The hostess of Lily glances up from her podium screen to greet the patron entering the restaurant only to be whiplashed by a reflex double-take. The man that she's been absolutely squirming for a bit of attention from the past few months comes strutting in through the front door as opposed to the hidden kitchen entrance, his eyes blinking slowly and his mouth pulling into a tender smile as soon as they lock eyes.
His face is awash with light and happiness and it's awesome in the very technical definition of the word. His clothes are the same - a white t-shirt with black jeans - and his hair is just as conspicuous as always, but the beauty that emanates from him is coming from inside this time. Confidence and satisfaction, a pure palpable bliss just to be alive. It's so captivating that it's blinding.
She stands stock still, the only movement of her body is the swing of her head as Harry passes by with his usual bag slung over his shoulder. He bounces as he walks and drops his eye in a wink, a girly giggle falling from her lips as she greets him with a small wave and a blush to her cheeks. She spins on her heel to watch him disappear behind the metal swinging doors that lead to the kitchen, her heart on fire with more determination than ever to receive his consideration.
She learned pretty quickly that he was lying about being gay as soon as she caught him kissing a girl a few weeks ago, but she hasn't made an appearance since then so the hostess assumes that she's gone for good. The hostess convinced herself that he made up the excuse because he's shy and awkward which is totally understandable, but with his switch in behavior maybe he would be more likely to accept her invitation for a drink.
As soon as Harry makes his way across the kitchen to his dishwashing nook in the back, an obnoxious wolf whistle has an unmanageable grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. His face is all dimples, teeth and sparkle, his hair bouncing against his cheeks and jawline when he shakes his head in an attempt to brush off the chef's teasing. He drops his bag under the sink and tucks his beanie into his back pocket, running his fingers through his locks to mess them into a crumpled heap in his face.
"Dare I ask?" The two cooks exchange a glance, one shrugging at the other before the kitchen manager makes his way over to Harry and leans against the sink, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes intent as he studies Harry's visibly enlightened face.
It's ingrained in Harry at this point to automatically assume that he's in trouble or in need of hiding, so when he glances at the floor and sees his boss's feet, his eyes travel up the length of his body until their gazes lock. He swallows a lump in his throat and squints as if he's about to receive a physical blow, "hey... I - I thought I was supposed to be in at six today, yeah? I know I'm early, but I slept well so-"
The kitchen manager drops a warm and solid hand to Harry's shoulder before forcing his face to relax in order to ease Harry's worrying. He drops his voice to a low utterance that could only be heard between the two of them; he's seen him come into work flustered, distraught and morose more often than not and he doesn't feel the need to pry about the obvious shift in pattern, "it's nice to see you upbeat."
As soon as Harry had left your apartment, he quietly clicked the door shut before sprinting down the hallway, bending his knees and jumping at the end of the stretch to tap his palm against the top of the doorframe. He spun on his heel and soaked in the sight of your empty corridor with your pink door tucked into the end, considering a quick jog back for another kiss but shook his head and decided against it. He ran down the steps two at a time, leaping to two feet when he reached the bottom and kicking open the exit door before stepping outside with his boots crunching through several inches of dense snow.
He looked up at the stratum of gray sky in search for the sun, but our excellent star had chosen to stay shielded snuggly behind the soft wool of clouds. He wishes that he could have stayed cloaked in mercy for the entirety of the day as well, but he figured the hours apart would only make your reunion that much sweeter. A Tocsin machine stood gravely on a quiet street corner as Harry strode by and his stomach crawled but the appearance of it seemed less threatening when it was covered in snow, as if the white fleece softened its danger. He found it to be symbolism for your night and day together; each flake representing a sentiment or a kiss, the bigger, veiling drifts embody your sessions of lovemaking and the entire blanket of comforting love works to soften his tragic reality.
Harry kept his head down as he crowded onto the bustling Excel train, slipping his phone from his pocket and scowling at the cracked screen before pulling open his messages to text you. He flopped down in a window seat and snapped a picture of the snow covered landscape of your neighborhood and the menacing city off in the distance, sending it off along with a simple line.
Harry: "How many more hours until we're out of the cold?"
Your immediate response rushed his blood through his veins.
NOVA: "There you go with your big numbers again. How about we call it one evening instead? Hope this keeps you warm..."
Your text was attached with a picture of your nude body twisted up in your sheets, all of your privy parts strategically covered either by floral printed fabric or your hands. His favorite set of legs stretching on for days, his mouth salivating and his cock stirring at the sight of your feet begging to be nursed by his mouth. Harry choked on his craving and shielded his phone from fellow travelers, swallowing in an attempt to dry out his mouth as he looked again and braved the public stampede of lust charging to his thickness and his stomach. His reply was fueled by longing, pining, fire, agony. An overwhelming desire to ditch the train and quit his job to stay in bed with you until he withered.
Harry: "Christ. I think you actually just made time slow down instead."
He sunk his teeth into his bottom lip and glanced around the train at several uninterested passengers before taking a risk and adding another message.
Harry: "You are so fucking hot. I miss your bed."
He sighed and ignored the tremble in his fingertips as he made another uncharacteristically bold move.
Harry: "And your legs."
Your next and final message for a few hours made the taste of pineapple resurge in the back of his throat and honey bloom in his nasal cavity.
NOVA: "What have I told you about that?"
"You good?"
Harry blinks a couple times and shakes his hair out of his face, clearing his throat as he nods and perches his headphones on his ears before turning towards the sinks, "yeah. M'great." The corner of his mouth twitches before stretching into a lopsided, close-lipped smile, his eyes glassy with emotion, "I think I'm in love." He switches the water on and keeps his sight glued to the bottom of the deep stainless steel vessel as it fills, his dimple depressing his cheek as he shakes his head as if internally correcting his former statement, "actually, I know I am."
The kitchen manager squeezes his shoulder in altruistic happiness for Harry's sake, "best feeling in the world." He pats his back and saunters off to his station, glancing over his shoulder once more at Harry's lanky frame before returning back to his work.
With his heart silently exploding into cosmic dust and sucking into the vacuum of a black hole behind his rib cage, Harry tugs his phone from his back pocket and turns creamy, feathery music on, pausing just before he tucks it away to send you another text no matter how clingy and desperate it may seem. He feels reckless with desire and allegiance, the memories of the blissful hours you've spent together today floating like bubbles inside of his chest and brain to fill the limits of his body without ever popping.
Harry: "How many more hours? I can't stop thinking about you."
"Novs?" You rolled your head towards him and he smiled at the immediate and candied regard, his dimple sinking a ditch into his cheek, "hey nov." It felt a lot like walking on the moon to be in your bed with you, one leg underneath your comforter and one leg out with his toes pointing towards the ceiling, his fingertips softly bumping over dips and ridges as his palm drifted up and down his stomach. Each leap was exaggerated by weightlessness and his heart felt volatile with lack of external gravity, "what color are your eyes?"
His question reminded you of the text message inquiring about whether or not you feared thunder and you adore the succinct thoughtfulness behind the simple curiosity, as if he'd given it a lot of thought and answered the question for himself but would still like to hear your truth. You turned on your side towards him and brushed your fingers against his, "they're whatever you want them to be, baby."
He entwined your digits together and lowered your hands along his bristly happy trail, "mmm... I think I'd like them to stay a mystery. But never take my sight off of them again." His stare was unfaltering as his eyes darted back and forth between yours, his face melting into prominent and languid lust as you wrapped your fingers around his length and pumped slowly, his hand gently resting on top of yours as you guided the sensual movement. His head tipped back to angle his chin towards the ceiling, his throat bobbing with a generous swallow, "yes. 'Mm ready to go again." His mouth split into a smile that evaporated into a breathy laugh, "I could spend my whole life makin' love to you," and then his expression was swayed by pleasure again.
You hovered over him and brushed your lips together, your bottom lip hitching against his when you whisper, "s'okay with me, honey." You kicked a leg over his narrow hips to straddle his waist, "and what color are your eyes?"
Harry sighed and hissed when your humidity stroked the head of his cock, his tip bumping against your knot on each downward stroke, "green?" His hands gripped your hips and squeezed tightly, his thumbs digging into your hipbones as he rocked your pelvis forwards and backwards to coat his length in your excitement. He wanted to sink himself in but the tease felt so good, knowing that at any moment he could've paused and angled himself into your most sacred pocket to be swallowed by pure ecstasy. But waiting until neither of you can stand the torture anymore was the most exquisite pain that only your love can quell.
"I'd call it more-" your breath caught in your throat when he halted your movement to dip his head into your entrance for just a moment before you continued the anguish of slowly rolling your hips over him once again, "sweetheart vine. Or meadow grass. The kind that you could run straight into before falling and disappearing completely, content with the rabbits and the bees and the dappled sunshine. It's stunning."
Harry sat up and gripped the back of your neck to lower you both down into the sheets, his pelvis restarting the slow roll against your center as you both sparked like fireworks laying in melted snow puddles, "we feel more like old reunited lovers than a matinee, don't you think so, nov?"
You pressed your forehead to his and reached down to align him with your entrance, both of your mouths falling open in satisfaction at the sensation of his summit nestling itself just past your threshold, "dunno-" you panted against his mouth when he lifted his hips to push in another inch before stalling again, "you fuck me both like the pool boy and my faithful husband. It's impossible to explain." You swiveled your hips once to take him further and his head fell back against the pillow to reveal a shimmering layer of sweat on his chest and in the divot where his clavicles meet, his ribcage expanding with each shaky breath as his cock pulsated inside of you in agitation, "please don't ever stop."
He knew why - he knew exactly why - it's because he'd been waiting since experiencing his first orgasm to share one with you and because he's deeply and irreversibly in love but instead of speaking his mind, he plunged his tongue in your mouth and his thickness in your heat in the same moment, swallowing your faint cries and tangling his fingers into your hair to keep you close.
His fingertips sunk into his mouth for moisture before drifting down your back to spread your cheeks, the pad of his wet middle finger pressing against your back entrance for the perfect amount of added pressure; sensitizing your entire core, thighs and stomach in an intense sensation you'd never quite experienced before, "oh god, Harry-" His other hand clutched your hip and rocked your pelvis in a swaying motion as if it were a little canoe in a lazy lake, your heat moving around him in full strokes in and out as he cried out into the sweaty, lusty air at the luscious slow sips on his length.
"Someone woke up on the sweet side of the bed this morning!"
The echo of your voice begging and whispering 'fuck me, fuck me, fuck me...' drifts off as Harry stares into the face of the sous chef who has paused his work of chopping garlic on an oversized wooden cutting board. He quirks his eyebrow and Harry blooms crimson in response, licking his lips and swallowing as he rewinds his mind and tries to remember exactly how long he's been entranced for and if he'd accidentally mumbled anything out loud, "um..." Just the mention of bed has him snagging his phone from his pocket to check the number of hours left until he sees you. He's momentarily distracted by a reply from you on his screen, a half-assed, distracted retort falling from his tongue while his actual focus remains on your words, "yeah, um... s'great..."
NOVA: "My mind is already in bed with you, dreamy."
There's no room for anything else. No Tocsin machines or problematic coworkers, no miserable pasts or uncertain futures, no wallowing in dread or wading through a black tar pit of guilt. There is only black-and-white slow, soft passionate lovemaking, flipping you backwards into the mattress, his hands in your hair and holding your head close, whispering against your mouth secret professions of how good you feel wrapped around him. It all swarms his brain like the glowing orange remnants of a charred and incinerated forest fire; languid, lazy, syrupy, fudge, caramel, jam, sap, longing, clingy, tenacious.
The filling, bubbling sink automatically shuts off when the timer clicks but the sound is drowned by electronic music tapping against his eardrums. His fingers fly over the keys and as soon as he hits send, he checks the time and starts the mental countdown of eight grueling hours.
Harry: "Mine never left."
Day 3,685
It won't stop. No matter how many times you sit back on your haunches to look into its dejected eyes and whisper apologies and reassurances, no matter how intently you scratch behind it's ears or attempt to distract it with a hug or a kiss, it won't stop.
The puppy's eyes are as green as an entire forest and sport the varying levels of nuanced shades as well; pine, shamrock, fern and moss all mix together to create an otherworldly harmony of pigment, the almond-shaped and downturned edges soften any playful intensity that an Irish Setter puppy would normally parade and for some reason, it's oddly familiar. You've met dogs in your lifetime that you could've sworn were human beings in their past lives or perhaps even people stuck inside of their canine bodies, but this is unlike the others. The sense of familiarity is so overwhelming that it dulls all of the other thoughts you could have about the pathetic and needy creature in front of you, that is until it starts whimpering again.
You tut and gather the puppy into your lap, it's tiny body and silken fur shivering against the warmth and solidity of your thighs, "sweetie pie... what could possibly be the matter? Shh, you're okay. You'll be just fine. Do you miss your mommy?" You run your fingers through the wavy fur of its floppy ears, the whimpering only growing louder until it barks once - short and rigid, as if it were trying to hold its emotion inside but it just burst out without permission, a desperate cry for help but no matter what you try, you have the sinking feeling that nothing will work.
The puppy starts to wiggle from your grasp and no matter how diligently you try to control its limbs and squirmy little figure, it somehow flops from your grasp and lands haphazardly on its back on the ground. You gasp and stand to your feet with your hands cupped over your mouth in despair before sinking to a crouch, the puppy flipping over onto its legs before standing up and shaking out its fur, it's high-intensity whines dissipating into an emotionally deafening squeal.
You start to become frantic, reaching forward in an attempt to scoop it up in your clutch again but it starts running away when your fingers get close. You try to run after it but it's as if your feet are glued to the ground with gum, your legs bending but your feet remain cemented as you wriggle and lash out. Your agitation sends you to your hands and knees with a hiss in pain, the puppy disappearing over the horizon as you remain helpless in your vulnerable position. You call after it to return to you but it ignores your command, your surroundings suddenly dead silent before an outside mumbling voice makes your heart knock against your chest.
The landscape melts away until you pass a gateway of being aware of your cognizance, your closed eyes pinching tight as the sounds in the room come into fruition. First the white-noise maker and then the rustling of crisp sheets, then a voice that has become all-too-familiar crumbling through the darkness of your consciousness. Your eyes drift open to meet the pitch black of Harry's confined apartment - the space that you have become well-accustomed to over the past month or so since it's closer to both yours and Harry's jobs, he doesn't feel guilty about leaving Pru alone and most importantly because he feels safer in the more congested area of the city.
It's still the middle of the night, the curious moon outside of Harry's window is nearly full and hanging far above the skyline like an enormous misshapen shortbread cookie surrounded by a scattering of coarse cane sugar. The air of his apartment feels thick as your dream burns off, the frustrating and debilitating memory of your feet refusing to move as an innocent creature that needed your help ran away from whatever was frightening it. Or was it running towards it?
"No." Your head flicks in his direction as the small sonority bubbles out past his front teeth and a small chasm in his lips, the utterance reminding you of the puppy in your dream before you recognize the very obvious similarity. You prop yourself up on your elbow and waver over his sweaty frame, your hand hovering in the air as you decide whether or not to touch him. His name leaves your mouth in a persuasive whisper, but when his face twists into one of pure and simple pain, your heart squeezes and starts to feel wretched in the center of your chest.
His voice starts off quiet but gains force with each new word, "no... god... oh god, please no. Please, please, please. Someone-" Harry's eyes squeeze closed even further than they already are in their sleeping state, his head falling to the side to reveal a layer of anxious film on his throat and chest. His hair is glued to his cheekbones and brow, little curled tendrils poking the creases of his eyes and his mouth downturned into a helpless, coral pout. His eyebrows are pulled together to increase a pucker above the bridge of his nose, his entire face pinched up in distaste and an unmistakeable shade of fear.
"Harry-" It's terrifying. You've given his troubling sleep lots of thought and you've wondered when and where you would experience it for the first time, but seeing him suffer right in front of you without knowing what sort horrific images are bruising his delicate mind is one of the hardest things you've ever witnessed. "Baby," you lower your hands and press them to his hot and sweaty chest, "shit... hey baby, wake up. Shh, it's just a dream. You're okay, you're at home, you're safe, I'm here. You're not alone. I'm here for you. Wake up-"
Harry's hands fumble with the sheets on either side of his hips before his fingers curl into fists and gather the material in a sharp compression, his stomach tensing and his knees bending as if bracing himself for imminent destruction, his body taking on the appearance of enduring actual, physical pain, "oh god, no, help!" His whine draws louder, "somebody please do something, I'm begging- I don't want to die, I don't want-" His whimpers escalate until he cries out but then his cry turns to sobs of distress, "stop! Help!" His throat bobs as he swallows and his next plea has you at your limit for the amount you're capable of witnessing at four o'clock in the morning, "no! No, no, no... I'll do anything, I can't leave her-"
Your fingers dig into his shoulders as you draw yourself to your knees and shake him gently in an attempt to clear the fog of his torture. Harry sits up so quickly that he nearly smashes your heads together but you jump back before he can make contact, his arms flailing out to push you away with a force that you had never considered a possibility from him. You grab the comforter and catch yourself before you can topple off of his slender twin mattress, your mouth falling open in shock at his powerful entrance into reality.
Harry's nightmare rips away from him as he shouts and tries to focus on something in the room that can give him a clue to his whereabouts, his current presence and severe premonition clashing wildly as his mind works with ferocity to make sense of what's going on. You whisper his name and reach for him again but his hand whips out to smack you away, a suck of air slipping past your teeth as you tug your arm away and cradle your stinging wrist.
His chest palpitates with hyperventilating breaths, the tattoos on his skin dilating and swelling with each frenetic hurl, his hairline damp enough with perspiration that it appears as if he'd just showered. His hair covers his face and his fingertips tremble as he lifts them to brush his locks from his eyes, but he's interrupted when his cheeks puff out as if holding back a bout of sudden sickness and before another second can pass he's pushing you out of the way to scramble from his bed.
It's not as if the manifestation of witnessing his nightmares is any worse than you had imagined, it's merely concrete and undeniable now. Imagination will pale in comparison to a palpable experience one hundred percent of the time, and being asleep and gravely unprepared for it only heightens every aspect of the encounter. In fact, there isn't much that could have prepared you for enduring your lover's mental suffering, especially when it occurs at moments of such emotional vulnerability as nighttime and dormancy.
The bathroom door slams shut followed by the sound of the toilet seat striking the tank and then the nauseating malady of retching and liquid splashing against liquid. You hadn't noticed that a few tears have squeaked out and slipped down your cheeks until a single drop falls from your chin to land on your bare leg. You follow in his footsteps to the bathroom and raise your fist to knock, but the spritz of water from the shower head informs you that Harry needs alone time to process what he was just bombarded with.
The water clicks off in five minutes flat, timing perfectly with the appearance of steam from the tea kettle you've put on. You pour a large mug with fresh lemon and honey before sinking back into his bed, the bathroom door swinging open to reveal Harry in black briefs and sopping wet hair, his face angled towards the ground as his eyelashes fan out across the tops of his cheeks. Your posture straightens to accommodate his ashamed appearance, your heart breaking as he gnaws on his lip in anxiousness and watches his feet as he begins to walk.
You stay quiet as he pads across the floor towards you, his eyes remaining downcast as he grabs your hand and kisses the inside of your wrist, his fists dropping to the mattress on either side of your hips as he bends to hover his mouth over yours, "I'd understand if you don't wanna stay." He's broken, almost all traces of the confidence he's built up with your time together have absolved and if your vision were any more extraordinary, you'd be able to see the somatic indicators of cracks and blemishes in his otherwise flawless skin.
"Are you kidding? After you've just showed me how much you need someone?" He hums when your hand cups his cheek and adjusts his gaze to align with yours, your eyes regarding one another for a collection of sacred seconds before you bridge the gap to fold your lips together. Harry kisses you with the tastes of deprivation and gratitude behind his drive, his tongue slipping out to trace your bottom lip before he draws away and stares at you in silence once again. His vision drops to the mug in your hands as you offer it to him, "lemon and honey. Sit with me? You can talk or say absolutely nothing. I'm here either way."
Harry flops onto the bed beside you and presses his forehead to your knee, his body stretched out long behind him as he slowly rocks his head left and right as if attempting to physically erase the damage that's been done. The damage of whatever trauma just took place behind the personal veil of his mind and the stress that's been forced upon you as you were violently disrupted from sleep, "it was in color.... I know- I know how bad it looks. I should've warned you. I completely understand how scary and fucked up it must be for you to see that." He shakes his head again and swallows a couple times to clear the tears from his throat, "it was a disaster. A horrific shit show. A plane crash... a commercial plane. Went down in an ocean somewhere. I'd be shocked if a single person survives that."
You brush his hair from his face as every limb on your body erupts in goosebumps, the beastly images from inside of a crashing airplane fill behind your eyelids before you force them out to refocus on his limp and exhausted figure. You want to ask if he was a passenger on the plane or possibly a flight attendant or even a puppy in someone's lap, you're curious as to how the crash happens in the first place and what exactly he meant when he said 'I can't leave her', but instead you wedge your fingers into his hair and croak, "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry. You're so brave and amazing in a way that no one else can possibly understand. I'm starting to think that only those born with an incredible amount of strength were blessed with extrasensory perceptions. I wouldn't be able to handle this as well as you can."
Harry flips onto his back and keeps his head resting in your lap, accepting your offer of hot water as he flicks his gaze up to you and mutters a solemn thank you with a weak shake of his head. He tilts his chin up for a sip before settling back down against your legs, "how come food and drinks taste so much better when you make them?"
"Mm... maybe you can taste the love," the word 'love' restarts the beating of his heart, "did I make it worse? By waking you up?"
Harry feels guilty because he knew how imminent a premonition was, how often they usually occur and how violent his reactions to them are. He could have coached you about them beforehand but he chose the route of completely ignoring his problems instead, "maybe um... maybe next time just, just hold me? And whisper in my ear to bring me back. The last thing I want to do is hurt you." He locks eyes with you again and can feel your body stiffen. He sits up and puts the hot mug aside, "did I hurt you?"
You cup the back of his neck and kiss him without a single shard of regret when the white lie leaves your mouth, "no. I'm completely fine."
Harry sighs in relief, "my mum would sugarcoat it. She would say I'd just mumble a bit or breathe heavily but my sister was more honest. She'd tell me all the gritty details of my reactions. I know it's not pretty."
"Good thing you're so pretty to make up for it then."
Harry had discovered by the second time you slept together that the dreamless state he shared with you would be a rarity, but one that he never took for granted. His nature is too strong to be hindered by the pattern of a new relationship and new sleeping habits, no matter how agreeable it feels in waking life. It's as if he were a werewolf bearing its teeth when the clouds part to reveal a full moon, he loves you and would do anything to protect you from being absorbed into his fretful and toxic lifestyle. But when the cosmos call, there's nothing he can do to stop it. He knows that he is probably developing an unhealthy dependency with you but he convinces himself that it's acceptable because he's in a far better position than before you had met, sleeping five or six evenings a week now whereas before he was lucky if he slept three times.
His mind is able to be at ease for the most part although he learned pretty quickly that he is not immune to dreams or nightmares, the black-and-white reels popping up every so often to aid him in processing his week and the dreaded colorful incubus still rears it's ugly head once every few weeks. He must admit that selfishly it feels extraordinary to have you there when they occur, your arms rocking him back to serenity and your hands calming his sweaty face and hair as you whisper affirmations into his ear.
His woozy heart finally settles enough to bring him to a place of composure as you walk around in your underwear to light candles and bring him another cup of steaming hot water with lemon and honey. You search in his bathroom to find a clean washcloth, dousing it in warm water and wringing it out before draping it across his forehead to ease him back to sleep. The sun begins to rise just over the hedge of the massive skyscrapers, but this time Harry has no desire to watch. Everything that he needs is in his arms and behind his eyelids. The sun will always be there; for now he has a star that is much closer, brighter and warmer to provide him with all the vitality and gravity he needs.
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