Just Me, You, And This Box of Matches

Chapter 13: The Luckiest Dude in the World

"Getting tattooed at gunpoint," says Harry, and pauses. "I'm like, yeah. I think I'm into it."

The problem with Harry Styles is that he talks too fucking slow. He has these big lips and this long floppy tongue and he appears to have them just barely under control at the best of times, let alone when there's a gun pressing into the lower half of his ribcage. It takes him a while to wrestle each elusive word into submission, and by the time he's finished Louis has almost forgotten what the subject of conversation was in the first place.

"Huh? Oh, the tattooing. You weirdo," says Louis, and then looks down. "Oh, god, you're still hard, you weirdo."

Harry smiles dopily. His eyes are a little glazed. "It's like, the adrenaline rush times, like, a hundred," he says, and rips his shirt off over his head. It snags on the gun, and he pauses to untangle it. "Yeah, let's get started."

"Are you," says the artist, the tattoo gun in his hand buzzing to life with an ominous whirring sound, "absolutely sure about this."

"Yeah," says Harry, sounding content.

"Good Lord," mutters the man, sounding rattled, and leans in to sketch the first line.

Louis closes his eyes and turns away.

The whole debacle had started when Simon refused to leave the motel room.

"Simon," says Harry patiently. He's very patient, Harry is; he's all sympathetic smiles and kind nods where Louis is tightly gripped lamps and poorly stifled impulses to swing. "Simon, we should probably leave this place. There are people here who are looking for you."

"I'm not a kid, kid," says Simon petulantly, and whips open his sweat jacket. He's not wearing anything underneath. Louis closes his eyes tight and thinks happy thoughts. "Look," the man continues, and there's a rustle of plastic. "Cocaine. Cocaine. I'm an adult and I have adult things. Like cocaine."

"Yes, yes you do." Every word reeks of patience. Louis is going to be sick. "How about you zip your coat back up and we get out of here?"

Louis waits for the crunching slide of the zipper to stop before he risks opening his eyes again, and it's only to see Simon on his feet and shuffling to the bathroom. "I have to wee."

"Simon. We have to leave."

"I have to wee," repeats Simon, and shuts the door in Harry's face.

Harry exhales loudly and slowly turns to face Louis, who's sitting cross-legged and half-hard on the bed, still clutching a lamp to his chest.

"So," he says, after a pause. "How are you?"

Louis considers this. "Stop pointing a gun at me," he says eventually.

Harry's face lights up, and he drops a wink. Louis didn't even know it was possible to wink so eagerly. "Is that a poor innuendo for my uncovered erection?"

"No," says Louis, although to be honest it is pointing, a bit. "I mean the actual gun that you are actually holding in your hand."

"Oh, that." Harry looks thoughtfully at the pistol. "I'm pretty sure there aren't any bullets left. You're probably okay."

"Oh, thank you, that's very reassuring, I always like hearing that I probably won't get a gaping hole shot in my skull-"

There's a knock on the door.