Day 3,638
Tiny beads of sweat litter the tops of Harry's shoulders and chest, his tattoos intensified by the condensation sitting atop his skin. He studies his shirtless reflection in the locker room bathroom mirror, his curls having grown so long that they are burgeoning in loops around the lobes of his ears, damp tendrils clinging to the hinge in his jaw and cheekbones. He's made a habit in past years of keeping it pretty short but he hasn't mustered the strength to make it to a barber shop as of late, instead deciding to just let it grow until he absolutely can't stand the sight of it anymore.
A trickle of perspiration slips down his pec and disappears into a ripple on his stomach, his throat bobbing with a soft swallow when his mind claps twice and pauses. His eyes drop shut and he wills you near with a gentle prayer to the universe, promising himself and the stars that if you appeared again that he is ready follow wherever you may lead him.
His head whips to the side when he hears the front door to the gym slam shut, the clock on the wall illuminating the time and exhibiting a fairly early hour. It's just after one in the morning and quite unusual for Harry to have any company while boxing, especially on a weekday. He shrugs it off and soaks in a perfectly timed shower, pulling his clean clothes onto his still-dewy skin in a rush and grimacing at the sensation of his jeans sticking to his legs. His mind flip flops between his options of what to do next, deciding between painting and firing his pieces from last week in the kiln or returning his book that he blasted through to the twenty-four hour rare book library.
The library. The last time he ran into you. The amount of times he spiraled that interaction between every nook and cranny of his brain may be considered unhealthy, but he can't help obsessing over all of the sentiments he wished that he had the backbone to say to your face. All of the sentiments that he's declared to you in his fantasies, each and every torpid compliment and expression of adoration. You were so much sweeter than he could ever imagine, as if you were the most enriched berry on an endlessly climbing vine, cultivated brilliantly with the sun on your face and rolling from the plant directly into his palm to dissolve on his tongue.
His mind spins with the memory of you coolly kicking your leg over the seat of your scooter, your hair whisked from your face as you hugged your helmet into place and disappeared from his life once again, except this time when he pinched himself, he did not wake up. He stood cemented in place for close to a half hour, defibrillating his heart and melting the blood in his veins. He was so awfully happy he felt as though he could cry; the first tears that he would allow to fall in years but it wasn't the time or place.
He had slept for two evenings in a row following your pleasant encounter, black-and-white dreams flickering like old movie reels in his mind that recalled distasteful memories but he supposes they were better than colored nightmares. He begged the cosmos for another gift from you while he slept but his silent imploring came up short, instead he has spent waking hours asking for you to return so that he could prove that he's prepared for your guidance.
His breath leaves his mouth in visible private clouds the moment that he steps outside, the weighted gym door banging shut behind him as he approaches the newsstand on the corner for a cup of coffee. His reddened fingers shake when he drops change into the cashier's palm, his hands achey and swollen from hitting the heavy bag with just simple wrapping today. He glances down at his knuckles for signs of bruising or bleeding, feeling neutral about the sight of relatively healthy skin.
Harry decides to keep his headphones tucked into his bag today as he boards the train towards his pottery studio, his chin resting in his palm as he keeps his gaze glued to the range outside and the view of the busiest area of the city approaching. He's attempted to hide in his own world inside of his headphones but something within him is drawing hesitance, his eyes locked on the toes of his shoes as he disembarks the train at his stop. He wishes that he had worn his shearling coat atop his gray hoodie, the temperature having dropped to an almost unbearable cold with the imminent onset of winter and forcing his bare hands into the pocket at his stomach for warmth.
He works his way through the thinned out crowd, the beanie on his head is acting as his only protective shield from the volume of pedestrians and traffic and the wind whipping around his ears. Neon signs flash and illuminate strangers faces as he passes, the reflection of the bright lighting shrunken and blinking in some of their glasses.
A tug on the sleeve of his sweatshirt has him stopping dead in his tracks, spinning on his heel and turning to face the cerebral intrusion behind him. He chokes on a thick huff of air when your face comes into focus, unable to determine if his heart or his mind is reacting first when every organ inside of him begins to churn like the cogs within a wristwatch. His heart beats in brisk twos with a pause in between, his tongue itching to babble your name but instead he stays silent with his eyebrows furrowed in confusion and unintentional intimidation.
"Harry, hi! Do you remember me?" He would laugh in ridicule if he weren't so stunned, "where are you off to so late? Home?" You're out of breath as if you had been running or possibly chasing him for some time, it crosses his mind that you had tried calling his name more than once and now he's a tad embarrassed of the notion of not heeding your summons right away.
He wants to press his hand to his heart to calm it, the pounding so forceful inside of his chest that it's resonating in his temples, "yeah." He answers both of your questions in one shot plus he's too paranoid to announce where he was headed in case anyone is listening. He digs as deep inside of himself as he possibly can to uproot the very last shred of social decency he has buried deep within his lower intestine, "hi... again." Was that normal?
Your mouth splits in a heart-stopping smile, his ribcage aching at the sight as he licks his lips in delirium. You're just glad to recognize a familiar face within the steady stream of strangers even if he isn't the most emotive person, "hi!" You breathe a laugh at your obvious repetitive greeting but graze past it, "I'm headed to a small invitation-only party in a warehouse in the Industrial District. I was just about to catch a cab - it's sold out but I have an extra ticket because my coworker bailed. I was just gonna go alone, but then I saw your doughnut hoodie and kinda... chased you a couple blocks. Well, maybe just a block and a half. Anyway, I understand if it's too last minute, but I figured I'd ask."
He's too overwhelmed to hear each and every word you've said but he catches the drift of your proposal. He's busy wondering if this is what happens when he interferes with a precognitive dream since he doesn't have prior experience; do they circle around him like a buzzard picking at his insides until he erodes completely? If that's the case, then he sure picked a good one to start with.
A warehouse party is probably the last place on the planet that he wants to be right now, but the universe has handed you to him three times now and he refuses to let you slip away again. He nibbles on his bottom lip, his gaze boring into yours and nowhere else as he nods slightly at first before clearing his throat and speaking softly, "sure, okay. Thanks."
You bend your knees and clap once with a little bounce of enthusiasm, shooting an adorable squeal of excitement with your mouth gaping in an infectious expression of pure joy that causes him to smirk and drop his sight to the sidewalk to simmer himself, the taste of his provoking dimple hollowing his cheek before vanishing again. You loop your arm through his and guide him towards the edge of the sidewalk, signaling for a cab and then turning to him, "I'll get the fare since I sprung this on you. It's gonna be so fun, I'm really glad you agreed to join me," but he can't hear anything you're saying over the fireworks bursting from where your fingertips burn into his bicep.
When the cab pulls up you step forward and pry the door open for Harry, gesturing for him to slide in before climbing in beside him. Your voice sounds like wind chimes when you relay the address to the driver, pulling a small pouch from your pocket and emptying the contents into your open palm. Harry watches in silence, his stomach churning with anxiety when he sees the small pink and white capsule nestled precariously against your skin. His tongue darts out to moisten his lip as he comprehends what is happening and what kind of party he has just agreed to attend.
You can feel him staring and although it's questionable to just assume his compliance, you want to make sure that he is fully aware of what he is about to get himself into before it's too late, "is this okay with you? You can ditch me at any time."
He nods but his focus is immersed on the pink and white capsule, "what is it?"
You pop the pill into your mouth and swallow it dry, "ecstasy." It seems obvious to you considering the event space and the area of the city that it's in, but you assume that he must not party often due to his adorably clueless demeanor, "it makes you happy and lovey. Makes everything feel good. Most people there will be on it. I don't take it often but tonight is a special occasion."
He hesitates for a long time, the glass of the passenger window beside his head dotted with drops of rain, the lights of the passing city both darkening and brightening his features as he blurts out, "any extra?" He thinks it'll help ease his awkwardness and he just wants to be near you and on your level whatever that takes.
You plug your fingers into your mouth and whistle loudly in exhilaration before passing him one between your index finger and thumb, his cheeks puffing out as he exhales a nervous breath and swallows his pill dry just as you had one minute earlier.
.
Harry follows you through the congested room filled with sparkling lights and shining chunks of fat glitter, neon primary colors bounce from wall to floor and back again. The music is easily two hundred years old; so old that it feels new again, from a time in the late 1900's when the underground club scene started to flourish in The United States in New York City with a music called "disco" he thinks.
The ground is flat but with every footstep he takes, it feels like his right leg lands slightly higher than his left, his stomach boils with nausea and his palms sweat, the lights flicker overhead and create a strobe effect that makes it hard to keep his sights set on you as you push your way through the crowd.
You stop hard in your tracks and turn to face him, taking note of how his hair appears sweaty where his scalp and hairline bridge, his face shiny with condensation and his eyelids drooping and blinking at different tempos as he attempts to keep them open. He licks his lips slowly, as if he were simultaneously tasting and moistening them and the soft pull of a grin appears at one corner of his mouth as the snare drum joins the track over the speakers and suddenly makes the entire room feel more sexual.
Your palm lands on his arm and it's so hot under his sleeve that it feels like it could be on fire if he weren't so fucking humid, "should we get you some water?"
He rubs his palms against the thigh of his pants and it feels so good that he does it again, his tongue darting out to lick his lips once more before he wipes his palms on his seat this time. He knows that you are talking to him but he feels sick and confused, he doesn't know what he needs to make himself feel better and that thought of uncertainty causes his heart to kick in his chest.
You step forward and wrap your fingers around his bicep, yanking him closer as you shout into his ear over the volume of the music, "it's okay, just stay with me. I'm gonna get you water." Your fingers slip down his arm until they find his and lace together, realizing in that moment that your hand is just as balmy as his and that your high is about to creep over the edge.
He closes his eyes and allows you to drag him through the horde, tripping over people's feet as he walks and bumping into stranger's shoulders, quietly mumbling apologies and opening his eyes for a split second before he feels ill and shuts them again.
Harry can hear you shouting at the bartender for a couple bottles of water and the sound of your voice is pretty and dulcet. He peels his eyes open again and is happy to see that the lights aren't as bright here and you're standing before him, presenting him your back as you tap your foot in impatience.
Your curves are exaggerated and on display with the tight cinch of your jeans, your hair draping down your back and appearing soft and probably stupidly delicious smelling. He takes a step forward and lifts his hand to boldly brush against the end of your hair and it's even more delicate than he imagined.
He takes another step towards you and wraps one tentative arm around your shoulders, his palm resting on your chest as his other arm circles your waist and draws you in close. He moans at the feeling of your body touching his; warm and pliant, compliant and accommodating, loving and generous. Harry can't remember the last time that he's held someone this way or if he ever has even gotten close but it feels insanely fucking good. The thoughts and sensations that would normally terrify him are the exact ones compelling and driving him forward, he has a cognizant idea that's its likely the molly but could also be the ease he gains from your physical and mental energy.
He tucks his nose into your hair beside your ear and moans again, his stomach flipping and turning, his brain a ball of fuzz. His chest is sweaty and hot against your back and his grip is likened to that of an anaconda, but you remember your first time being high like this so you allow him to cling to you however he pleases, lifting your hands to stroke his forearms with great intention of love and admiration.
The bartender hands you two bottles of water and you nod to convey your graciousness before rubbing the cold bottle against his searing arm, "honey? Time to drink some water. We can snuggle after."
He whines and shakes his head against your hair, inhaling a deep whiff of your perfume before squeezing his arms around you more tightly. He scuffles closer, pressing his heated chest and stomach snug against your back and whimpering in your ear, rippling a trail of goosebumps up your spine as you ingest the servility in his sensual chime.
His breath casts against your ear, his face dropping into your neck as you unscrew the cap on his bottle of water in preparation to hand it off to him. He feels safe and free enough to tell you everything; his reality and his premonitions, his dreams about you and how he's been waiting his entire life to meet you. He has the urge to spin you around and kiss you, feel his mouth folding over yours as sweat collects above his upper lip to slide your embrace into place.
"Nova," his voice is a sumptuous murmur and you're unsure if you've heard him correctly, "Nova." Clap, clap, pause.
You spin in his grasp for a more comprehensive view of his face, giggling to yourself and sucking your lips into your mouth when he locks in on you. His eyes are half-lidded and joyful even though his mouth is only the slightest bit quirked. The collars of his hoodie and t-shirt are stretched to reveal his clavicle, his skin has a delicate sheen, his beanie discarded and hanging out of his hoodie pocket to reveal a wild mess of waves and curls framing his cheekbones and swinging across his eyebrows. He looks uninhibited, he looks feral, he looks obedient, he looks sexy.
"Hey," his mouth draws upwards in the corners to match the smile capturing his eyes, "drink this baby, please?" You raise the frosted bottle of water to his chest, his stomach weaving into a knot at your constant and varied dribble of nicknames for him. He's never allowed himself to become close with anyone, not even the tiny handful of girls that he has garnered crushes on or managed to sleep with over the past few years. And the funny thing about it is that you're not actually close in the sense of emotional means - at least not from your perspective. Harry however has known you forever; you are the person that he knows best on the entire planet and is glad to admit that after all this time, he feels more drawn to you than anyone else he's ever met.
His fingers slip through yours when he plucks the water bottle from your hand, the cool onslaught of liquid coating his throat and sinking to the depths of this belly feels incredible and without realizing, he's consumed the entire contents and pouts when he notices there is none left. He gasps in elation when you switch his empty bottle with your full one, concentrating intently on not choking as he tilts his chin back to drink more and stifle his appreciation of your amusement.
"Do you dance?" Harry's cock is sensitive, so, so sensitive in his pants and he wants to reach in and stroke it or maybe just press on it a little. His stomach flips when he looks at you and two seconds pass before he understands that you're awaiting an answer except he doesn't remember what you've asked him. He looks at the ceiling and tries to mentally rewind time, drawing his gaze back to you when you move closer to speak into his ear and repeat your question but with a slight alteration, "wanna dance with me?"
His fingers dig into the hem of his sweatshirt to pull it up and over his head, tossing it onto the closest barstool, completely careless about its whereabouts or fate. He wants you to touch him. He wants you to touch him more than he's ever wanted anyone else to put their hands on him before. He inhales and imagines your hands popping the button on his pants before sliding into the tight space, the warm pressure on his center and your fingertips curling around the outline of his length as he shifts his pelvis into your palm. His eyes roll back in his head as sweat pours from his face and neck, his body slouching forward against yours and groaning when you catch him with a firm dig of your fingers into his biceps.
He's so fucking high and his sober self would have assumed that he would be paranoid beyond any comfortable rational belief when placed into this situation, but instead he trusts you and wants to tell you every single one of his secrets and fuck you in the middle of the dance floor under the disco ball for every motherfucker in this room to see.
You lock your knee into his thigh to keep him upright, your own high curling around your brain like a thick mist of opaque smoke and your palms clammy against his slick, apparently very tattooed skin. His head lulls forward, his hair draping across his face as he allows the drugs to consume his body and his mind. He is somehow irrationally content with the reality of seizing one hundred percent of his control to you and allowing you to be the siren he's always understood you to be and lead the way for him.
If you celebrate Christmas, I hope you had a good one yesterday.
Happy one year anniversary of writing to me!
So grateful for my active readers xxx
Love, Birdie
VOTE BABIES 👇🏻⭐️