(we're a) Fine Line {HS}

XXXVIII - Rehearsal

The summer may have ended already, which, contrary, means our life is about to start taking a quite new path, in its turn. At least for myself, since Harry is already more than used to go on tours and performing. With our nine-tracks album only needing small final adjustments to be officially finished, we are supposed to fly to New York tomorrow, for the first concert since last year's events and resume Harry's tour on the most principal cities in the world. However, with the little addiction of me going on stage, at some point, to sing our version of Fine Line.

And I've been trying to come to terms with myself that I'll be performing way sooner than I had expected, ever since Harry and Tiffany spoke to me about that and told me that, if that is the case, we'll be doing it at every concert. I eventually interpreted it as a way of slowly starting to get used to it for when we go on the next tour, where we'll surely be doing more that only one song together.

My hand would be visibly shaking if Harry wasn't holding it, gently securing my fingers with his own, as he brushes my nails with a brownish varnish. He hums to a song I don't quite recognize, although I'm sure I've heard it somewhere already. But I don't dare to interrupt him just to ask which one it is, because I like when he sings casually like this and I don't hear him doing it very often.

So I just stare at him with sleepy eyes, his eyebrows frowned of careful determination to not paint anything else but my nails, being almost all I can see of his lowered face. The spring on the top of his head prevents his fringe from also hiding the sun mark of his sunglasses, on the bridge of his nose, from my sight.

It'd be ingenuous of me to say I'm not worried about how the next days will be like for us. We'll be constantly on the run for the remaining two months, traveling here and there throughout the world, performing almost every day. I hope I'm exaggerating, but I can't help but wonder if we'll even have time to breathe. Of course, in other hand, I can't even measure my enthusiasm, but still I wish that one could prevail the other.

My phone buzzes on the table, next to the nail polishes, and I open my eyes, only now noticing I was about to fall asleep. I reach for it with my free hand, trying not to move too much not to perturb Harry's task on the other, opening it to the message that arrived, "Feels like the end is about to start, doesn't it?"

I sigh at it and that makes Harry glance up at me, lowering his humming. "It's that number again." I tell him, frowning at my own phone, recalling the first - and previous to this one - time something similar happened, months ago, which we decided to ignore supposing it was someone mistaken.

"What does it say?" He asks, turning his head to dip the little brush on its corresponding little bottle. But before he could take it out again, I turn the screen to him so he can read what's on it by himself, and he freezes while he does. Then he lets go of the object asking me "May I?" and taking my phone on his hands as I allow him to. He types something out of my vision field and I can only see it when he returns it to me, as well as he returns to his previous actions as if nothing happened. "Who is this, for God's sake?"

I don't last before putting the device away again and looking at what Harry is doing again. He doesn't hum anymore, so I decide to make some conversation to try to figure out what goes on his mind.

"It's my favourite color, brown." I say pensive, as if I was just saying and don't expect any reply. But he does, anyway, nodding slowly and dipping the brush again, "I know."

"You know? But I never told you." I say calmly, smiling a bit at him, and e shrugs "Figured it out."

I purse my lips and remain quiet for some seconds, not knowing what to reply. I look at the colorful nail polishes in front of us, deciding to start choosing the ones I want to use on him next, when he finishes.