I write bad smut, don't judge me. Hopefully you enjoy it.
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chapter forty-one. it's always been harry.
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BUT HE DOES AGREE. Harry agrees to attend Milan's fashion week with me willingly. Eyes brightening like a child's on Christmas Day or any holiday actually — stunned and excited with flushed cheeks and that habitual raspy voice. Already demanding information, that we both leave to catch our flight on the thirty-first of January.
Harry sleeps over the day before our boarding flight. His arrival instantaneously sets his birthday schedule, I made for him, into motion. I practically suffocate Harry into a hug. He supports my weight by holding me underneath my thighs as our lips simultaneously meet for a kiss.
"Happy early birthday," I whisper between our pecks causing Harry to release a wholehearted chuckle. He leads the both of us to the couch, playfully dropping me onto one of the cushions as I, playfully, swat at him like a flying insect.
And over the months with Harry have been filled with nothing but trust and it's building. Growing accustomed to one another romantically. Security and tranquility, and it's been great. Sure there was subconscious hesitance beforehand, but that only faded away with the internal reluctance.
But there's also no distractions. No Liam, no drama, just us two fortunately. And it's been nothing but soothing. Nothing but comforting.
It's an amazing feeling to have the privilege to put your undivided trust into someone. That someone, for me, is Harry. My best friend.
Like he's going to disappear I reach for him. Just to rest my hand upon Harry's cheek. My thumb caresses the faint hair growing on his face as stubble — Harry's breath hitches. The noise ruptures the trance I had on Harry, narrowed in on my boyfriend.
I blink repeatedly to snap out of it before reaching for the gift bag with Harry's present within the paper walls. Harry excitedly grabs for me and the happy birthday themed bag, and I almost let him open his birthday present early. I almost let Harry get away with that privilege, but I snatch it from his grasp as realisation washes over me.
Harry tries to snatch it back but scoldingly, I say, "No. You'll have to wait until your actual birthday." Harry frowns but nonetheless complies to my rule, and soon I'm capturing his bottom lip with my top lip. Slowly unwinding into a passionate kiss. One that takes both of our focuses from the gift bag for Harry's upcoming birthday.
"I have another surprise for you," my voice exits past my mouth like a murmur. Harry quickly swallows my words with his mouth.
It's swift, the entire movement. I tug Harry's arm to lead him to my bedroom. Ignoring the wave of nostalgia wiping through me, with the same severe force of a tidal wave. The number fourteen proudly haunts me in a positive and negative way. And I try to ignore it with that same forceful determination, opening the door to my bedroom with a wave of accomplishment.
Harry's eyes darken and expand at the scenery around the both of us. It's sentimental. The scented candles that smell of peppermints and vanilla and the low melody of music playing throughout the room. I even changed my bedsheets to cream coloured, polyester fabric. Soft like the feel and aura of my bedroom.
Then Harry grabs my cheeks with both of his hands. Those naturalistic green eyes stare into my own intently. "Are you sure?" he asks warily. "We – you haven't since we were fourteen? You haven't since we were fourteen, right?"
Undoubtedly I nod. I hear Harry swear to himself before euphoria ignites through me from within, possibly showing upon my face. Harry -- my Harry and I walk towards the bed listening to the faint rhythm and soft sound of The 1975's Is There Somebody Who Can Watch You. It flows and echoes off my bedroom walls beautifully.
It compares and contrasts flawlessly with heavy breaths and intent, silent stares. Eye to eye. Mouth to mouth. Heart to heart. Experience(s) with experiences.
Harry kisses me passionately. His hand rests upon my cheek once again. It's slow and gentle and passionate and Harry leans forward as I fall onto my back upon the mattress.
My surroundings blur with my lenses focused in on Harry, just him. Hovered over me whilst our lips detach unlike the magnet and metal we once were. Like the charger and electronic device we used to be — giving each other symbolical and metaphorical life, unlike the physicality of two materialistic, dependent objects.
Maybe, just maybe, there's that similar reliance I have for Harry in a comparison — situation. Hopefully he can say the same. Just as subconscious as Harry borders, protects, and covers me with soft gestures. Soft movements and soft, sweet words that pummel the consistent thumping of my heart.
He breaks our lip-lock to kiss my forehead warily, faintly. Almost so faint that I could barely feel the touch of his lips nor the connection they have with the top of my head. Next he kisses both of my eyelids.
"I'm glad it's always been you," he utters so softly, almost inaudibly. Then his lips trail to my jawline. Harry kisses the skin covering my bones. Simultaneously Harry's hands roam from my arm to my abdomen covered by my shirt – pulling off the material to reveal the pale skin that physically covers me.
He murmurs beautiful coherently in a prominent whisper that compares with the howling wind of the winter heard through the barrier, my window. The winter reminds me deeply of Harry. Unpredictable, beautiful, and warm. The winter provides you with the attainable coldness of an absolute zero while creations like a fireplace gives you warmth. The expected heat to fight off the cold season.
That's what Harry is to me, cold and heat. Versing each other like he does with himself. Like a median of The Miser Brothers – a green and white Christmas all in one.
Yet, wordlessly, I nod. I allow Harry to say whatever he musters up the courage to utter. Do whatever he sets his mind to, for me. I wouldn't mind whatever he does in the slightest, because I trust him. I've spent about a decade trusting him platonically. I trusted him about five years ago that night which reflected off of curiosity. And I trust him now. As my best friend and my boyfriend.
Harry takes his shirt off next. His head dips down between my neck and my shoulder, blowing on my skin before pressing kisses to the coolness. His tongue grazes as he bites around my collarbone. Harry licks up the path of forming love bites to the shell of my ear.
The intermix of cold and warmth causes me to visibly shudder. All the same a whimper elicits from me when Harry grazes at my wet spot. My hand wraps around his neck to pull him in more and more to me — an unbelievable proximity.
He says nothing. Not one word, but he continues on with his actions and gestures. It only spurs me further. It only spurs Harry further as our clothes are removed and Harry preps me for what's yet to come.
Concern flashes across Harry's face, in his eyes, that's only visible because of a nearby candle. "Are you sure?" he asks once more. With the confidence I've always envied from my group of friends -- as a passive observer -- I nod.
To feel confident at eighteen since the escapade that happened at fourteen, I feel more infinite with Harry now than before. It's like reflecting on the past at your current, and being nothing but satisfied with the positive outcomes. Ones that you swore up and down were nothing but downfalls, negatives, the worst of the worst, rock bottom.
Everything is looking up for the moment, for me. For us. And it arises nothing but a successful and bubbly feeling within my stomach, that intermixes with the knots twisting and turning inside there. With the butterflies fluttering around too, of course. Still it's an internal accomplishment.
The XX's Angels accompany I and Harry during our redemption of intimacy. Contrasting, amazingly, with moans and groans and Harry's occasional mouthful of profanities. And I'm glad it's Harry's.
Its always been Harry.
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Milan. Milan. Milan. ;; what do you think will happen in Milan? How successful do you think the fashion show will be for Italy's fashion week? And his mother's line, hm?
I WANT ANSWERS!!!