we'll live to tell the tale (l.s.)

if i cleaned everything

ironically, it was stravinsky's petrouchka that played in its mad frenzy on their way home. such performances were the ones that made him remember his roots, and what it really meant to perform. this particular recording was performed by daniil trofinov, a man that he admired to no end when it came to music. obviously, they were of different worlds and different focuses, but harry believed that, to its core, music is made of the same essence.

when they returned home, the sun was hanging high in the sky like it was still noon. time was passing so rapidly, and while so much was happening around them, it felt like it was just yesterday that harry found the ocean boy hyperventilating on the sticky bathroom floor of the bar. it was summer now, at its peak; the cicadas cried like the world was about to end, and maybe it was—harry wouldn't doubt it.

their house, whose quiet was once a breathable tranquil, now was filled with stifling lethargy. harry thought about what louis proposed last night, and how impossible it was. the ocean boy, tired-eyed and statue-like, showed no signs of bringing the notion of sex back up. harry breathed, not knowing whether it was a sigh of relief or of disappointment.

what would he do, anyway, if they did have sex? would he take hold, full-throttle, and delve in like the boy beneath him was vitreous, like his skin was something less fibrous, more brittle, like glass?

or would louis move beneath him so naturally and with such experience, his heart would shatter from the pain of knowing that it was a result of years of abuse?

the evening passed somberly, with the older boy understandably unresponsive to harry's attempts at easing the mood into something less severe, though to no avail. they ate, but louis with this immeasurable look of disgust plastered on his face as he cut his food into such small pieces that the enchiladas were no longer recognizable; colorless, textureless, tasteless. but the boy scooped it all into his mouth anyway, despite the tears that were now steadily flowing down his cheeks, diluting the contents of his plate with salty fluid.

helplessness flooded harry's throat like tears did louis' plate as he just watched the boy force the food into his mouth while it, dripped down his chin along with clear, sticky snot. he was doing all he could, holding louis' hands, repeating "you are so strong" like a mantra, but before him still sat the person he loved, so full of self-loathing and contempt.

maybe, harry thought, it was wanderlust that led so many men chasing the sky in search for what was beyond something as fragile and insignificant as life. maybe that was it, maybe it was wanderlust that haunted louis, and not (the word feels wrong in his mouth, much too large and much too sharp) suicidal.

it was hard to fathom how much time had really passed between the beginning of the meal and when louis finished, but by the time everything was over, the sun was long gone past the mountains, and harry realized that he didn't notice the sky transition to warm, dark pinks and navies, to pitch black. there were stars, peppering the boys' hair with fragments of white light, like it was december all over again and it was snow that was dusting the sky. it was, surprisingly, louis who broke the vitreous silence between them with a voice that could have been easily mistaken for as a cough.

"i don't like how prominent they are here."

"what?"

"the stars," he clarified. "i used to like them, but starless nights now hold a whole new meaning to me. i kind of miss that night."

"why?" harry mused, "we're here now. together."

"nostalgia, i guess."

"you say it's nostalgia but that was not even a year ago."