfortably but firmly.

I was held in his half-ward embrace until I came down from my rampage completely and was stable enough to survey the damage I've done: the poor lad was pretty much beaten just short of death, or at least that's the effect the blood and various injuries had on me. He was unconscious, his eyes closed behind swelling, purple skin.

All in all, the unaware young man was not a pretty scene to look at without vomiting a little in one's mouth.

"Come on, Lou." He was getting impatient.

Sidestepping down the hall with Harry holding me still, my eyes took a little bit to detach from the gruesome sight. It was almost like a painting: a clean environment all around, prim and proper, but in the middle, a horrifyingly beautiful sight that you couldn't take your eyes off of no matter how hard you tried.

"Wow," I said with little enthusiasm, "I beat him good, eh?"

Harry smirked, and a small flash of vivid green flickered to me for the briefest second. "Yeah, and you stayed on him like a dog with no sense of self-control."

I made a face, as if thinking deeply. "Hm, no dearest Harold, that's when I'm on you."

When we reached another staircase forever later—at least, that's how it felt like in comparison to about twenty minutes in real time—panic looked to be setting in. The air of a good time and lightheartedness was hardly there anymore, and everyone knew that the sinking was in fact, happening. It was also fairly evident, as the ship's incline was getting close to a steeping angle.

Harry and I reached a hallway crowded with people of all kinds and all classes, ranging from filthily rich to just plain filthy. Most of the people there were clearly from First Class, as their apparel and raised chins defined them from the rest of the commoners with heads bowed and lowly slouching. Some, though, were running, not caring for their appearance as much as their lives.