Come June [ h.s. ]

4

4

.

He awoke to the golden light that painted the left side of his face. The morning light; warm and welcoming against his skin.

He lay in the master bedroom of the beach house, under thick, cotton sheets. His legs and torso were naked, and for once, his feet didn't stick out at the end of the mattress.

Harry smiled to himself.

Gently rubbing his hands over his eyes, he stretched his body and propped himself up on his elbows. Last night, he'd been too weary to even look around. He'd simply followed the short hallway, and there at the end was a dark bedroom.

His bedroom.

It was so strange to think about; yesterday, he'd been running from the man with the camera. And people were looking at him-- their gazes heavy, making him feel as if he was standing under the world's largest microscope.

Now, as the sun hung proudly in the early morning, his gaze swept across new (yet quite appealing) surroundings.

The room was a symphony of light blue and cream; with a deep cherrywood dresser to his left, and bay window to his right. It was very... happy, compared to the faded earth tones of his apartment.

And it was accented by images of the sea; small statutes of starfish, shells lined up at the edge of his mirror, anchor curtains and a matching rug.

Harry sat upright in bed.

Then, slipping his legs over the side, he figured he might as well get up and ready. He wanted to have a look around town; to see where his new life was taking place. Whether or not he'd be staying permanently in the beach house, he wasn't sure. But for now, it was well worth keeping.

It felt warm.

It felt like a real home.

Slipping out of the sheets, he rose and made his way over to the shower. It was nice-- much nicer than what he had before. He reminded himself to buy his own shampoo, so that he wouldn't have to use the dispenser built into the wall.

He stood under the hot water for along time with his eyes closed, letting it run down his face. He felt like he was washing away everything he didn't want to bring with him. Everything that stole his happiness.

When he'd scrubbed himself clean, he threw on some jeans and a thick black sweater. His mother had always called it the "James Dean sweater," since it reminded her of the ones he was photographed in for Life magazine.

You need to call her back, he thought to himself once more.

But not yet.

Today, he just wanted to focus on starting over.

The pieces of his past, of his before, would have to wait.

Harry studied himself carefully in the bedroom mirror. His hair stuck up unevenly from the shower, and he did his best to smooth it down. He looked rather tired; his eyes still slightly puffy from sleep.

He pulled on some boots, lacing them one foot at a time. Then, slinging the leather backpack over his shoulder, he made his way outside. It was the weirdest sensation to lock the door for the first time.