The silhouette of a boy and a girl, bodies thin and coats thick, sneakers submerged in gutter water and sludge, knees peeking through ripped denim, faces chapped by strong gusts of wind, expressions blank, sat on the curb at the corner of Main Street and 84th.

Another boy approached them, short and soft, beginning, "Harry, mate, I--"

"Shut the fuck up," the boy on the curb -- Harry -- snarled. "I don't want to hear a god damn word out of you, unless you have my money."

"I do, but--"

"That's a shame, Tomlinson," Harry purred, "I was really looking forward to killing you."

Tomlinson gulped, Adam's apple bobbing in his exposed throat. He fidgeted with his hands, blue fingertips poking out of the unintentional holes made in his woollen gloves. His oceanic eyes pleaded for forgiveness as he cast his gaze on the petite girl beneath Harry's wing, begging for compassion.

The girl shifted, turning her head until her lips made contact with the base of Harry's throat. He moaned, mid-thought, putting on a sinister smile. The girl milked his attention, tangling her fingers in the scarf that hung loosely around his neck and pulling him down to her level. She kissed him once, softly, then again, harder, then pulled away.

"Play nice," she whispered into his open mouth, watching wistfully as his eyes studied every movement of her lips.

In an instant, he furrowed his eyebrows, his cat-like, emerald eyes turning predatory, his face blanching. She had angered him, she knew, and she grew worried; with everything that Harry had done for her, she never, ever wanted to anger him.

Instead of yelling, he drew her in for another kiss, gentle fingers hooked beneath her chin. He tasted of the blue raspberry Slurpee they'd been sharing, and she found herself captivated by the flavor. When he'd worked his tongue into her mouth, then pulled back, biting down on her lower lip -- hard -- she knew he'd made his point perfectly clear.

'I'm sorry,' she mouthed towards Tomlinson when Harry was too preoccupied doing mental math to notice, a small amount of blood dribbling down the split in her lower lip.

Harry swiped it away as soon as he saw it, marvelling at the crimson color that coated his thumb before licking it clean, sucking more dramatically than necessary; heat coiled in the pit of her stomach, her mind reeling through vivid nights spent as the recipient of Harry's lust.

"Tomlinson," Harry addressed, gravelly and stern.

The short brunette stood at attention, slipping slightly on the crushed ice beneath his feet. When he regained his footing, he dared to take a few steps towards Harry, his hands buried deep within the pockets of his thin cardigan.

"Yes?" Tomlinson asked, drained of all emotion.

"I presume you've sold two-thousand dollars in loot," Harry stated, fingering the wad of cash he had stowed in the hidden pocket within the lining of his ebony trench coat.

"I didn't," Tomlinson sighed; worn out, sick and tired, completely unwilling to fight on. "There just wasn't enough," he admitted, hardly above a whisper.

Harry shot to his feet, the momentum knocking the girl to his side back onto her palms. A piece of a smashed beer bottle punctured her skin, where more blood poured out, much darker and stickier; it looked like Cherry Cola, she noticed. Whining, she picked the glass out with her other hand, before promptly placing her lips against the gash and sucking it clean; her mouth flooded with the taste of pennies.

"You knew the deal," Harry snarled, shoving Tomlinson's chest; the shorter boy didn't fight, merely allowed himself to collapse to the asphalt, wet patches of melted ice seeping through his cheap, winter apparel.