i've missed u.
Elaina Basset
My mind went silent.
Every nerve, every doubt, every worry--although still ever present otherwise--they vanished for that moment in time, when he kissed me.
His hands on my cheeks, my eyes shut as I feel the tenderness of his lips that I'd only been able to look at and dream about up until this point. This was real.
I thought I wouldn't know what to do with my hands, but they found themselves holding onto his nimble wrists. My thumb grazes against the joint on his left wrist, embracing the feeling of him even if it wasn't in full.
The softness of his lips glide with mine. It was gentle, not sloppy. He kisses me once, taking his time before pulling away--just to feel our lips together at first. When he pulls away, I dread that might be it...but he goes back in.
Again, no messiness to it, he kisses me softly and I kiss him back. He stops for a moment and I feel as though maybe I've done something wrong. But then I feel his lips curl, and I hear the content breath of a small smile leave his mouth before his lips go back to kissing mine.
He was smiling into the kiss. Our first kiss.
For a moment, he picks up the pace only a little bit. My lips part and he kisses my top lip, then my bottom, then together again with a little more force.
I never thought I'd like the taste of cigarettes until I tasted them on you, Dreamboat.
It wasn't overwhelming, but he had been smoking before this so it was obvious as to why that taste was there. It actually mixed well with his cologne. No complaints.
He was so good at kissing, I couldn't believe he had been nervous. Even just this soft, simple first kiss was done like he's kissed me a million times before. What could be something so mindless for him was like a plethora of perfectly engineered movements that at the same time felt so natural from my point of view of him.
Even when the kiss came to an end, the moment didn't. He slowly stopped moving his lips, and pulled back with a gentleness I never would have expected from him a few weeks ago. I open my eyes, at the same time as he opens his. My lips are parted open as his hands stay on my face for a moment more. His thumb rubs my cheekbone, his eyes down at my mouth before flicking up to my eyes.
Seeing his open eyes for the first time after kissing him, I couldn't help but just smile. Closed lips, I grin at him.
What do you say after a first kiss? I barely remember mine with Isaac. I think we had sex after.
Oh fuck. Harry, please say something before I fuck this all up.
I await a response, and he ends up exhaling a small laugh under his breath. Immediately I tilt my head in question, one of his hands still on my face.
"What's funny?" I ask with a smile.
"Nothing funny." he says, his voice soft and quiet. "You just held your breath when I kissed you at first and I thought it was cute."
I roll my eyes, still grinning. "Whatever."
His other hand leaves my face. "Guess I can say I took your breath away."
I shake my head. "Oh my god, you're stupid."
He laughs, teeth shining as he looks at me.
"Should we go in before they get suspicious?" he asks, shifting his eyes to the house.
I forgot there's other people here.
I look to the house as well, nodding. "Probably."
Do I want to go inside and socialize? I don't know. It seems unnatural after everything that went down today. I do appreciate everyone being here, but I don't know if I'm ready for big social confrontation yet.
Harry's bottom lip pouts out as if he's pretending to be in thought, looking at the villa before scrunching his nose. "Or," he states, "we could go on a walk instead."
I perk up, tilting my head. Although the idea sounded nice to me, I wondered where we'd walk to. In the span of maybe a second, I found myself overthinking again.
Why does he want to go for a walk? Does he want to go somewhere private? Why? Does he want to have sex? Is that why he kissed me?
"Where?" I ask, my stomach whirling.
He just shrugs, looking out to the yard.
"It's a quiet street, right? It's a nice view. No one knows where we are, we won't be bothered." he tells me.
I stay quiet as my own mind continues to manipulate me. In my experience, if Isaac ever wanted to go somewhere private...he wanted to have sex. It would only make sense for my mind to go there now, as Harry asks me to go on a private walk.
It's not that I don't want to have sex with Harry, it's just that I can't. Not now.
I don't know when—or even if it'll happen, but what is making me nervous is that he might have kissed me just for a result of sex.
But Harry and Isaac aren't the same. I need to remind myself of that. They're different people—completely different.
I want to trust Harry. And that starts with bettering myself in that department.
Five minutes from here, there's this field that I've always found really pretty. It's a big patch of grass and flowers with an old set of train tracks that are never used anymore.
I look at him and softly smile. "I have a place in mind."
He squints, his facial features still gentle. "Yeah?"
Nodding, I start to walk toward the villa to quietly get my shoes, then back out to head toward the back gate.
And he follows, trusting me.
We walked in silence for a little bit, his hands in his pockets and his feet kicking at a pebble on the cobblestone.
We were quite the sight to see, thank god no one was around. He was in a suit with no blazer, just a dress shirt and pants and shoes. I was in a hoodie and pajama shorts.
What a spectacle we were.
Two minutes away from the field, as we walk on the side of the road, Harry finally speaks.
"So," he says, "this 'place', what is it?"
I chuckle to myself. "You'll see. But it's nothing overly exciting, don't get your hopes too high."
"Well too late, I thought we were on our way to the met gala considering the way you're dressed." he pokes fun and I throw my head back with a laugh.
I can't believe, after everything that happened today, I'm laughing.
"Shut up." I say through my grinning. "It's a nice place, it's just quiet."
He gives a short nod of approval. "I can do quiet."
When we arrive, a beautiful sea of fresh untouched green grass greets us. Flowers bloom and their petals blow in the subtle breeze that you wouldn't notice if you're not focused on it. Daisies, roses, even some tulips.
The pavement comes to its end and Harry and I stand before the field. I turn my head to look at him. His eyes are taking in the sight with a neutral expression.
Does he hate it?
"This is the place?" he asks, turning his head. As he turns to face me I quickly look forward again so he doesn't know I was staring at him. I clear my throat,
"Y-yeah. I just think it's pretty..."
He hums and looks ahead again.
"We can go somewhere else...I just thought this was quiet and—"
As I start to ramble, he exhales a laugh and then shakes his head. He grabs my hand, his fingers wrapped around mine while our eyes meet again. "C'mon."
He smirks at me, then starts to walk out into the grass. Blades of grass scuff against my ankles as he walks us through the terrain. The grass blades get taller the deeper you go. Eventually, they're touching my calves.
He brings us to a tree. It's a big one with hanging branches that shade from the sky. The trunk is thick and sturdy.
He lets my hand go and we both just sit in the grass, his back against the tree trunk while I sit sideways so I can see him if I'm looking forward.
He looks out at the field once we're both sitting. I watch the side of his face as his eyes squint only slightly. I can tell he's thinking of something, but I have no idea what. He has this way of keeping his expression so neutral that I wouldn't have a clue of what's on his mind. Maybe he does that purposely-- I don't know.
I could ask him what he's thinking, but what if it's something he doesn't want to talk about? What if he just wants to sit in silence and--
"There was a field like this back in Manchester I would always go to." he speaks.
I tilt my head, listening to his voice. He was quiet and smooth when he spoke that sentence, like he was focused on the remembrance.
"Yeah?" I inquire.
"Mhm." he hums. "If things were rough at home, or I just needed to clear my head...I'd go to the field and just lay in the grass, letting myself feel the ground underneath me." he shrugs a little. "It made me feel...real."
I look at him as he talks, sort of in awe. I wasn't expecting to hear that from him.
At my silence, he turns his head toward me. His eyes gauge my face quickly and he just lets out a small chuckle. "I guess that sounds pretty stupid, huh?"
I raise my eyebrows and shake my head immediately. "No. No, no...it's not stupid." I say. "I get it."
His eyes stay on mine, and his lips curl only slightly at one corner, like he was about to smile but he tried to preserve it. His head turns back to look at what's in front of him. I follow his gaze, looking out on to the setting sun casting over the flowers and grass.
There's a moment of silence between Harry and I, with just the sound of the gentle breeze tickling the tips of the grass blades.
"I remember picking flowers for my mom." he speaks again softly. The mention of his mother makes me turn my head once again.
He's never really talked about his mom. I want to know more—or at least what he's willing to tell me.
"You and your mom had a good relationship then?"
His eyes drift from in front of him to gaze at his lap, he smiles softly and gives a nod. "She was the most important person in my life." he says. "But, she struggled."
I wait for him to continue, watching him swallow, his adam's apple moving. He looks up again to speak, not looking at me. I thought that it might be hard for him to hold eye contact when potentially being vulnerable so I won't make him do it.
"She had depression." he tells me. "It got worse when my father left and there were some weeks at a time where she wouldn't leave the house."
"Did you...resent her for that?" I ask.
He looks at me finally, pulling his lips to the side in thought. "I don't think so." he says. "Even as a kid, I knew what she was doing wasn't her fault. She tried her best."
It makes me sad that Harry lost his mom. Especially knowing now that she meant a lot to him. I feel like this loss impacted him more than he'll ever admit, but that's okay. I don't need him to 'admit' anything to me, maybe just to himself.
"Do you miss her?" I ask as I hold eye contact with him, my knees tucked to my chest.
He blinks as he just lets his head nod softly. "Every day." he says. "Do you miss your mum?"
Having the question flipped on me immediately caused my heart to sink a little. I don't confront what happened in Denver. It hurts way too much—the fact that Harry even knows what happened because I told him is a miracle in itself.
I swallow, trying to keep my hands off of my necklace. This time, it's my eyes that are avoidant. I look down, my jaw clenches.
"I try not to miss her too much." I whisper.
My silence coerced confusion, or so I thought. Harry was silent for a moment after I spoke, which caused me to believe that he didn't understand what I meant. So, I raise my head to look at him...but to my surprise he's looking at me like I just said something he had believed himself.
"Cause it hurts to miss her, doesn't it?"
Everything within me stopped—my breathing, my heartbeat, my thoughts. He had said something I wasn't expecting at all, but yet it was like he read my mind.
It did hurt to miss my mom. So much. Every thought I had of her, it burned.
And Harry just let me know that he understood that burn.
"It was like that at the beginning for me too." he says as I stay silent. "The memory of a loved one after you've lost them permanently is almost more painful than the loss itself."
My lips part open, like my words and thoughts had been taken from me because he just spoke them for me. With my knees tucked to my chest, vulnerability creeps in. My eyes feel hot, and the urge to blink hits when I feel them become full with emotion.
I suck in a deep breath. "I just want her to hold me one more time." I sniff. "To tell me that everything will be okay."
I realize that he notices I'm getting emotional. His eyes look sad, like he doesn't like that I'm upset but he doesn't know what to say. My head turns just purely out of instinct, my vision going to the ground so I don't have to look at him.
I force a laugh and shut my eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cry."
With my eyes still shut, I hear movement and then suddenly feel Harry's hand on my chin. He's lifting my head by my chin, making me look at him. My eyes open and I'm face to face with his.
"Why don't you let yourself feel?"
Why don't I let myself feel?
I furrow my brows and look at him. I was taken aback because those words came from his mouth. I know I'm not good at letting myself work through emotions but Harry isn't either. Anytime he's not feeling good he avoids it in any way he can.
"Why don't you?" I pass the question back.
He shakes his head. "Because that's not the way I am." he says and I tilt my head despite my chin being in his hold. "I'm not good, so I don't get to be sad about things. But you...you're good. And you have warmth in your heart that yearns to feel things."
"But—"
"You lost your family. And you're sad about it. Feel it." he urges.
I know he's trying to be helpful, but it's hard to knock down walls that haven't even been fully built up yet. There's still so much processing for me to do.
I pull my face away from his hand. "I cant."
"Elaina—"
I shake my head. "No, I'm not doing it right now." I sniff, his face falls a little. "I can't be told to feel my sadness by someone who won't even do it for themselves."
He tilts his head with parted lips, "I'm just trying to help."
"I know." I say, "But that loss is so fresh and I'm not ready to 'feel' it yet." I quote.
His lips close and he swallows, blinking and then nodding.
I can tell that he's disappointed. But why? Why does he care so much that I process my feelings?
"Can we talk about something else." I speak shortly.
He watches my face, then he talks. "What do you want to talk about?"
I wipe the small amount of wetness under my eyes and shrug. "You."
"Me?"
"Tell me about yourself." I reiterate. "We just kissed, but I don't really know much about you if you think about it."
Taking an inhale through his nose, he looks ahead in short thought. "Well what do you want to know?" he says before looking back at me.
"Anything..." I answer.
"That's broad." he chuckles slightly.
Feeling a bit more comfortable, I untuck my knees and straighten up my back so that I'm sitting cross legged with my hands in my lap.
"Okay," I trail, "Tell me about how you got involved in all of this."
His brows furrow and his head tilts. "What do you mean?"
"The Monarchs. All of this mafia-adjacent shit." I say. "I got involved because I needed protection and Vincent offered me a deal, right? So how did you become involved."
Being looped into all of this does freak me out, but I've tried not to think about it too much. I know very little about all of this, and I'm curious to know how someone like Harry made his way into organized crime.
"It's complicated." he shrugs.
I try not to groan in frustration. "Yes, but it happened somehow. You told me your passion is money—Invasato." I quote him. "Is that why you started doing this?"
I know that people who do the things he does are wealthy. Even in movies, you see mobsters and gangsters with luxury lifestyles because of the money they make through crime.
So what if he joined because he wanted riches?
He looks down to his lap, his tongue running across his bottom lip.
"Do you remember that one time where I told you that I hate failing?"
I think back to the time where we were sitting on the roof. He had just bandaged my hip up from when I was attacked in the surveillance van. We were drinking. We were sad. He told me that he hates fucking up—that it's the worst case scenario for him.
"You told me you're worried about disappointing yourself." I say.
He nods. "Yeah, that's true. But it's not the whole truth."
I keep sitting, waiting for him to continue with elaboration as my brows furrow.
"My need to always be successful stems from a lot of things, but mostly, the reason I never want to fail anything is because of my father."
His father. The man I've heard brief mentions of, but know nothing about.
My head cranks softly to the left. "Your dad?"
"My father." he corrects, "He was never much of a dad..."
Now that he says that—such a minor correction of diction—I realize that he's always called his mother, 'mom'. And he doesn't call his father 'dad'. I guess, if you really think about it, there's a difference of intimacy in the terms.
He refers to his father as a paternal being, not someone he had a connection with—at least I'm assuming.
"Anyway, for the time he was in my life, he was so oriented around business. And, fuck, he was a master negotiator—or manipulator, I guess. If he knew he wasn't coming out of a deal with more than what he gave, then the deal wasn't happening." he explains, "He's a very determined man."
"Did you admire that about him? Is that why you're so focused on success now?" I ask.
Pulling his lips to the side, his eyes fall to the ground like he was trying to decide if he should say what he was really thinking.
"My father left me and my mom when I was really young. He went off and started another family..."
Angela.
"...I always thought it was my fault." he continues, looking back to me now. My eyes were locked on his. "And so, when my mom died and I had to move back with him, I strived for his approval and every time I failed it would hit me so hard."
My brows pull together in pain from hearing this. The Harry that I thought was arrogant and selfish, was really doing all of this because he never felt good enough.
"You hate him...don't you." I state quietly, empathetically.
His jaw clenches but his eyes are soft as he nods. "Yeah. I do." he says. "And I also hate that the need to never fail at anything has carried over into my current life all because of him."
I can hear the hatred in his voice. It's something that would have scared me away before but now I just feel the need to comfort that hatred.
I look down at his hand planted on the ground. I swallow. Despite his lips being attached to mine just moments ago, I'm nervous about touching him.
But I go for it.
I reach for his hand, grabbing it and taking it in mine. It causes him to look down at our now conjoined hands. Then he looks back into my eyes, lips parted slightly.
"Your father doesn't deserve to define you." I whisper.
He shakes his head slightly. "He's all I'll ever be."
For some reason, those words were heartbreaking.
My eyebrows furrow. "Harry, no."
I wasn't sure what to say, and I hated it.
He nods like he was so sure of it. "I'm his blood and he isn't a good guy. I was doomed to be another version of him from the beginning."
"Your mom," I start, "you tell me that she was incredible."
"She was sick—"
"With sadness." I add. "That doesn't make her any less of a good person...and you're her blood as well, Harry."
My thumb runs across his knuckles. He doesn't speak instantly, his tongue running across his lips swiftly. He then breaks eye contact again and looks back down at our hands.
He lifts his hand, intertwining our fingers now. Then, slowly, he guides me as his body begins to flatten out in a laying position on the ground. Once he's there, he pulls me by my hand so that my head comes to rest on his chest.
And I stopped breathing.
We're still holding hands, my head on his chest. Vulnerable to the world and to each other.
And it was so quiet, but the good kind of quiet. The quiet that you could sink in to and feel peace instead of loneliness. The quiet where any outside sound became more than just background noise.
It seemed like I could stay in that quiet with you for ages, Dreamboat.
Then, into the quiet, Dreamboat speaks;
"Can we stay like this for a while?"
//
cute.
ok ok i'm sorry this took forever. life happened. it's been a busy busy busy and eventful month with lots of twists and turns that got in the way. but i'm here now :) and i missed you :))))
i love you all so much. thanks for your patience and thanks for welcoming back picasso and dreamboat