16ᵀᴴ CHAPTER
“Home isn't a place, it’s a feeling”
“No, Zayn, thanks. I’m just fine, actually,” he answers immediately, playing with his empty box of cigarettes on the table, turning and tapping just for the sake of busying his eager fingers.
Zayn frowns around his bite on the sandwich and wipes the corners of his mouth smudged of ketchup before trying to speak again. “So you’re telling me that thing you’re living in is better than my house?”
Harry doesn’t know exactly why he’s talking to Zayn again. He doesn’t know how he even got to this, but suddenly it all feels so natural he feels like he can breathe again. Suddenly, it’s like past is back, but only the good part of it. It’s nowhere near what he’d thought it would be, to bring someone who’d seen him go through all what he did. It’s not weird, it’s not painful, and there’s not one bit of Chrissie on Zayn’s features. He hasn’t said a word about her, either; hasn’t even asked Harry about how he’s feeling, which is a pro, definitely.
“No,” Harry says slowly, as if to imply Zayn’s somewhat dumb. “I’m saying I’m just fine living there. Think you’ve had enough of dealing with drunken pricks arriving in the middle of the night crying out all of his problems,” he swallows dryly around the memory, tries to smile forcefully but it comes out more like a grimace. He moves on. “Plus, there’s this thing around your finger telling me I might be kicked out in behalf of someone else anytime soon.”
Zayn bites the inside of his cheek so hard Harry sees it turn to red in a blink of an eye, his unabashed smile evident from his fingers to the crinkles in the corner of his eyes. He’s so gone it’s ridiculous, and Harry tries to ignore the stinging in the back of his chest, trying to make him feel jealous and mad at Zayn for simply being happy.
He honestly can’t expect people to live as miserable as him just because his life went downhill. He’s really trying here, okay?
“You know I’d never-” Zayn starts saying, but Harry’s grin says it all, so he gives up with a sigh. “It’s not happening anytime soon, though, y’know? We don’t want to rush into this, and we just got engaged, so.”
Harry wants to believe him, he does, but his friend (God, Zayn’s his friend, his best friend, really) is just so giggly and giddy he can’t help but feel like he’s being fooled. It’s written all over his dark eyes how much he wants to wake up every day to the woman who’s stolen his heart. It’s obvious he wants it so much he can barely stay still, and Harry doesn’t think he’d like to be the third wheel inside their house. Also, he isn’t quite sure he’d be able to handle it.
“Whatever,” he ends up saying, straightens himself on the chair and checks his wristwatch. “No offense, but I’m not going back to living with you. It wouldn’t feel right anymore, dunno. It’s been a while, Zayn.”
“Fine,” he shrugs, a tad bit contradicted. “If that’s what you want, I won’t push it. But you know that if you change your mind, I’ll be right here, yeah? For anything, really.”
It hurts. It hurts so much, but in a good way. Because of course Zayn’s gonna be there. Of course Zayn has always been there. But Harry’s just so stupid, so selfish he couldn’t bother even answering his best mate’s calls when he was drowning into himself, and that same friend seemed to be the only one to actually care. Harry’s an idiot, but he’s gonna fix it. If anything, he’s at least going to try. With his friend, that is.
(He still doesn’t regret being an idiot at Chrissie’s wedding. There are different sides to Harry’s stupidity, and some of them are still worth it.)
“I know,” he says finally, forcing back on his chair until there’s space for him to stand up. “Gotta go now, though. See you another time?”
Zayn nods, stands, too, and tilts his chin toward the table. “Are you seriously not eating anything?”
“Have already had lunch earlier. Just came for a talk, really. Thanks.”
Harry takes a step forward to give his friend a hug, doesn’t complain when the arms at his back hold him a bit longer, and tries not to laugh at Zayn’s fondness. He’s such a sap at times. God help his fiancé.
When Harry walks out the door, Zayn’s still watching him with careful and proud eyes.
--
The last car drives away with the night falling above it, following the sun’s way down the horizon.
Harry’s got his clothes soaked and his hand full of oil – how he got it there he can’t understand, but whatever –, his damp curls tucked under a snapback Luke borrowed him at some point.
Both of them changed tasks today, Harry dealing with the cars whilst Luke stood behind the cashier, chatting with much more ease than Harry himself to the drivers who went inside for a break. Maybe socialising isn’t Harry’s thing, particularly. He’ll have to deal with it.
When he comes out of the bathroom with already dry clothes, Luke is ready to lock the door, twirling the keys around his fingers as he waits for Harry.
“Hey,” Harry calls out, fixing his rucksack at his back. “Want to come and have dinner with everyone? Promise it won’t be awkward.”
Luke smiles weakly, gladly, but shakes his head nonetheless. “Thanks, but I have someone waiting for me home. Don’t exactly have the time to see them during the day.”
Harry nods as if he understands – he doesn’t, but he figures it isn’t so hard to try –, doesn’t ask whether Luke refers to a girlfriend, his mother, sisters, brothers, or whatever. It’s not of his business, either way. Luke’s got someone to come back to, it should do.
(Harry sometimes wants someone to come back to.) (He won’t admit it to anyone, himself included.)
With a last wave, he starts walking slowly towards the road, checks both sides distractedly before finally crossing it and reaching for the café’s door. Inside it’s silent as usual, the pictures of London on the wall lit by the dim light on the ceiling, barely providing any clarity at all. It’s cosy, though, this whole thing going on inside the café. It has an air of simplicity, something home-ish and cosy.
Harry’s not complaining.
He gets his attention snagged by a loud laugh, something pitchy and soft all the same, and so he turns from the pictures of London to face Elisha, knees on the swivel chair and elbows on the counter, supporting all of her weight. Patrick is in front of her, smiling smugly, propped up on a stool.
“You’re an idiot,” he hears her murmur, and then she spots him standing there, body still fully turned to the images though his head isn’t. “Harry! C’m’here, PJ’s finished the article.”
No need to be told twice, Harry walks towards them, slumps his rucksack over some chair and stands right next to Patrick, glancing curiously at the several imprinted sheets over the counter. He’s put them into a folder, the first picture serving as cover being the one Harry took during twilight: a Blue Jay midair with its feet verging in front of the setting warm colours, and the rest of its body covered by the darkening tones of blue and purple of the sky behind. Harry reckons it’s one of his favourite pictures, too.
Without a word, he goes through the sheets, not really paying attention to the words describing each specie of each bird, instead running his fingers through the photographs themselves. If he closed his eyes he’s sure he’d feel the feathers of those tiny beings.
He doesn’t want to act too weird, though.
When he’s done with looking it all, he hands it back to PJ with a half smile on. “It’s awesome, mate. I didn’t read what was written there but I can surely say the pictures are ace.” Leesha giggles and Patrick cackles as if Harry’s actually funny, and so he winks. “Seriously, though. It looks awesome. Hope you get the job.”
“Thanks. For this and for making the pictures. No way we would’ve done it this good without your help.” PJ sounds sincere and truly glad, so Harry smiles back just as sincerely and shakes his head as if to assure him it wasn’t that much, really. He would’ve done it anyway, just for the sake of holding a camera again.
It sounds sort of selfish, when he thinks that way.
“Oh, and here’s your part.”
He frowns dumbly at the envelope PJ’s handing him, completely lost until everything clicks and he remembers he’d been offered money to do what he did. Right. That, too. Shit, he feels even more selfish for taking it without even trying to protest, just so poor and needy to feel like having something again.
That until he actually opens the envelope and finds way, way more than what he’d expected.
“Patrick, I can’t freaking take this. There’s too much here, are you crazy?” he feels the lump in his throat growing, because he hadn’t done enough of a job to deserve that.
“Shut up and take it, Harry. It’s nothing, really. You did just great and I can give you this, so just take it.”
Harry looks up, tries to protest again, but Elisha is eyeing him fiercely when she says: “Listen to him and take it. There’s no way you’re gonna talk him into taking it back, trust me. I’ve got plenty experience on that.”
He seals his lips together and nods sheepishly, throwing the envelope into the rucksack still a bit star struck. Well, it won’t do him any bad, keeping the money for further use. It’s not nearly enough what he needs to start his life all over again, properly, with a nice place to live, and a job he wants, but it’s enough for now.
“Thanks,” he whispers, then coughs to clear his voice and talk properly.
Patrick nods and Elisha smiles, and they walk into the kitchen where they can smell Bridgit’s tacos already.
--
She hands him the last of the plates and he dries it silently, placing it on the top of the pile he’d made at the table. As Leesh dries her hands on an old dishcloth, Harry picks the pile up and puts it carefully inside the cupboard, turning back to find a woman staring at him curiously.
Her nose is still red from blowing it so many times, her tiny voice hoarse from all the coughing and her cheeks constantly warm with a feverish tone, and it’s nothing but endearing. Except now, she’s staring. Harry doesn’t like people staring at him, thank you very much.
“You’re so ungracious, did you know that?” she says suddenly, hiding a laugh. What’s with mocking him? Life’s so unfair.
“Oi!” he complains, walking past her and shoving at her shoulder on the way. He doesn’t wait for an explanation before heading out the kitchen and towards his rucksack to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything. And also to grab a fag, because he is no saint.
When Leesha shows up again, turning off the lights of the kitchen and locking its door, Harry’s already got the cigarette between his lips and smoke dissipating around him as he looks closely to the pictures pinned to the wall.
They were all taken during the night, with blurry lights and people, the few that there were. There are some pictures from Paris on the corner, too, but London’s are the majority. Amateur pictures, really. He can tell by the way the main details are not perfectly focused, the angles are just not right, the essence is not captured.
He can feel what it would be like to be there, whilst those pictures were being taken, though.
The freezing cold showing mostly through heavy coats rather than the snow, still not fully seated on the ground. It’s quite bitter, staring at those scenes.
“What’s with you and them?” Elisha asks right behind him, a hand on his shoulder and her glance fitting the pictures, too. He knows by the way her eyes show confusion that she doesn’t understand the photographs the way he does. Many people have told him he gets sparkly eyes whenever he sees something he connects to, something he admires deeply, when he reads some image with all its minor details and failures.
Only that those comments came from people who saw him at the gallery, when he still worked there, and that’s also quite bitter to think of.
Harry opens his mouth and closes it, not turning to Elisha when he says, “They were all, with no exception, taken by me.”
She gasps next to him, and by the peripheral of his vision he can see her staring at him, dumbfounded, mouth agape. He doesn’t move his head to meet her eyes.
“When I was just starting, though. They’re quite shit.” He takes a deep breath, drags the fag to his mouth and sucks again. When Leesh recovers her ability to talk, he interrupts her. “Where have you gotten ‘em?”
She shakes her head as if to come out of some trance. “I don’t know. When I started working here they were already there, pinned to this wall.”
Harry hums, considers. Then speaks, slowly, so very slowly. “The Paris’ ones were from a trip I made during my break from uni. The rest are just random pictures I took whilst walking around. I didn’t even remember those pictures until I walked in here.”
Elisha stays silent for long seconds, digesting the words. Harry thinks they’re done with the subject when she points at one picture in particular: an empty street with one working streetlamp and solitary benches. The walls are dark with time and weather, yellow-ish patches all over the surface. It’s one of Harry’s worst pictures, and he’s ready to hear so, when she instead says.
“This one is my favourite.”
It comes out so silently he considers it being something his mind made up, but when he does turn to look at her, she’s staring fixedly at the picture with her finger still there, her eyes showing only a hint of understatement. However, there’s something else this time. There’s admiration. There’s longing.
“Why?” Harry asks just as quietly, scrutinising her reaction. “It’s just an empty street.”
She shrugs, but it isn’t nonchalant. “There’s a story behind it.” And it isn’t a question. She just knows it.
Harry bites his lips coyly, bats his lashes slowly, feels them heavy. “Yeah.” It’s even more silent than the previous sentences, but none of them comment on it.
Elisha continues as if Harry hadn’t even talked. “I like the idea of telling stories through images. It’s so much harder than words. I wanted to do both. Because I don’t have as much talent as you have to simply pass these feelings through photographs, nor am I a born writer.”
Harry doesn’t say a thing about the compliment. He would deny his talent at the first given chance, would explain those pictures as being the worst of his entire (brief) career, so instead talking about himself as always, he focuses on her.
“Why didn’t you?” he asks, curious. “Wrote and took pictures, as you wanted?”
Leesh shrugs. And there’s so much more behind this movement of her shoulders, but he’s not one to judge people’s layers, is he?
The fag is burning between his fingers. He drags it again, releases the smoke until it covers his vision enough to block the image of the pictures he’d taken ages ago, when things were fine; when there were stories to tell and good feelings to transmit.
He hates himself for being so nostalgic, but some things in life are so hard to get over. It doesn’t take only a few words from dear people of yours. It doesn’t only take a few good advices and many, many drinks. It takes time, takes experiences and also takes bothering a lot of people with his complaints. It takes tiredness and repetition, mournful mornings and thoughtful nights, swallowed tears. It takes everything he still doesn’t have.
He sighs.
Elisha suddenly turns to him, a private smile curving the edge of her lips upwards. She lights up with something acquainted to recognition, Harry supposes.
“Y’know,” she starts, subtle. “Maybe this,” her hand is moving aimlessly in the air, trying to gesture to his pictures. “This. Maybe it means here’s your home.”
Harry suppresses a bitter laugh, shoves her hand away from his shoulder and the feeling of acceptance from his heart, turning away.
“Maybe,” he agrees, but it’s ironic.
--
Author's Mind (?)
Comments: 1. Guys, as I'm having a week full of tests (with two tests a day, I wanna die, really), I can't promise I'll be able to update on Wednesday, though I really want to. So, having this chapter a bit longer will compensate for the probable lack of an update next week? I promise I'll do my best, okay? 2. What did you think of this chapter? Let me know everything that went through your mind during this last scene, because I loved writing it so much it's unhuman. Got a bit carried away. Oops.
Dedication (to the best comment): {@GabyTheWeirdOne} Wow, thank you so much. I will write paragraphs like that one from time to time, but just briefly. Because if I let my readers know too much, it won't be fun. Anyway, thanks again! I'm so glad you like what I do, and it warms my heart so much knowing I'm one of your favourite authors! :)
Next Update: Wednesday; April 2nd