'Take my mind and take my pain'
*
Healing isn't an overnight process. It isn't something that just miraculously happens at the click of your fingers. It isn't something that someone can just take away and deal with on your behalf. It isn't something there is a cure for. Healing is both a blessing and curse because it provides the relief you crave while also taking away the importance of your grief and love. I'm healing, but somehow I want to fight it.
It's been over a month since Dad died. One whole month without my best friend. It still feels like yesterday. I can recall the sounds of the machinery in his hospital room as they beeped frantically, I can smell the disinfectant of the wards, I can taste the tears that streamed down my face. Sometimes when I close my eyes I'm back there, witnessing it all over again. But it never feels familiar; it's like a new memory every time, even if it is the same.
My sleep is slowly getting better, but I have the same afflictions every night. The only difference is feeling more comfortable with having Harry comfort me now. I let him in the bed, I let him hold me, I let him talk to me. There is still some doubt that he's really there, that it's not one of the monsters in my mind threatening to hurt me again, but when I hear his voice it reminds me of my safety.
I've always felt safe with Harry. There's never been a moment I've questioned it with him. From the moment I met him he made it clear he would protect me, and though I've proven myself able to do so without the help of others, sometimes we have to let them take care of us. Sometimes we have to admit defeat and accept the care of others when we can no longer look after ourselves.
And he's never judged me for it. Never pushed me into his arms; he only waited until I was ready. Now, I find the comfort I've been craving since the worst day of my life. He gives me solace, a place to rest my weary head. He allows me to process things however I wish to, for as long as I need. Harry never questions my motives or intentions. Everything is allowed when I'm in his arms, his lips planting soft kisses along my skin as if new flowers will grow in their place. Through his touch, a new Spring will begin, life reborn.
Harry is my home. Everything else has been lost, but he remains. He'll always remain.
Ever since his confession of his love for me, I've replayed his words in my head on a loop. Every single sentence is ingrained in my brain, tattooed forever against the tissue so I'll never forget them. In that moment of panic, he brought me back down to Earth and reminded me how valued I am. How loved I am. That I am capable of being loved.
It's an odd feeling, accepting the love of another. For so long I have had the people I've relied on abandon me or betray me. My mother, my friends, even Joe. Everyone in my life, other than Dad, has helped to build up the walls I used to shield myself from pain, because they are the cause of it. When Dad died, it felt like the only person I could trust had left me and I was alone. In some ways I still grapple with that feeling. I suppose I always will. But then Harry told me he loves me, he told me that I am his purpose. I am his cosmic plan.
A phrase I used to describe our relationship not long ago when we were still coming to understand it. When we laid in the back of his car after we visited his family and he held me so tightly out of fear that I'd slip away. That night I had to convince him how I'd never leave him. He told me he wanted to be a good person for me, and I reassured him just how much I cherish him.
For that reason, I could never slip away from him. His hold is so tight, but so is mine. I grip him even harder, I think. Because I'm terrified of losing him too. Harry makes me feel things I've never experienced before, emotions that hardly make sense to me, yet I allow them with each passing day to grow. Though he's been able to verbalise his own, I'm not sure when I'll be ready too because it's a foreign feeling having someone love me. No one ever has. Not in the way he does. I want to believe that I reciprocate it, but there will always be a voice in my head refusing me to say it aloud because the moment I do my heart will be vulnerable to being crushed.
It's not that I believe Harry will hurt me, quite the opposite actually. I am certain he will not, because I know how difficult it was for him to come to terms with his own feelings given his past. I know that he struggles with the idea of love, that he worries if he's capable of feeling it because of the man that raised him. But I know it's what he feels for me. I can tell. Every time he looks at me, every time he holds me, every time he kisses me; I know he loves me.
My issue is my own reservations about admitting that I love him too. I give so much of myself to the people I care about, but it's always been thrown back in my face. With Harry, however, I'm not scared that he'll go back on his word, that he'll taint my heart and ruin me forever. What scares me is that I don't care if he'll do this, because all I want is him. He could shatter me, crush the pieces so I'm unable to fix myself, scatter the shards across the continent so I can never find them again, and I still wouldn't care.
If the cosmic plan is for him to destroy me, I still don't mind. Because for now he is mine, and I am his. And that terrifies me.
He told me once I am his happy ending, but I believe he is mine. After the readings of a dark fable, my story has flourished into one of purity. He is my light. My happy ending.
But there is also the issue that perhaps I'm only folding into him because of the instability of my mind right now. I think I love him. I'm sure I do. But to be certain of it means I wouldn't have all these doubts circling my mind about the validity of my feelings in my current state of grief. Everything I'm experiencing seems to be intensified as of late, most of it being shrouded in the darkness that clouds my heart. Yet, when Harry looks at me, I feel the light start to slowly peek through. The sun shining against the clouds after a treacherous storm that floods our homelands. It finally warms my skin and lifts the shadows surrounding me. All of this is because he loves me, and I believe I love him.
I felt it before he told me, I think. The heat within that builds the longer I spend in his presence, it's lingered for a while now. With his confession, the temperature seems to be increasing, the infernos charring my flesh but only to reveal a rejuvenated life form. A source of love, light and compassion. For Harry. My Harry.
Harry is a maze. Something I try to understand more everyday but ultimately full back to the start as new levels are unlocked. With each door that is opened, more are revealed behind them, but I can't stop walking through them because I want to see it all. I want to see all of him. Because I've already shown him myself entirely. I hide nothing from him. I've been his from the moment I met him. We had no control over the workings of our hearts; it was our destiny. Decided for us.
You are my cosmic plan.
The universe brought us together. I believe that if we didn't all those months ago, we still would have found each other. Would our love story be different, though? Would it be simpler, easier? Would it still mirror the chaos surrounding us?
Perhaps we would have met in a coffee shop down the street. I would have ordered a cup of tea, and as I turn around he would be too close, so the beverage would spill on his expensive suit. I'd grab some napkins and apologise profusely, a small smirk resting on his lips as it always does. He'd find it slightly endearing, then make a snide remark about touching him. I'd scoff, try and walk away, and then he'd catch me up and apologise for making me uncomfortable. After that, he'd stop by the coffee shop everyday until he caught my name.
Or maybe I'd spot him on the tube as I commute to and from work. He'd be standing near the doors, leaning against the glass divider, some sunglasses resting on the bridge of his nose while he stares around the carriage. I'd watch him every morning, impatiently waiting until I can see him again. One day he'd catch me staring, then the next he'd sit next to me. Small talk would ensue, but nothing special, just something to break through the tension. Slowly but surely, we'd open up to each other more, both of us looking forward to our train journeys everyday so we could see each other. Eventually, we'd meet up outside of a train carriage, and then we'd spend time away from the underground.
We could have still met through the connection of our parents. Hugo may have approached me before Harry did. He may have taken me off the streets and demanded I give him information. Perhaps Harry would still be with Santine, and when he finds out about me he'll sneak in and make sure I'm alright. I'd fear him, but he'd make me feel at ease, promising to help me. Because he'd find out the connections too. He'd go back through his father's journals for any reference of what Hugo ranted about in relation to me, and he'd figure out why I am so important to the villain of this story. He'd save me.
He already has, in truth. Despite the commotion of our lives, I will always credit Harry with saving me. Life was not simple before. It certainly isn't now. But somehow, I know what he's done for me.
As these thoughts go through my head, I find myself smiling. For the first time in over a month. And I don't feel guilty for it either. I think Dad would want me to smile again. I wonder what he would think of Harry if he had a proper introduction. He might have refused my relationship with him on the grounds of his father's reputation, but I think he'd grow to like him. Everyone likes Harry.
Harry catches onto my smile, just watching me from the other side of the room while we sort through boxes of Dad's things. The care home sent them over to me last week, and today I finally found the energy to open them. I put it off for a few hours at first, walking into the room then immediately leaving as soon as I neared the boxes. Harry offered to do it alone, but I insisted on being there. It's the final chance to say goodbye to Dad. I need to be here.
I return his gaze when I notice him, looking down with a blush at the thought of being caught. But as I look again, I notice a smile on his lips too. It's almost as if he can tell what I'm thinking; that he can see the scenes playing out behind my eyes of our possible lives. Through his smile, I know he thinks about them too. I wonder if they're the same scenarios, or if his brain concocts entirely new stories. In all of them we seem to find each other, though. That's what makes them so special.
Even with his declaration, he hasn't overwhelmed me by telling me he loves me. He only says it when I need to hear it, usually at night, but his actions show me he still means it. That's all I need right now. He still doesn't expect me to say it back, and I'm not sure when I will, but I hope he can feel the care I have for him radiating off my body every time he's near.
Harry has been going through Dad's old clothes for the past hour, helping me decide what to keep and what to send to a charity shop. When I went into this I assumed I'd tell him to keep all of it, refusing to part from anything, but surprisingly I've been quite rational about it. Harry hasn't pushed me to do anything I don't want to, just listened and done what I've asked.
So far I've decided on keeping one of Dad's paperboy caps, some knitted cardigans and jumpers and some scarves. Harry has placed the hat on his head and one of the cardigans around his body, some soft giggles leaving my lips whenever I look at him. When I first laughed his face lit up; he looked so pleased with himself. His grin was wide and dimples prominent. I wanted to kiss him right there. We've only kissed twice in the past month. I'm not sure when the right time will be, but the longer I spend with him the more I want to do it.
He keeps asking if I'm alright, joining my side every now and again and leaving light touches on my skin. I can tell he wants to say those three words again, I can see how hard he's trying to keep them in. I want to tell him to say them as much as he wants, but I worry that the longer I go without saying it back the more he'll start to question it until he stops saying it altogether.
I never want him to stop telling me he loves me.
I sit with another box filled with old trinkets and equipment. Dad used to be skilled at making jewellery too, not just caring for it and selling it. Over the years he made hundreds of pieces for me, every single one still in my possession. In this box are some of the tools he used. When he first went into the home he'd continue crafting bits and pieces, but eventually he stopped as he forgot how to do so.
Harry's asked about some of the equipment, trying anything to distract me from spiralling again. There are a few wood ring clamps, stretchers, pliers, magnifiers, curvers, even a dapping punch set. Everything a person would need to craft their own jewels. Harry insisted I keep all of it to use when we start crafting some pieces for the heist, and any future ones we may do. When he mentioned me being involved in those part of my heart seemed to warm to the fact that he wants to keep me around.
I peek inside the box, reaching the bottom. My hands land on something I don't immediately recognise, but once it's at my eye level I realise what it is. A music box. The one Dad's own mother gifted him when he was a child. I would sit and play with it for hours on end growing up, running the batteries dry every few weeks. Sometimes it was the only thing that could help me get to sleep, his own voice humming the tune of it.
It's a simple design; an oak finish with a simple leaf pattern on the lid. There's no dancing figure in it, but the strings and the small generator are visible in a clear glass box in a corner. The rest is lined with soft furnishings that are adorned with jewellery he made over the years. Some rings and necklaces he specifically crafted for Mum but never got rid of. He let me take some of them when I was younger. It reminds me of the angel necklace I took from Mum that he told me he stole when he was younger. If only I knew the implications of that all those months ago.
I wind the small dial to play the tune, but no sound comes out. It may need new batteries after not being used for so long. I start going through it, checking little nooks and crannies for the key to open the back of it to check. As I peer in, I find a few sheets of folded paper. One detailing Dad's infamous lemon cake recipe, something I immediately push into my pocket. I still feel guilty about throwing away the one Harry made for me, but I was still trying to understand my grief.
The next piece of paper is a small sketch, one I instantly recognise. One by Leonardo da Vinci. The Head of Leda. The paper is slightly thicker and rougher than what I'm used to, almost like a canvas material but not as sturdy. There's some discolouration to it as well, some lines fading along the creases of the folds. I pull one of the magnifiers out of the bag I'd placed them in, bringing it to the sketch for a closer look.
It can't be. This isn't actually here.
I inspect the lines, desperately hoping what I think isn't true. But I'm proven wrong. Because upon closer inspection, I come to realise this is not a copy of a da Vinci sketch. This is real. I examine it further looking for anymore confirmation, finding numbers on the back and a few marks that have now faded on the front.
'Harry...' I breathe out, my brows furrowed as I let the magnifier drop.
His head immediately shoots up, a panicked look on his face. 'What is it? Is something wrong?' he questions, walking over to me swiftly and crouching down in front of me.
I take another long look at the sketch again, hands slightly shaking. 'Were any of da Vinci's sketches stolen?'
He looks down at my hands, finally assessing what it is I'm referring to. He's silent for a few moments, carefully taking it from my hands to inspect himself. 'Holy shit,' he whispers as he brings it closer to his eyes, inspecting the weight and thickness of the material before gazing over the design again. 'This was just folded away in the box?' he asks, head motioning to the contraption in my lap.
'Yeah, I just found it.' He looks over it again, a grin taking over his lips. Then, without warning, he laughs. I can't help but join him, shaking my head in disbelief.
'There's something quite poetic about him stealing a da Vinci sketch given his nickname,' he adds, handing the sketch back to me. 'Must have taken it from the Royal Collection. Sneaky man.'
I look down at it once more with a smile before placing it safely next to me as I continue my search for the key to the battery compartment. I turn the box over in my hands, noticing a small hole in the left hand corner, but as I do something shakes. It's barely noticeable, a small sound, but when I lift it to shuffle in my hands, I notice it again. Harry watches me, a confused look spreading across his features.
There's still no key in sight, so I pull the earring out of my lobe and try to jimmy the lock. Within a few seconds, it clicks open, most likely because of the age of it weakening the metal. As it opens, another piece of paper, along with a small gem falls out of the closed area into my lap.
I peer down at them, taking the diamond first and inspecting it in the light. So small, but clearly of a decent value. It's hard to see in the shadows of the room, but it still bends in the slight glow of the sun coming through the windows. Expensive.
My attention moves to the paper. I take it hesitantly, unsure what to expect. To my surprise, it's not as magnificent as what I unearthed moments ago. It's a note. A sentence scrawled across the paper.
Out of the wild and into the homeland.
I turn it in my hands, finding some numbers of the back.
4 7 10.
'What does that mean?' Harry asks as he shuffles next to me for a better look.
I stare in silence, trying to decipher it, but my mind only reaches blanks. 'I've no idea.' My fingers trace over the numbers. 'They can't be coordinates because it's not long enough, so it must be something that made sense to him.'
The paper is turned around again so I can read the words etched into it. I always loved Dad's handwriting. So neat and perfectly crafted. It was something he'd been taught when he trained, considering most of the paperwork that came with jewellery was handwritten. I wish I had more examples of it in my collection.
'Sounds like a riddle,' Harry adds, his fingers following mine as they go over the words. 'Which means it's pointing to something.'
I think over his words for a moment, relating them to everything we've learnt over the past 6 months. There are many things it could be for, but one idea in my head stands out compared to the others.
I clear my throat, turning to look at Harry, his face so close to mine that he falters and pulls back slightly to give me space. I wish he didn't. 'What if – what if this is what Joe was sent to find by Hugo?'
As the words leave my lips it's like a lightbulb turns on inside Harry's head, his eyes lighting up and expression suddenly changing. This is it; this is the information we've been seeking all this time. With it, it answers every other question we've been confused by. Suddenly, it all makes sense.
'If this is what Joe was sent to find, it means Hugo was after something worth hiding. Like whatever Dad sent away when yours left the operation,' he surmises, pinching at his bottom lip in the way I've always found so seductive. Seeing him like this, the cogs of his brain turning quickly, it reminds me why I fell for him.
I clear my throat when I remember why we're here, ignoring the desire I felt while looking at him. 'Whatever Steven was hiding, the final piece of the puzzle in their heist, was given to my dad, then. Part B. And Hugo would only know about it if he was involved...' I trail off, finally connecting the dots that have been right in front of us this whole time.
He said it himself, the plans were rightfully his, and he wants them back. Now that Harry and I are working together, it means his old comrades have teamed up against him again. Hugo is not an anomaly, he's been part of this since day one.
'Harry,' I start, watching the scowl form on his face as he begins to understand the game we've unknowingly been forced to play. 'Wild is Hugo. He worked with both our dads.'
He sits back on his knees, dropping the note on the floor. His hands rub over his face, a sudden realisation hitting him. 'Hugo killed my Dad,' he states, the weight of his words hitting me as I join him in the discovery.
'What the fuck have we got ourselves into?'
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A/N: lol they finally figured it out yeet skrt.
everything is falling into place girlies. the chaos has begun.