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Harry liked South Park when he was a teenager, especially because he was a teenager, and every 13-year-old boy needed to watch it once in a while to understand some of the inside jokes shared in class. The show was crude and problematic, but Harry didn’t see any of that: he laughed at every stupidity, and one bizarre thing he could never forget was the Christina Aguilera creature Cartman saw whenever he took too much of his Ritalin. The pop star, now a 21-year-old young man, didn’t know exactly why that random fact popped in his mind, but he could swear one of those pink little bugs jumped in front of him and was now crawling up his arm. Two, now. Or three. Four five six seven eight nine what the fuck?? Ten–
“How many of these stupid Aguileras do you have on you?” Harry asked to the red-headed on the sofa next to him, whose back was slightly bent forward to the armrest. She barely moved from this position, just grunted something unintelligible and kept herself almost lying on the couch. “Shit, they’re everywhere! Do you feel them too?”
“Mate, what the fuck are you talking about?” Someone laughed on his other side. Harry thought it was Nick, but then he had a feeling the fucker had vanished to God knows where with his model of the month, so it was either the brunet who had sucked him off half an hour ago or that creepy bloke who had cornered Pixie in the supply room and tried to grope her. Ugh, why was the room getting hot?
“Who the fuck turned the heat on?” He wondered out loud, groaning and putting his hair into a bun. Something wet and sticky landed on his uncovered neck, close to that sweet spot L… he liked to kiss. No no no no no no stop why are you thinking about him no you were doing so fine oh fuck oh, “fuck, yeah, please, shit, ugh right there, no, c’mon,” Harry touched the stranger’s face, looking for a pair of lips, anything that would keep his mind off of him. Moans, deep breaths, roaming hands, slick sounds, tongue, teeth, ouch, no time to laugh, one more, what, kiss?, no, a line, oh–
“Is it good?” The man asked, biting Harry’s earlobe and sending a chill down his spine.
“Yeah,” Harry panted. “The best snow in summer,” he replied, finally letting out a blinding smile, even though he was already skiing down the mountain.
So it started to snow, the whiteness contrasting with the dark wooden coffee table. Harry snorted one short, bumpy line through a rolled bill (his life was a cliché) and savoured the roughness in his throat, anxious to go back to the top of the hill. The blond followed Harry seconds later and shivered when the snowflakes finally hit him.
“More, more,” Harry whined while going back to kissing the stranger. “C’mon, more snow.” He laughed and laughed, because why the fuck was it snowing in summer?
“Alright, yeah, ok,” the man replied, untangling his fingers from Harry’s messy locks, which had fallen from the bun during the exchange of hot air, spit, and probably many, many germs and bacteria and whatever the fuck people have in their mouths.
The next two lines were longer and less straight than the last ones, but they were definitely easier to snort, almost as if they already knew their way in. Harry already felt much more alert, happier; the colours seemed brighter, the song coming from the speakers sounded louder, even the smell of perfume and cologne and sweat was stronger.
“Dance with me!” Harry shouted, laughing at nothing in particular. Everything was so funny. Life was fun! You eat you piss you shit you play music you pretend to be someone you’re not you love you travel you get dumped you cry you hate you party you drink you puke in the bathroom in the kitchen in the yard you have sex with random people you get tired of pretending to be someone you’re not you take pills snort coke puke some more cry some more music drink no sleep pills too much sleep coke-
The bloke straightened himself up on a pair of trembling legs and pulled Harry to him. The mere contact of their hands, which were all cold and sweaty, sent Harry a chain of feelings and thoughts he didn’t want anymore: wrong skin, wrong size, wrong temperature, and wrong person. Not soft enough, not small or delicate enough, not warm enough, not Louis’ enough.
Harry smiled, viciously, manically, high on coke, sadness, anger, regret. What did I do where did I go wrong why why why wasn’t I the one wasn’t I good enough why where are you what are you doing right now, “why did you leave me?”
“Harry, is that y…? Oh my God, Harry, stop calling me!”
“Why did you leave me? His hands are too cold, Lou; they’re not yours, Lou,” Harry shouted to be heard through the music, but there was no music anymore. The air was much less stuffy now, and the smell of damp grass filled his nose.
“What? Harry, what the fuck are you talking about?” Louis’ tone was harsh, completely different to how he used to speak with him.
“Lou,” Harry pleaded, and he didn’t know whether he was shouting or crying or doing both. “Lou, please, come back, I hate you so much because it hurts so much but it just hurts because I love you so much, Lou! I’ll change, all right, I will, I promise! Tell me what I can do to-”
“Shut up, Harry! Shut the fuck up! You won’t change anything, ok? I don’t want you anymore, Harry; that’s it. Stop trying to get me back because there is nothing you can do, ok?” Harry heard Louis’ laboured breath through the speaker and all he could think about was how his chest expanded its size while Louis fucked him into oblivion, but the reality of those words thrown at him with such venom brought him back to the present.
“You don’t mean it!” He screamed. His throat hurt and his heart beat fast, at an uncoordinated rhythm. “You love me we love each other remember when we met remember how I splashed pee on you because I was talking to you and I was so happy I didn’t even notice I had missed the urinal and you shrieked so loud and I laughed,” Harry said it all in one or two breaths, shaking from head to toe. His head throbbed and his heart hurt and his throat was on fire and the Earth was spinning and people were looking but all he could think about was how lovely Louis looked in the morning, softness and daintiness contrasting with the rigidity of his clothed lower half against Harry’s naked arse. Harry used to get hard from this within seconds, but now, even though his unoccupied hand furiously stroked his member under his pants and jeans, it stayed right where it was. It was getting colder and wetter, but how, if it wasn’t raining? Or was it? Harry’s long hair got muddy, wet from the tears, the snot, dew and even saliva, but he didn’t remember how he ended up on the humid grass.
“Harry? Harry, stop screaming! Where are you?” For the first time Louis’ voice was laced with worry, and Harry almost smiled if he weren’t crying so much.
“I don’t know, Lou! Where am I? It’s cold and my hair is dirty!” He whined. A person was coming towards him and for a second Harry believed it was Louis, but then he saw a pair of long legs, and he cried harder.
“Are you drunk, Harry?” Louis asked, and Harry nodded, forgetting he couldn’t be seen. “Harry, answer me: are you drunk?” His tone hardened again.
“Don’t call me Harry. Please! You used to call me Haz, don’t you remember? You were so lovely, Lou,” the youngest sobbed. A gentle hand squeezed his ankle, but Harry didn’t look up to see who it belonged to. “You loved me you loved me you loved me I still love you so much did you know that I do I swear I love you but you don’t please, L-”
“Did you… did you take anything? You’re not sober, are you? Please, stop freaking out for a moment and tell me what the hell is going on,” Louis said, sounding impatient but preoccupied too.
“I am not, I’m not, no no no no, not sober, never, not without you, not having to lie all the time, not hiding myself, I’m tired tired so tired, Lou, I want to sleep… take me home, Lou, it’s cold out here,” Harry answered, whimpering, babbling. Someone pulled him upright and the world span again. When he opened his mouth, only vomit came out, splashing against his dirty shirt, his dirty jeans, and a few droplets landed on the muddy grass. The same person who had helped him up took the cell phone out of his hand – the one which wasn’t wrapped around his still soft dick – and started to speak.
“Mate, Nick here. I’m with Harry now, so don’t worry about him. I think you’ve done enough harm already.” The curly-haired boy couldn’t hear what was being said on the other end of the line, so he lay back on the ground and closed his eyes. “You are his fucking problem, Louis! Harry, get up, get up now! You’re going to die choking on your own vom, for fuck’s sake!” Nick helped him up again and supported Harry’s back with his hand. “For fuck’s sake, Harry, get your hands out of your pants! No, Louis, we’re not having sex! He’s literally having a wank in the middle of my yard while puking all over himself.”
The high was wearing off too fast and he needed another bump, a molly, anything to avoid the low. Harry hated this part, because no matter how much he snorted and drank, or how many colourful pills he took, he would always come back down, down to a dark, lonely valley, alone with his thoughts and insecurities. Harry never wanted to leave the top of the snowy mountain.
“I’m on the top of the world looking down on creation and the… wait, how’s the rest go, Nick?” Harry mumbled, tasting the remnants of puke in his mouth. “I’m not on top, though, am I?” He asked sadly, realising Nick wasn’t paying attention to him.
“… goodbye, Louis,” Nick said, ending the conversation. He looked at Harry, at his glossy eyes and dilated pupils, at his dirty face, tinged with mud, grass and his own puke, at his greasy, dishevelled hair, at his pathetic, slumping form, and sighed. “Let’s go, Haz.” Nick’s soft tone was the last thing Harry heard before he passed out from exhaustion.
You break.