The Butterfly Effect

Harley

Pic Curtsy: Google

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Here's the first part.....

The pebbles, scattered on the wooden-shelf make a raspy noise as his fingers fumble through them and the pack of joints before they finally reach out to grab the glass containing the brown liquor of cognac, now golden as the afternoon sun washes over the good side of the cabin; making the rings on his fingers jangle against the half-empty glass in the process.. It is a struggle to bring himself stand on his two after every hangover, also he finds himself fighting this challenge every next afternoon when he wakes up from his day sleep. His Adam's apple bobs up 'n down as the hard drink scorches down through it. It doesn't burn his throat anymore; rather it fuels his thirst to a new level. No, he is not an addict, definitely not to the level to be called a drunkard but the burning sensation has rather become his fascination; though it is still in its infancy compared to that of his father's, one of the many traits he has inherited from his father. Supporting with one elbow he balances himself on the edge of the bed, his other hand shuffling through his last-night messy curls roughly pushing them away from his forehead. His tired eyes trying to spot where the familiar ringtone – 'a piece of piano instrumental' is coming from. It's not just any ringtone, she composed it herself. It is from the mobile of Phoebe, his fiancée, he knows better to expect anything else, anything much. The ring stops buzzing as he sees her answering the call. "What do these women have always to talk about so much?" He once again finds himself thinking the same years-old question as he sees her talking animatedly. A fond chuckle, if you can call a hoarse muffled groan as chuckle, escapes his mouth before he takes another sip of his cognac.

"You play the piano amazing, you know", he says with a soft smile playing on his plump lips as Phoebe ends her call and comes, settles on his lap "Why don't you make a carrier in this?". He is not saying just for the sake of saying, he really wants her to pursue her dreams. Whether the reason is only 'love' or there is also a tinge of guilt behind this persuasion he is not completely sure of though.

"You have said the same thing for more than -nth times by now, Harley." Phoebe mumbles softly, "But I guess I am happy with my parlor job." She once again denies him politely as her fingers professionally runs through his curls tying them in a messy man bun.

Their life hasn't been smooth with the limited income from her parlor and his call center job. She knows life better to fantasize about it flipping to the best overnight. That's the reason they're pushing off their 'marriage' thing for the next year.

He sighs saying nothing. His nails drawing circles in the back of her scalp. Not that he isn't planning to settle down, he certainly is. They have been used to this mediocre lifestyle since all their life so that's not very much of an issue technically. But things are to be settled down within yourself before you promise and commit your life to someone else, isn't it?

She knows his concern is not exactly about her pursuing carrier in music... it's about the particular ringtone he hears whenever her phone buzzes. He is way too familiar with this piece of music to let this thoughts go... for good.

Phoebe: "How was your job last night?"

"Usual" comes his monosyllabic reply as he closes his eyes leaning his head on the headrest. These night shifts of call center jobs really suck the life out of the youth but then they also pay you enough to be reconsidered and it's not like jobs are hanging from your doors like doorbell for a mediocre university dropout.

"Your eyes are beautiful 'Ley. Don't close them so often" he hears Phoebe murmur pressing her lips against his structured jaw line. He likes her voice. It is not the most famine voice he has ever heard, granted. But hers one holds certain kind of male-ness, it speaks of strength. And surprisingly it stimulates his masculinity to stand up again every time he stumbles. However he concentrates on the complement he just now received from his little French fiancée. It's not very rare that he receives such complement; he has been receiving them for the entire life of his now. He has heard people say many overrated things about those orbs – a pair of green emeralds, forest pools etc. etc. but no complement can make him as flattered as those spoken in 'her' proud voice.....

Flashback (1).

"You know the best thing about us, love?" His teenage voices sparkled with a fit of giggles as he pulled his face into the crook of her neck what seemed the safest place on earth, "That we have got the same eyes".

She lifted his face up to look at her... into her eyes. "No. Not at all." She spoke, "Ours are similar though but not the same. I have the colour of snap peas while your ones are soft washed out green" she added with a hint of disappointment, clearly annoyed over the fact that people often mistaking their eye colours was so silly. They were clearly different.

"Really? Like?" he asked curiously cocking his head.

"Ummm... Like.... Washed out green... like your favourite sweater, the one that's been washed too many times, you know... yeah like that." She said promptly though not sure if it actually made a description while he just held back his chortle. She did really suck at descriptions just the same way he did at colours.

"Yours are much more beautiful and soft than mine ones" she stroked her thumb lovingly on the upper part of his eyes. Nothing in this world could give her more satisfaction than holding him close to her, hiding in her bosoms.

He stared at her for a good one minute, indecisive of what he should do? Whether to laugh out loud at her choice of words to complement him or should just get angry that the colour of his favourite sweater was almost history now because of her 'lady-washing-machine' spree! Nonetheless he chose the first one and soon after the room echoed with rounds of laughter when they lay there cocooning inside eachother.

Flashback (1) ends

They are eachother's salvation.

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Here was the first part. 

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Love,

Neer