Twenty Five [The Pineapple]

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Day 3,671

Black. Nightfall. A new moon against a cloudless sky just before dawn. An empty cave. A blown lightbulb in a cellar.

The sound that snow makes when another flake deposits onto the pile on a tree branch in early morning, the streetlight shining on the pillowy banks and accentuating the fluff falling from the sky.

The melody of a rainbow deepening against the backdrop of a stormy sky with the promise of clarity behind it, the sun's rays peeking through the depth of clouds as if god itself were stretching its arms out toward you.

The resonance of another heart-shaped leaf unfolding as a virile plant stretches its limbs towards the sun deep within the very center of the jungle.

The din of an almond and cream colored speckled fawn blinking its eyes open for the very first time.

The patter of someone tiptoeing across a freshly buffed hardwood floor in thick, woolen socks.

Harry's nirvana sways back and forth like a rocking chair after it's been abandoned, the phantom momentum slowly easing it to and fro with nothing but a quiet rhythmic creak. First he becomes aware of his breathing and then his vision kindles; it shifts from pitch black to a splotchy oil slick or the scratch of charcoal on paper, as if his eyes have revived but are now viewing the back of his eyelids rather than the inside of his mind while he slept.

Sleep. The next thing he registers is that he has slept and he's now waking up and his body is warm - really warm. Hot, sweaty and positively scorching in fact and his eyebrows pull together to shape an uncomfortable frown just before he peels one eye open and then the next. He blinks twice slowly as he inhales and registers caramelized honeycomb and a pliable body in his grasp, his gaze flitting around the gleaming bedroom decorated in contrasting pastels of cream, pink, turquoise and lemon mixed with stark orange and navy blue; an entire explosion of pigmented personality and the dull glow of the string lights that are still illuminated from the night before. They now appear dusky in the daytime with the flood of white light through the sheer curtains partly veiling the sliding glass door just beside the bed.

His eyes fall closed again as he sucks in as much air as his lungs will allow, counting to five while he releases a rhythmic and cleansing flow on the way out. He hadn't imagined it. All of it was real; the wrecked and tattered apologies, falling into bed with you and feeling the weight of your breasts in his palms and the silken spread of your skin below his fingertips, the slick force of your tongues finding each other, the suck and draw of your core persuading desire from the very pit of his soul, the sparkling trance of emotional connection and soft touches as your highs wore off, the dip and subsequent clemency of unconsciousness.

The corners of his mouth pull into a smile and elation soars from his stomach but screeches to a halt in his throat, a cushioned hiccup stalling the sensation as he chokes on the sting of tears in his chest and behind his eyes. There hasn't been a time in his life where he's felt this rectified, content and thoroughly enraptured and he needs to share it immediately. His brain is rested and empty, his arms are full with the heat of his kindred spirit, his heart inches closer to bursting with each pump, his belly churns with desire and need for expression. It's as if you're his new toy that continually wraps itself up in attractive and brightly colored paper, the gift on the inside beautifying with each new fervid peel of his fingertips.

His eyelids lift open and he focuses on you in an instant; your body curled into his with your spine curved perfectly from his neck to his pelvis, your hair scattered across the pillow and tickling his nose, your bare legs intertwined with his and your feet quietly resting atop one another. Harry's arm is strewn across your stomach with his fingertips tucked between your body and the mattress, your head roosting in the crook of his other elbow. His mind buzzes with a drone of electricity, muted glinting electricity that bares no memories of dreams or nightmares, nothing but hours of blissful, peaceful sanctuary and he is certain that this is a first in his lifetime. He has never felt anything similar and he wonders if this is what it's supposed to be like - if this is what it feels like to be normal and well rested, to be happy and complacent, to be loved.

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