“You don’t know me,” Harry deadpans, straightening his back and smoothing out his features.
“I think I do, Harry Styles,” Louis says, and allows his glare to fade, replacing it with pitying disapproval. “You drown yourself in pretty words and champagne and fuck knows what kind of drugs. You shag everything that walks. You only listen and care about yourself, and you feel nothing for the world. You watch people love you and you love nothing in return,” Louis says lowly, disgusted, the alcohol and fury gripping his bones and spurring his tongue.
Harry stares back beneath the flickering lights, shadows deep beneath his eyes, expression unreadable. “Love?” he asks with wry distaste.
Louis merely stares in response, chest squared, adrenaline ebbing.
Harry’s mouth twists into a sickly grin, eyes colder than he’s ever seen them—which is saying something.
“Haven’t you heard, Louis Tomlinson? Each man kills the thing he loves.”