tHANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU -- for five hundred reads (well four hundred and ninety nine). I'm, however, appalled that anyone continues to read this, but I still update for committed audience like everyone that continues to vote, comment, share, and follow me. So thanks a bunch!
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chapter twenty. the sky under the sea.
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AND I FEEL LIKE combustion. Sweating because of the heat and ready to burst into more fatal flames while looking at the time then to my closet. Glancing at the clock nearest to me, and it's hell. It's hell because I'm apprehensive and nervous and confused and my body is swarming with butterflies and also tightening with deadly knots: because it's my and Harry's official first date.
I'm going on a date with my longterm best friend. Disregarding the one time we've, simultaneously, crossed the platonic line of an amiable friendship. A time when we were both young and dumb --although we're still not the brightest -- and inexperienced with reality around us. All the same there's more room to grow. There's always more room for development no matter the age and level of maturity sinking in through the pores on your face and arms. Legs and bones.
But sweat is sinking through all of mine, deep and irritable on every inch of my skin. Probably a centimetre or metre or .. or whatever. I'm sweating while standing in my Calvin Klein ('#mycalvins') boxer briefs just staring at the amount of clothes hanging on liners before me. And I'm more than anxious from just thinking about --well overthinking-- the many outfits I can pull together before Harry arrives for the unknown opacity of our date.
A date I know nothing about. Not one thing. Which is rare since I'm besotted with positive surprises and thoughtful gestures and bright, bright smiles. So bright they shine more than the two prominent stars during the day and during the night. But this thoughtful, positive date Harry has planned makes apprehension and pessimism an all time high for me. Just because I'm not sure if the dress code is casual or fancy.
Maybe, both.
The small quiff in my hair — that capacitated an entire bottle of hairspray and hair gel that can suffocate my school quicker than one minute – says otherwise. The cliche hair quiff says, screams: casual, careless, fancy, thoughtful all in a unison. So that's great news.. to only me.
But clothes, clothes, clothes. My index taps against the faint dent on my chin thoughtfully. Because, I actually am thinking. I actually desire to be presentable — a real eye-catcher in Harry's peripheral.
Just to feel the hot light and see the green ambers stare at me, and only me. Not a brief glance or a quick observation but an entire thorough eye up from those bright eyes would have my stomach more upset than it is at the moment. A moment of struggling and suffocation for more than another ten minutes when I decide on an outfit. For the sake of Harry's arrival. It's never good to present yourself with the irritating characteristic of tardiness; it's unappealing.
So I cover my Calvin's with everyday clothing. Nothing too fancy and nothing that looks lounged. Then my front door is ringing out and Harry's standing there with bright smiles and lit eyes directly on me. And I can feel the heat surfacing on the centre of my cheeks. That is until I look down to observe Harry's outfit. In a leaden coloured hoodie and black jeans ripped at the knee, one knee, and those habitual, poor conditioned brown boots. Harry looks casual as my eyes observe my outfit:
A plaid patterned shirt covering my black tee. Jeans that's function is to stay tight all the same comfortable and black vans.
With tinted cheeks I make the swiftest reason to excuse myself to change into a sweater that gives a more lounged look. A hood similar to my best friend, but Harry disregards my 'I'm cold excuse,' as he donates his hoodie to me and I mentally swear to myself because it isn't good to lie. Lies or fibs or whatever you refer to it has only worsened the situation like this. Not even cold nor freezing, more of a warm and brisk feeling erupts through me. I choose to be optimistic – hoping Harry isn't the actual cold one here.
Nonetheless I follow him to his vehicle. Harry holds the left passenger door for me as I thank him with common curtesy. He straps himself in afterwards and the car ride begins in a soothing silence before Harry cuts the radio on. An unfamiliar tune plays throughout our atmosphere. Soft and sound like The 1975's constant aura and demeanour. Unfortunately their music isn't playing.
My stomach is still in these inexperienced knots. I breathe deeply to myself as I muster up a small smile to reveal at Harry. His eyes don't particularly meet mine because they're on the road before us. "So," I start calmly. "Where are we going?"
Harry zips his lips with his free hand as I groan responsively. Our atmosphere grows quiet again and Piece the Veil's The Sky Under the Sea plays faintly during the car ride. I hear Harry, vaguely, hum along to the rhythm and lyrics Vic Fuentes, the lead of the rock band sings.
A smile brushes my face as I can't help but to internally coo at the determination of Harry to sing the words correctly, in the right tune. With accurate timing and he's always been like that —
Adamant. A music perfectionist. It's almost like Harry can be wrong in the matter of seconds with any realistic subject, but with music, he must be — has to be right. Ever since we were younger and were introduced to melodic tunes and many, many artists with a passion for different genres. Like The Beatles and The Doors and Nirvana — bands we still listen to to this very day.
Especially the grunge band Nirvana. We've always grew up with their music between our older sisters Gemma and Cara. It's like a gene. Something heredity — passing down your generations favourite band to the next then the next and the next and their next.
The car abruptly stops. The familiar destination is Harry's house. Through the setting sky, I can paint out the neutral colours of the home subconsciously. And with confusion I look to Harry who's wearing a sly smile because of my frown. It transitions to cunning when he grabs ahold of my hand and leads me up the path towards the Cox/Styles' residence. A residence that I routinely refer to as my home away from home. Just like Louis's and Zayn's (even if we're not on the greatest terms right now).
The lounge doesn't sense familiarity to me once my eyes land upon it. Furniture is moved around and lights are dimmed and it looks different. There's makeshift pillows and knitted quilts on the floor near the active fireplace underneath the television. The screen has the opening credits of The Wizard of Oz on. I gasp at the scenery because it's beautiful. With little firefly candles in mason jars in various corners around the lounge.
"Wow," I unintentionally muse looking towards Harry. He's standing beside me with his hand wrapped tightly between my palm. Disregarding the calluses on his skin, his hands are rather soft. And the imperfections of his hand in mine makes Harry Harry. And Harry smiles in my peripheral, leading the both of us towards the pallets of colourful blankets in front of the illuminated television screen
upon the floor.
"I know," he vaguely utters. Making sure I'm correctly sitting down before sitting beside me. He scoots closer while pulling me close to the heat radiating off of his body.
Then my heart begins to pummel. Sometimes I loathe the natural feeling that frequently happens when I'm in Harry's presence, but psychology occasionally says: due to our natural instinct of protection, we tend to focus on the negatives of people more than their positives. Which is truth, for me, being that I've been pushing Harry away from what could happen between us because of the fear of the future.
Even still, what Harry has planned for our first date means most. He's taken time from his busy schedule to leave me in awe. It's working because I'm wowed—amazed at the creativity of such a makeshift, homey, lounge-y first date. One where you don't actually need to impress your significant other, and that's an intriguing feeling.
The knots in my belly begin to disperse when The Wizard of Oz begins to play.
We chat quietly between the time. Not taking interim minutes out of our lives in order to get to know each other. That's another pro; dating someone who happens to know you most, my best friend. Realization finally sinks in: I'm on a date, dating, my best friend of many many years.
There's small snacks we munch on that Harry's placed around the makeshift bed like buttered popcorn and homemade, roasted marshmallows. And after our simultaneous singing of the classical films tunes, the movie goes off when Dorothy realises there is no place like home. A dream is the biggest and greatest reality — Harry nearly drags me into the nearby kitchen with pasta cooling on the stovetop.
And melted, spicy looking red pasta sauce. Vegetables — spinaches and broccoli and zucchini – intermixed in the meal has my stomach growling a tune. A song that causes Harry and I to laugh, wholeheartedly. His head knocks back and his mouth, with those pink pink lips, open broadly and my chest collapses at the beautiful sound. More beautiful than the time Louis and I went to see The 1975 live. When Matt Healy sang his entire soul out when the song Robbers reached its abrupt climax kind of beautiful. From Harry.
We eat with little conversation, although it doesn't seem to bother me as I nearly gobble down the plate of food like I haven't ate in weeks. Harry doesn't seem to mind. Instead, with amused eyes, he stares at me. Coughing vaguely when he says, "I want to go steady. Y'know, between us. If that's okay with you."
My heart pummels against my ribcage more fatally than the times earlier this evening. Though, nonchalantly, I say, "I wouldn't mind," as truthful and trustful as I can through the deep breaths I internally attempt to intake through my nose.
I find myself automatically flushing when Harry asks me on another date. "Even if we aren't finished with our first? Aren't you an eager one," I tease him. Harry laughs loudly, fondly noticing my banter. He still nods in agreement with my words.
"I'm also eager to make you my boyfriend, if you also wouldn't mind that suggestion too," Harry musters. There's a twinkle in his eye when he speaks these unexpected words. I stay silent but find, allow, myself to be pulled onto Harry's lap with blazing pink cheeks.
Knowingly, I know, they're a prominent colour.
Harry instinctively wraps his arms around my waist as I his neck from the weird angle that we're in. And I couldn't have anticipated a different outcome of this date, even if it isn't finished. Our, mine and Harry's, friendship seems to always take an abruptly unforeseen turn —
Friends to best friends to steady — engaging in our first date right in the Cox/Styles' home within the kitchen. Cuddling next to two bowls of pasta -- as if that isn't so much odd from the people that we habitually are --. Then later on that night we're popping in The Outsiders while relaxing next to the fireplace. Relaxing into each other for the remainder of the night.
I couldn't have wanted this unexpected night any other way.
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I'm sorry I've taken long to update, it just felt like I've took a while.