“I’m Louis,” the boy says, still holding Harry’s hand loosely in his own. “Sorry about the beer.” He smiles and Harry almost falls over, because his smile is sort of blinding and Harry is tongue-tied for words. At Harry’s silence, the boy’s smile falters and Harry can’t bear the thought of the boy not smiling, so he pulls himself together in time to respond.
“Harry,” he smiles back and shakes Louis’s hand in a weird, swinging motion. “It’s no problem about the beer, my shirt was ugly anyways.” It is. It’s white and thin and probably dirty, since Harry hasn’t done laundry in weeks. Not to mention, when Harry moved out, he left all Nick’s clothes obviously, which meant Harry was out half a wardrobe.
Ugh, Nick again.
“S’not ugly,” Louis laughs and his mouth opens wide and there are little crinkles by his twinkly eyes and Harry wants to poke the little pouchy skin under his eyes to see if it’s as soft as it looks. “Although, you’d probably win a wet t-shirt contest now.”
“Just the look I was going for,” Harry jokes. “Look, let me buy you another beer for the one I spilled.”
“Wow, Mr. Harry, 5 minutes into our meeting and you’re already buying me drinks? That’s pretty progressive of you,” Louis giggles and Harry feels like the sun has come out from behind a cloud when he hears the tinkly sound of Louis’s laugh, like he would actually fucking jump off a cliff if it meant Louis would laugh again.
“Well, I’d hate for you to miss out on all the drunken adventures that beer could bring,” Harry teases him, feeling that well-oiled skill of flirting slide back into place with every passing moment. Harry is good at this. He’s really good at it. He charms the pants off everyone he knows. Literally, the pants off. He grins at Louis and shakes his hair out of his eyes.
“If I let you buy me a drink, will you let me lend you a t-shirt?” Louis asks. His eyes rake up and down Harry’s torso and Harry feels little shivers run up and down his arms at the feeling of those blue eyes roving over him.
Harry laughs loudly and lets his own eyes scan up and down Louis’s little body, his soft stomach slighting pushing against his t-shirt and his thick arms. “I doubt any of your t-shirts will fit me, but we can try.”
- Charles Bukowski, The Last Night of the Earth Poems (via tofuuu)
once in the 4th grade this guy got a 2% on his math quiz so everyone called him milk for the rest of the year