22ᴺᴰ CHAPTER
“Running away was easy; not knowing what to do next was the hard part”
What pisses him off the most is maybe the fact that everyone around him always seems to be right. Not only that, but everyone around him also seems to have their lives under control; seem to have all issues solved or at least to have a hint of solution to work on.
Harry has never been blessed with the latter. Solutions seem to slip between his fingers and out of his reach so quickly he barely realises he had one in the first place. His whole life is based off on things he can’t have or things he had and crashed down to dust and a mess of what’s left of it so fast that he can’t even find a way to reconstruct it, fix what’s broken without having to start it all over again.
And to most of the people it might sound like a refreshing thing, but it simply requires so much patience – probably all of the patience he has left – and time; God, so much time. Though he seems to have a lot of that, he hates this natural uncertainty of life that makes you wonder daily whether you’ll still be alive by the end of the day. And he wants to leave something to be reminded for the day he dies. He wants something, anything.
What he had won’t make up for it.
But. But. But he has Zayn, and Zayn must be some sort of angel heaven has sent him thanks to pity or whatever else, because besides being his best friend, the engaged one is also who deals with Harry’s issues the best. Zayn’s the one to be always annoyingly right, so rational and well-planned that no matter what he says, usually can’t go wrong.
The party had been a bit of a pain in the arse, if Harry’s being honest here, because he’s reached the age where people are already longing for a longstanding relationship, and obviously Zayn seems to have all the friends that have already settled down because that’s just the type of people he attracts, and Harry felt completely excluded, if anything, amongst so many couples.
However, something good came out of it all.
Zayn has told him about this guy who’s in need of photographing services, and the first person Zayn told him about was obviously Harry. No second thoughts wasted on the idea, Harry grasped it with all the left strength he had within himself, and now he has a few weekends of extra-work besides the carwash. He’s talked to Luke about it and they managed a deal where Harry will take most of his shifts on Mondays and Fridays just so he can have the weekends to himself.
The thought of travelling again itself to do what he loves the most is enough to make a smile blossom coyly on his lips, his muscles stretching almost unnoticeably where his head is plopped on Elisha’s shoulder, his gaze focused on the pictures on the wall as she quietly makes questions about them.
She seems to feel his smile, though, because she turns her head to the side and starts analysing Harry’s features instead, her lips bitten and a smile of her own hidden underneath the pressure of her teeth. She’s adorable in so many ways, so seemingly breakable he can’t quite understand how she’s even supporting the weight of his whole head and his bent body posture.
“What’s this smile for?” she asks, her voice low because there’s no need to talk any louder, anyway. As usual, the café is empty. Bridgit is no longer in the kitchen, gone about an hour ago to her classes, and Dora rarely shows up here either way, Harry’s come to notice. Only when it’s her turn to buy the supplies for the café, or when she longs her “tiny piece of heaven” too much.
Harry tries to shrug, but the position is awkward enough to make the act look uncoordinated and unrecognisable. He smiles wider at his own misplaced limbs, feeling light and sated for no absolute reason at all. “Dunno,” he answers finally, sighing afterwards. “I suppose I’m just… Happy.”
And he is, is the thing. Shit, he’s happy, and saying it aloud makes his chest burst with some sort of self-pride he hasn’t felt in so long he didn’t think he’d be able to recognise the feeling when it came around again. He’s happy, and it isn’t because he’s gotten what he wants – there’s so much he wants, so much he misses and needs to retrieve –, but because it’s downed on him that Chrissie crosses his mind usually only at night, when it’s too silent and too dark and too lonely, and yet, it doesn’t sting that much anymore.
He doesn’t think of her whenever he’s on his own, just sometimes, and when he does, he feels mostly angry rather than hurt. Which must mean he’s progressing, right?
Harry waits for the following question, the “and why is that?” that would require further explanation, but his brief, vague answer seems to be enough to Elisha, who simply smiles back at him and watches a while more before focusing back on his pictures pinned to the wall, sticking out her finger at one hidden in the corner below all others.
She traces the digit over the figures and stays quiet, breathes in slowly and moves to another one. And Harry knows what she’s doing. Sometimes does it himself, feels all the photographs and then closes his eyes, absorbs the sensations they emanate until he understands the picture as a whole.
He’s probably insane, albeit, apparently, not the only one.
“D’you think you can go back to where you were before the incident?” the sound of her voice is melodic in thin air, his ear just inches away from her lips. He feels the question reverberating through her whole body more than he actually hears it, and then he feels his chest heave just a tiny bit more.
“Is what I’m hoping for,” Harry says, the air leaving his lungs all at once he’s not sure she can distinguish it from the actual words.
Maybe he’s getting to terms with his feelings towards the woman he supposed to be the love of his life, has come to a point where he can separate angst and hatred from love and adoration, but he has yet to figure how to feel about a lost career. He’s obviously not giving up on it, and maybe recalling old days might give him something to fight for, but at the same time it’s his motivation, it’s also his sorrow.
Life should stop contradicting itself so many times. The parallel between opposites sometimes is such a thin line it feels as if walking on a tightrope just above an abyss.
“Oh, that reminds me,” Harry says abruptly, clears his throat and then pulls away from Leesh on a quick movement. “I’ll be out for the weekend.”
She turns around as he walks back to one of the chairs and sits carefully, fingers fidgeting over the table. He sees the moment recognition gets to her, and a moment later, she’s smiling and nodding shortly at him, her tiny figure leaning against the wall.
“No problem,” is her reply, and it’s so full of sincerity. Everything about her seems dynamic and sincere, and that’s a mixture Harry has come to appreciate.
He moves his hand in the air in a vague gesture, which should remit to something akin to what he’s about to say, but doesn’t really. Not at all. “You can still use the stove, if you want to. I’ll probably leave the keys with you anyway.”
Elisha walks behind the counter and pulls out the newspaper, fiddling for a pencil. “You do know the café has tea, right?” sh only dares to look up at him once all the words are uttered, and Harry waits until she’s glancing at him so he can shrug. She smiles again. “I’ll keep that in mind, anyway. Thanks.”
He nods at her in acknowledgment and looks out the window the moment a car stops at the carwash, and so he stands up abruptly and tilts his chin toward the dusted window until Leesh gets he’s gotta go. She sort of salutes him as a goodbye, and behind him, all Harry can hear is the sound of the bell above the café door until it’s muted by its closure.
--
Traffic is just fine and so he makes it to North Wales in four hours.
His hands are tingling when he lets go of the wheel the moment the light goes red, and his feet seem to be dead, but somehow driving has gone by smoothly fast and he’s barely noticed the minutes going by as his eyes focused on the several images just before his eyes.
He checks the address pinned to his journal by a binder clip on the passenger seat and switches the gear again when the light goes back to green, his foot coming into action once more.
The day is cloudy and hazy, cool air surrounding the outside of the car, and he’s gotta clear his windshield more than once (or thrice, or fifteen times) so he can properly see the road. For these last few minutes inside his car, though, he feels warm and pleasant just as he is.
Harry’s left home about seven-thirty in the morning, woke up around six so he could get himself ready and pack whatever he was going to need for the weekend. However, the car trip took less than he’d calculated, and now he feels like he may get to the bar the guy named Bradley told him to go a bit too early.
Okay. So not only a few minutes left to himself, then. He gets a whole hour.
Once he does get to the bar, he parks in front of it and there he stays, shutting off the engine and letting go completely of the wheel. The tingling returns slightly, and he clasps his hands together as he stretches and hears a few of his bones cracking at his back.
Zayn’s phone screen (he doesn’t have a phone of his own, yet he still needs some way to contact the guy who’s hired him if necessary) flashes with a new message Harry ignores, and curses himself mentally for borrowing his best mate’s phone out of everyone. His best mate, also the guy who apparently knows half the world, now.
His phone has rung at least ten times (by ten different people) in these last four hours, and Harry couldn’t be more pissed. How does Zayn even deal with so many people a day? – then again, Harry has been there once. Though he’d gone nearly crazy with so much pressure.
Moving his hand past the phone, he grabs his journal and opens it on the last written page, stares at the words he scribbled lazily just because he felt like it, and grabs a pen from his glove compartment. Silently, Harry stares at the blank page just next to the filled one, and waits for something to cross his mind. He’s sure he had something ready to write there, but it’s just gone away.
He keeps staring at the blank page for about a minute before he gives up and settles it aside, unbuckles his seatbelt and slides down his seat just until he’s comfortable enough to cross his arms over his chest and close his eyes for rest.
There’s nothing else he could do to kill time, anyway.
--
Wales is just ridiculous.
Not in the literal meaning of the word, but sort of.
Harry’s stomach has barely digested half the food he ingested for lunch, and at some point he feels like throwing it all up from how astonishing the sights are. It starts off with the Dinorwic Slate Quarry where he’s so up he can’t see most of what’s underneath him thanks to the mist. Bradley points at some specific stone that looks pathetically equal to all others (except not all of them can quite allow the view of the lake), and explains something about capturing not only the best angle of the model they’ll be working with the next day, but also the whole scenery behind her.
When Bradley is done with his rambling speech and starts walking cautiously back the way they’d made up there, Harry pulls his Polaroid from where it’s hanging off his neck and snaps a quick picture of the sight, capturing also a random group climbing one of the mountains, then pulls it out the camera and shoves into his journal. He’ll leave the notes for later.
After that, they reach back for the car and the drive to the Conwy Castle takes about forty minutes because weather is getting tricky and they need to be careful on the road.
Harry follows quietly behind Bradley, the guy back to making notes here and there about the photo shoot and all, when, truly, Harry’s too lost glancing at the ceiling and walls, all holes in the walls (supposed to be doors) looking exactly the same, leading somewhere completely different. They walk inside the castle for what feels like hours, sometimes escaping to the outside where they walk through several arcs and bridges, stairs every fucking where. The walls are all raw stones, darkened by time and nature, its age showing through the way plants grew at random places.
By the end of the day, Harry’s sure he’ll be dropping off pictures on the floor because there are just so many.
At some point, Bradley reaches the top of the tower, where if they simply look down they can see its interior and the several openings (sometimes so unprotected it should be prohibited – probably is, but Harry’s not thinking straight). The second he does dare a glance down, he feels his stomach churn with nausea not at the visible height and the danger it may imply – well, that too –, but mostly at this thing he’s got going inside his head where he keeps thinking of all the historical fundament to this castle (and all others), and the quantity of people that ended up captive there.
He takes a picture anyway just for further discomfort later. Whatever.
Back to the car, Harry puts all pictures already taken inside the glove compartment and follows Bradley’s car for another half an hour until the pebbles start to creak underneath the tires and the speedometer goes diminishing until it nears the zero and comes to a full stop.
This time around, he’s met by an abandoned mansion – Hafodunos Hall, Bradley warns –, old enough to crash down at any given moment.
They cross the staircase to the main entrance, and, once inside, the only thing Harry witnesses are empty rooms of all sorts, falling pieces of walls, just as dark as some of the castle’s, and missing things everywhere. The ruins of the place are all over the floor, flights of staircases creaky beneath their steps and absent ceilings at some parts.
The illumination is given only naturally, the night starting to fall and therefore, their visions starting to get blurry. The haze can’t be much of a help, either.
This time, Harry snaps around three pictures only, from the places he can actually see the broken windows and doors and the trees outside. Bradley keeps commenting about silly things Harry ends up paying way more attention than he intended to.
When announced the tour is over, Harry settles back on his car and shoves everything into the glove compartment once more, making a mental note not to forget to remove them from there once he’s back home and with time to waste writing stupid things down his journal and attaching random pictures at it.
He takes a deep breath as Bradley stops to talk to some unknown guy, and closes his eyes briefly to try and push the tiredness aside. It’s been a long day, and even though he won’t regret ever visiting the places he did, he has to admit this is way more of a physical exercise than he’s used to do on a daily basis.
For the first time in a while, he feels like photographing because it’s what he wants to do, has always wanted, really, but now it doesn’t heave with the guilt of doing it just to escape from some bugging feeling. He smiles at the thought and breathes out all the air filling his lungs.
Running away from the problems had always been the easiest way out, but Harry had faced so many troubles when going back to reality and solving all of them. Or trying, and shamelessly failing.
Now, though, as he opens his eyes and thinks of the pictures and the feeling of freedom that took over him most of the day, he thinks of someone he wants to tell all about this to, and it clicks.
Maybe he does have an option that might solve part of his problems.
--
Author's Mind (?)
Comments: 1. First off, I recommend you all to visit Wales at some point in your life. I haven't been there yet, but there are so many WONDERFUL places it overwhelms me. If you live in England you MUST go there. Like, now. 2. There's a picture of the Conwy Castle on the media. If you want to learn/see more about the places I mentioned, just google them. 3. I have SO many places I will probably write about until the end of this fic, so just get ready for a lot of me rambling about how much I love England. This is me offering you culture, or maybe not. Whatever. Goodbye.
Dedication (to the best comment): {@mafaldus} You should post more comments then, love. I loved this one! Thank you :) For reading my previous fic and for sticking with me to this one. It makes me happy beyond words to know you're appreciating the way I write and how I try to build a plot. Readers like you just give me even more inspiration to keep writing. So thanks.
Next Update: Saturday; April 26th
Early Update: 500 votes