Aerial

The Seventeenth Chapter

The bouncer lights up when his focus lands on Harry, their affable handshake molding into an even friendlier hug before Harry starts speaking into his ear. You step closer for a chance to catch a snippet of their conversation and just as you do, the song ends and covers you in a blanket of relief for a few seconds. The two of them focus their attention on you before the bouncer nods as if to grant the both of you access into the unknown.

Your fixation shifts to the narrow hallway before you lined with months or possibly years of scruffy musical event posters, each one of them prefaced with a persisting word that you gather as the name of the club.

Chubby's Club.

Harry's mouth meets your cheek and vibrates your ear drum, "say hi, babe."

The music rolls to a start again as you step closer with your arm outstretched, the bouncer's hand practically swallowing yours with his firm grip before obviously admiring you from head-to-toe, "she's a fucking fox."

You're stunned by his outward advance and in front of Harry no less, but you suppose that you shouldn't be too surprised considering all of the shameless indulgence you've received from your partner for the past couple weeks. You snap your glare to Harry for help but he's already reacting, the back of his hand slapping the bouncer's shoulder before he points a finger to his chest, "back off, chump. She's mine. I mean-" He glances at you before sucking the inside of his cheek, mentally searching for a proper way to backpedal, "she's a person too, man. Have some respect."

The bouncer's chummy demeanor drops like a ton of bricks, "don't touch me unless you wanna get bounced faster than a shitty mattress, Styles." He looks at you and shifts his gaze to your chest before refocusing on Harry, "one buck each."

Harry pats both of his back pockets before digging his entire palm into the one on the right, his cigarette dropping ash as it dangles from his puffy lips. He squints one eye to protect it from smoke as he fishes for cash from his wallet, his cheeks hollowing out when he sucks in a puff then plucks it from his teeth.

You peer over his shoulder to watch the work of his hands, "there's a cover?" The bouncer deposits the cash into a cigar box stuffed with more dollar bills and counts a couple to hand back to Harry.

"Mhm." He takes his change and tucks it away with a nod of regard to the bouncer, "it gets pooled for the prize." Harry leans down to speak one final thought into the bouncer's ear, to which the other man responds with a peace sign and a pat on Harry's back.

Harry tosses an arm around your neck and guides you down the narrow brick-lined hallway that descends further into a muggy basement, the resonance of the music swelling with each step forward and drowning the beat of your heart in your own chest. Groups of people squeeze past you as they head outside for some air; men with their arms around either their girlfriends or their burners for the evening and girls tripping over their own feet due to the amount of alcohol they've consumed.

The hallway opens up into a humidly packed and smoke-filled room, the tips of everyone's individual brands of cigarette's lit with an electric rainbow of burnt paper and matching colored smoke in the darkness. There are a dozen different smells to match the gradation; watermelon, clementine, lemon, blueberry, lavender, chocolate, meringue. But nothing compares to Harry's loving cotton candy Crush cigarettes and how both the smoke and the fiery tip perfectly match his lips. Broiled sweetheart sugar and burnt blushing vanilla; another quality that seems to trademark his blossoming character. It makes sense that he wraps his lips around luscious hearts whenever he pauses his affection long enough to inhale.

Through the river of a hundred moving bodies you catch glimpses of the live band; five or six pieces including horns and a keyboardist, the volume of their performance so loud that attendees lining the walls or perched in small booths are forced to lean close to shout at one another in order to be heard. There is a cramped, modest bar off to the right, the bartenders working like two ships in the night as they weave and bob around one another to help patrons in what must be a synchronized swim.