Two raw eggs lower gently from a wooden spoon into boiling water and once completely submerged, Harry sets his kitchen timer for seven minutes. He loves a perfectly cooked medium-boiled egg on toast with avocado, and if he had more time in the mornings on weekdays he would certainly indulge in his favorite breakfast more often. For now, it would remain his Saturday morning ritual.
He was awake late last night, not because he stayed at the club after you left but because when he arrived home, he paced his apartment with his shoes on and records echoing through his living room but he wasn't paying any attention to the music. He was thinking about you, he was thinking about the man you brought home with you, he was thinking about him icing over the spots that Harry had previously burned with his fingertips into your skin.
He was thinking about your lips and tongue on his mouth, his collarbone and his cock and then he was driven wild with jealousy and suddenly the music in his living room was meaningless. In fact, it wasn't even music anymore; it was the hop of the needle over the paper label but he hadn't even noticed.
He stayed awake until the sun peeked over the city buildings and he battled between staying awake or falling asleep, knowing that you had promised to call him in the morning but before long, sleep had won.
Ever since Harry struck a certain age, he's been incapable of sleeping past eight in the morning so when his eyes popped open mere hours later, he's groaned and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. He checked his answering machine for messages straight away but the tape was empty so his second task was to make eggs.
Hours pass, Harry sits in his studio painting water; calm, tideless oceans and small placid ponds buried deep in hidden meadows at sunrise. His thoughts are consistently drawn back to you - your smile and your shiny hair, your ability to pry a good mood from a shitty one, your perfect timing, your sportsmanship, your curt sense of humor that almost perfectly mirrors his.
He meant it when he said he loves you and he meant it when he said you were the closest friend he's had in a long, long time. He's revisiting his drunken consideration last night, how he could possibly be feeling lustful attraction towards you, but it mostly just confuses him.
You're obviously beautiful: any man, woman, gay or straight can admit that. But is he having allure that he wants to explore on a bottomless level or is it simply a heart-wrenching adoration for a friend? How can he know the difference? When and where does one draw the line? Is jealousy over a friend normal? Will the urge ever dull or will it grow stronger with time?
His head spins as he tosses his palette aside and brushes his hair away from his face, smearing shades of blue against the skin on his forehead and into the chestnut waves of hair on the top of his head. The clock reads nearly one in the afternoon and his heart slams against his ribcage in the form of envy. How late had you stayed up with your fling? Did you hold each other in the morning? Did you go to brunch together? Kiss on his way out the door?
Hearing your voice will make him feel better. It would cure any ailment he could possibly be suffering from; he crosses his studio in a hurry and shuffles into his kitchen, reaching for his cordless phone and dialing your number which he now has memorized from returning so many of your "emergency" pages.
Your roommate answers the phone and Harry's voice gets caught in his throat. He hasn't so much as thought about your roommate in ages and now he's scrambling to gather his wits as your roommate repeats his friendly prompt, "hello?"
Harry coughs into his fist and starts pacing his kitchen, "hi, uh-"
Your roommate recognizes the deep, smooth timbre of Harry's voice instantaneously and raises an eyebrow before propping his hip against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest smugly, "oh, well hello there. Long time no speak, hoebag. How are the CTNDs treating you?"
His eyebrows knit together in a frown and his grace falls through the cracks in the tile below his feet, "the... the what?" Harry feels as though he's missed something or perhaps forgetting an inside joke that you or your roommate had explained to him in the past, "I dunno what you're talking about, I'm sorry..."
Your roommate throws his head back and cackles loudly, gripping his stomach with one hand and wedging the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he pries open a bag of Doritos, "she hasn't told you? Oh my god! You guys are such a spectacle."
Harry's stomach twists painfully when he asks whether or not you've revealed something to him - as if there is hurtful information that involves him and your friendship that you're omitting. He can hear you shouting in the background and then a loud and extensive shuffle with the phone, paired with slaps and your roommate screaming threats and calling you names. Harry chuckles at the scuffle before clearing his throat upon a righting of the phone followed by a door closing and silence, "hello? Harry?"
Harry's heart is beating fast, "hi pretty..." he wants to say he misses you but it feels sour on his tongue, "thought you were gonna call me this morning? I mean, it's okay, I just... I just thought you were going to is all."
You curl into your bed and toss the covers over your head, clutching a bottle of fruit punch flavored Gatorade to your chest and whimpering into the phone, "still half asleep. Need snuggles. Too much vodka. Fuck you."
Harry laughs quietly and wonders what you're wearing, what your hair looks like and if you remembered to take off your makeup before you went to bed. He realizes that you're probably not wearing a bra and then his nervous system perks with the knowledge that you're alone, "I'd hold you," he feels embarrassed and his cheeks flame but he decides to carry on normally. "Um," he has so many questions, "how was the rest of your night?"
You rub your feet together and flip over onto your back to study the ceiling, "you would?"
He knows that you're ignoring his question as he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and pulls himself onto his kitchen stool, "yeah. I would."
You breathe a laugh out through your nose and your entire body feels warm and tingly, you want to offer the opportunity to start snuggling together sometimes but something about verbalizing it makes it feel cheap and needy, "cool. Um - it was just okay I guess. As good as coming home alone could be."
Harry jumps up off of his stool, "what do you mean?" He starts pacing his kitchen again, his fingertips running through his hair anxiously as he waits for you to explain your side.
"I mean... I got in a cab alone, came home alone, ate a frozen pizza alone and then got in my bed alone and fell asleep alone with Edward Scissorhands playing on television." Your eyes roll at your own bitter tone as you mumble an apology, "how was the rest of your night?"
Several emotions push to the forefront of Harry's mind and fingertips; elation, guilt, and pure shock being three of them, "I thought that you were leaving with that dude that you were kissing... that's the only reason why I let you walk out the door so easily." Your eyebrows scrunch in confusion but Harry continues, "I did the same. Minus pizza and Edward Scissorhands, plus a banana and Sade on the turntable."
You burst out laughing but then whine and press your fingers to your temple when your head throbs as a hangover reminder, "Sade? What album?"
He groans and mumbles 'the one with Smooth Operator on it' but you're hardly listening, "you weren't um... trying to hook up with that guy that you were talking to?"
Harry stares at his kitchen counter and notices a few coffee crumbs which he gathers into his palm and tosses into the sink, "who? Oh... oh. No, he was an old work colleague of mine from years ago. And... he's not gay." His sentence sounds cut off as if he's choosing not to add information, "so what's CTND?"
You sit up and unscrew the cap of your Gatorade, chugging a few sips to wash down the bad taste in your mouth for bailing for no reason and wiping some excess liquid from your chin, "no idea. Hey, so I need your help with something tomorrow. Our usual Sunday is gonna look a little different."
If Harry were a puppy, his tail would be wagging, "sure, anything."
You're regretting the phone call you made to you coworker first thing this morning but decide there's no going back and it's probably for the best, "I need you to help me pick out lingerie for a blind date I agreed to next week."
.
The fluorescent lighting of the mall is blinding and it's way too early to be here on a Sunday. The halls are overrun with teenagers and Harry feels as though he's dodging them like bullets with every other step over the ugly amber and beige carpeting. Loud voices echo and bounce off the enormous walls and ceilings; the Orange Julius he's sucking thickly through a straw tastes more like processed sugar than it does actual fruit.
The only reason he would be caught dead here is because you asked him for help and although he would do anything to help you, he would do even more just to spend time in your company. He's watching his and your feet step over the patterns in the carpet side by side; your shoes are about half the size of his and he likes it. He smiles at the idea of showing affection to someone smaller than himself, as if he could carry you around on his back or in his pocket.
"Thanks again, Harry," you extend your palm out to rub his bicep but he's quick when he grabs your hand and weaves your fingers together, your stomachs tumbling faster than your striding feet at the intimate gesture.
He notices the blush growing on your cheeks in the corner of his eye and he smiles when he rubs his thumb across the back of your hand, "don't thank me."
He glances down at your boots and pumps his brakes in the middle of the gigantic walkway, "oh my god. Do you have a fucking paper clip as the pull tag on your zipper right now?" You look down and shrug but he doubles over in laughter and rests his palms on his knees, "you are unbelievable."
You drop down onto your knee and reach your hands down to fumble with your shoe, "you're right. Hang on, lemme fix it." When Harry glances down to watch your hands, your middle fingers are toying with your broken zipper as you pretend to repair your boot and he's laughing loudly again in gratitude for your sense of humor.
He grips your elbows and drags you to your feet, tilting his head down to gaze lovingly into your eyes as his face relaxes and his dimple fades from his run of laughter. His hand lifts to brush your hair from your cheek, his tongue darting out to lick his lips as his sight roves across your face, "c'mon pretty. Let's get you sexified."
.
A maroon spaghetti-strapped and high cut teddy, high-waisted black panties and a matching lace bra, blue silk, white lace, red cotton. Harry's head is spinning as he runs his fingers over every article of clothing that he can get his hands on. Supple, glossy, glaring, buckles, straps, bows.
You've disappeared somewhere in the store but Harry is enthusiastically gathering options on your behalf. He's imagining what you might look like in each piece but he doesn't feel ashamed about it, and he's starting to wonder if the pull in his stomach is telling him that he's stepping away from feeling neutral about your body and leaning towards indulgence.
He finds you in a corner of the store with exactly one choice in your hands. An unsuspecting ballet slipper pink that suits your skin tone dangles from a miniature hanger; flimsy, skimpy and soft and Harry is having an exceptionally difficult time peeling his eyes away from it. He can feel his heartbeat in his throat when you're piping up, "wow, Harry. You've chosen... a lot."
He can't erase your one simple choice from his mind, "yeah, just really wanted to see what you looked like - er, what you liked best. Still figuring out your taste." His face is uncharacteristically crimson at the peaks of his cheeks. He extends a shaky hand towards you, the piles of options hanging delicately from his fingers, "so, who's the lucky guy?"
You leaf through the options he's brought you, "a friend of a coworker. I have no idea what to expect." Harry nods and stuffs his fingers into his back pockets as he rocks back and forth on his heels, watching the way you admire each piece of fabric in your hands.
He clears his throat, "why do you need lingerie then? Isn't lingerie supposed to be special?" You think you sense a bit of jealousy in his tone but there's no way that is possible, unless it's coming from a place of friendly protection.
You shrug and mumble, "who knows what might happen."
As you turn to slink into a dressing room, he's pinching your elbow and pulling you back towards him, "sorry, I wasn't trying to shame you. I can hold your purse if you want."
A smile flickers across your face before fading, "thanks Harry." He sits down on a sterile tufted sofa with cushioned seats, lilac in color and rigid to the touch. He glances around the shop and takes in all the varying shades of pink material, the women who keep peering at him over their shoulders and posters of models in awkward and stiff poses. He doesn't find a single one of them attractive; they're too plastic, too predictable, too obvious, too similar. They're nothing like you.
The dressing room door cracks open and your satiny voice drifts to his ears, "Harry?" You're positioned behind the door, keeping your body shielded from view but one hand pokes out and a finger curls as a gesture for him to come closer. "I hate to do this to you, but can you please tell me what you think of this?" His throat dries out and you look nervous, "cover your eyes."
He tugs on the end of a piece of your hair, "yup," and covers his eyes with one of his large palms, "'kay, I'm covered." He allows you to blindly guide him by the arms into your dressing room and lower him onto a firm, wooden bench. He bounces his legs anxiously, "can I open?"
You whisper, "yes," and he rips his hand away when the first sound of your answer is spoken. Your chest rises and falls with self conscious breath, your tits dually perky and heavy in the soft cupped, see-through bra. Your tousled hair brushes your shoulders and frames your pretty face, your stomach is soft and legs are smooth. Your belly button sinks and stretches into your tummy; your thighs and hips are shapely and inviting, nourishing and delectable and Harry's stomach is swirling and sloshing.
He shudders when a pant softly exhales from his mouth, the familiar sensation of blood flow is oozing to his center and his stomach tightens as his cock pulses and thickens. He grabs your purse from beside his thigh and stuffs it into his lap while you're occupied with your reflection; he can't peel his eyes away from the shelf under your ass and he wants to touch every inch of your skin. He has to know what your bare nipples look like and is dying to discover what kinds of sounds you would make as he licks a bold stripe from the waistband of your panties to the dip between your breasts.
You're unmistakably hot and you're his pretty, distinguished and extraordinary ace and he wants to pioneer every last inch of you, "definitely that one. Unless you wanna show me more?"
Love you guys! Click the star. It takes less than one second and it helps my story out ALOT!
Xx Mama Bird
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