“Louis? Help me, please.” It’s a whisper, voice cracking, sounding ever so desperate and embarrassed.

I flinch and turn around, accidentally pointing the flashlight right into his eyes.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“What’s wrong?”

I walk a bit closer and he gets up slowly, groaning and holding his stomach, leaning against the wall so he doesn’t fall.

“Not sure. Some guys.” He whimpers quietly, frowning. “Took my stuff. Was trying to, uh, trying to stop them.”

I look at him properly for the first time. His face looks okay besides the fact that his upper lip is bleeding a little. His knuckles are red though, his stomach he’s still holding covered by the hoodie he always wears.

“Okay, hospital?”

He shakes his head. “Not that bad. Just need some alcohol and bandages, maybe a band aid. It’ll be fine again.”

“Is it an open wound?”, I ask, trying to ignore the fact that he seems to know what he has to do exactly, as if he did it a thousand times before already. I don’t want to think about how often he got hurt physically already.

He nods carefully, trying to pull the fabric that seems to stick to his skin a little. “They had a knife, I think. It’s not that deep. Won’t need any stitches.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Fuck, Harry, you should see a doctor.”

“It’s not like I’d have the money, Louis. I’d appreciate if you could just tell me whether you can help me or not. If not, that’s fine too. Just-“He groans again,  pulling a face with pain.

“’Course I can. Can you walk?”

He nods slowly, pushing himself away from the wall. “Yeah.”

We walk the few meters in silence, slowly. I’m worried, a lot. He seems so hurt and all his stuff is gone, the only thing he’s still carrying is a damaged plastic bottle filled with-I hope-water.

It’s not awkward, it’s just not comfortable either. I still have no idea who he is and those few days weeks ago didn’t really bring us any closer.
Even though I still sometimes think about us watching the notebook together when I’m sitting on my sofa alone.

We walk up the stairs and I unlock the door, holding it open so he can enter. He slips out of his shoes without bending down and I point to the kitchen.

When I enter after getting the little first aid stuff, I have from my bathroom, he stands there in the middle of the room a little awkwardly.

“For fucks sake”, I say, “Sit down.”

He nods quickly and drops onto the couch, whimpering quietly again. I roll my eyes; he should see a doctor.

I sit down next to him and watch as he tries to get the hoodie off of his wound. He flinches a few times, biting his lip to hide the pain in his expression. It takes a bit until the wound is finally revealed.

It really isn’t as deep as I expected it to be, but it’s long, as if the person with the knife slipped in the process, making the cut rather long than deep.

“Fuck”, I say anyways because it really doesn’t look good. He just shrugs, continuing to stare at the cut starting at his hip bone, nearly reaching his belly button.

“’s fine”, he breathes.

I drench the cotton wool pad in alcohol, wanting to start cleaning the wound carefully.

“Don’t fucking touch me”, he hisses, voice cold.

There’s pain in his eyes, sadness. His expression softens immediately afterwards, guilt filling his voice.

“I just”, he starts to explain, “Um, it, I think it hurts less if I do it”, he blurts out.

I nod, not knowing whether this really was the explanation for his behaviour, but I don’t ask, handing him the pad anyways.

The hoodie keeps slipping down, getting into his way and touching the wound so he can’t continue cleaning. “Do you mind if I put it off?”, he asks quietly after some time.

I shake my head and wait next to him quietly. He carefully slips the hoodie over his head. There are tattoos everywhere, part of his chest and upper arm covered in them. The ink is supposed to cover the marks, probably. And it does it’s job, if I weren’t so close I wouldn’t even notice the small scars and stigmas all over his upper body.

I frown, trying not to stare.
I tear my gaze away from the two little birds and the butterfly. It makes me all sad, thinking he’d choose motives that beautiful, that soft, to cover marks that hint to cruel things I don’t even want to think about.

I wonder who would do such things to him.

I wait a little longer until he shrugs, deciding it’s enough and hand him the biggest band aid I could find.

“Wait”, I say when he’s finished, “I’ll get you a different shirt, yeah?”

He nods slowly and I smile, just a little, faked and forced. I can’t even bring myself to smile at him after what I saw. He seems so hurt; he is so hurt.

I try to pick the softest hoodie I have. Try to feel which fabric will hurt the least, try to imagine which one will hug around his skin the most comfortable. Try to imagine his clothes comforting him because I can’t.

When I come back to the living room, his eyes are glassy, he looks like he’s holding back tears. I could cry as well. He lost everything.

“Hungry?”, I ask with a look at the clock. It’s almost four o’clock by now so why not make breakfast?

He nods shyly and slips the sweater over his head. It looks soft and warm, a little comforting, maybe. I hope it is.

I fill a bowl with cereal and milk and he thanks me quietly. Harry is a slow eater. Everything he does is slow. It’s careful and well considered, cautious.

It’s like he’s done so much wrong already, he’s scared that every movement could hurt others or him, could bring others to hurt him.

It takes ages until he ate the whole bowl, by then I’ve got the whole kitchen cleaned once and I’m an extremely unmotivated and slow cleaner.

“Thank you.”

“Want another one?”

He shakes his head, trying to smile but then shrugs and nods after some time.

“Help yourself. I’ll just sleep for a bit, alright? You can stay here, of course.”

He nods again and I close the kitchen door behind me quietly.

When I fall asleep that night, I dream of butterflies  with scars on their wings.

~~~

thoughts? <33