marilyn [h.s.]

chapter twenty-three

AUGUST 4TH, 1962. 11:12 P.M.

The dream ended just as swiftly as it began.

Harry awoke to a dark room, to the sound of hushed footsteps ricocheting in the hallway outside his room, whispers, the sound of a door closing, he felt sweat dripping down his spine and he cupped his face in his hands and moaned brokenly, tears streaming down his cheek, sobs breaking his frame, his heart hurt so bad he could barely breathe, the pain was overwhelming, then-

"Harry? Darling, what's wrong?"

His eyes flew open, awakening, no... She was here? It couldn't be. Sobs continued to wrack his body as he sat up on his elbows, eyes searching the dark room... And there she was. Dressed in a silk bathrobe and a pair of Betty Boop pajamas, makeup streamed down her face in a mirage, looking like a clown had shoved his makeup at her and forced her to gag on it, she wasn't crying but Harry was. With a soft and terrified whimper he extended his arms for her, reaching for her, with no strength left, he needed her...

She came to him without hesitation, engulfing him in sweet perfume and whispered words of reverence and hushed tones, blue for the sky, broken for their hearts. He continued to cry as she held him, torso pressed to her, arms weak and barely holding to her waist, head buried in the crook of her neck. She rocked back and forth and back and forth and then they both cried because they knew this was the end, didn't they, they knew this was going to be the last time but they had never said I love you, did they, and Norma could hear it now, Harry mumbling against her skin, "I love you."

"Don't," she whispered through her own tears. "Don't you dare give up on me, Harry Styles."

He shook his head into her skin, whimpering as the weight of her words hit him. She pushed him away from her, arms length, the lifeboat, the fortress, hold me, never let me go. "Please, Harry. Don't give up on me. Not yet." Because she recognized the three words for what they were: a last-ditch attempt to say goodbye, to whine and procrastinate and Norma didn't want it. She did love Harry. But she would never say it out loud. Not yet. Because saying it out loud would mean accepting defeat, accepting goodbye, and she wasn't ready to do that.

Harry kept sobbing, lying down on the pillows and Norma joined him, nose to nose. She brushed their noses together, traced his bridge with imaginary Sidney Poitier glasses, he continued to sob. Her heart was breaking as she watched him disintegrate in front of her, she wondered if Jackie Kennedy felt this way, buttoning her husband's bulletproof vest, she couldn't take it anymore, she grabbed his fingers and whispered softly, "What's your favorite color?"

And it should've made him cry harder. It should've taken him back to the first day, to the precious week and a half ago when he'd gone to her hotel room for the first time and asked her silly questions, and he knew this was goodbye, but he would do anything for her. Anything that was right. So he steeled himself and willed the tears to subside, taking a deep breath and snuggling closer to her, so tired, so tired, "Blue." He opened his eyes to look into hers and lifted a trembling finger to brush underneath her eyelashes. "Blue like your eyes."

"What's your favorite book?"

"California Street."

"Wha-"

"No, no," he murmured. Lacing their fingers together, he exhaled shakily and continued, "What's your favorite food?"

"Popcorn shrimp."

She took up the reins and said, "What's your favorite movie?" He smiled and pressed a kiss to her thumb, her pinky, her knuckle. "Anything of yours."

There was silence for a long moment as Norma turned his hands over and over between hers, ink stains, callouses. Finally he murmured, "Who's your favorite person?"

And, of course, they both knew. They both knew what she had answered- I don't have one. Yet now, in the silent moonlight of Manhattan, as they gazed into each others eyes, the heaviness of a romance unrequited hanging between them, as her lips moved around the word slowly- "You."

Another sob escaped his body, curling in upon himself, he has to keep her, please don't leave me. They stayed like that for a long time, quiet and unreserved, no words are spoken, it's fragile and breakable. His hands are clasped around warm flesh before cold metal is cupped between their palms, cold and unfeeling. He holds his palm up to the dying light, gasping when he sees what remains there.

"Your mom's locket," he whispered slowly, turning it over, dangling it above his face. The French words written on it- he knew them by heart, Love never fails. He looked back to Norma, strewn across the pillows, to see her studying him with a watery smile, he reached over, cupped their hands, "I love you," he repeated, and she didn't respond, but it was okay.

Her fingers left his and they traced over his face, into his curls, his eyes drifted shut as her wrist pressed against his mouth, the softest of kisses was placed there, she tasted like a saxophone, in eighth grade he learned how to play the saxophone, if he could still play... He'd play the softest song. Her eyes were watery and desperate, turning and roaring like the ocean she was, fingers pressing harshly against his cheek, wanting to remember, desperate to forget, he clutched the necklace in his hands knowing it (wouldn't) save him, hoping it (couldn't) save him. "I don't want to lose you," he whimpered, holding his wrist to his heartbeat, rapid, thrum thrum thrum, don't let me go.

"You won't," she promised. By now they had learned Norma couldn't keep a promise to save her life, but no one blamed her. Her fingers continued to trace over his face, whispering sweet nothings into his ear until he fell asleep: you are different, you are real.

He fell asleep pressed to her chest, holding her for all he was worth, I never want to let you go, please don't leave me.

When he awoke, she was gone.

-

early update! *cues halfhearted clapping amidst sobbing*