You've been knocking on his front door for almost five minutes, pressing your ear to the wood to listen for movement and tossing your gaze over your shoulder to keep checking to see if his car is actually parked in the driveway. It feels invasive, especially after the way you left last night, to just walk into his house but you try the knob anyway.
When the door swings open, your head pokes inside to call his name softly and when it's motionless and silent inside, you begin tip toeing your way in. Everything seems to be in the same place that it was the evening before, even the corner of the rug is still upturned, his kitchen remains untouched as if he didn't even attempt to cook himself dinner.
You feel guilty for leaving in the manner that you did and although you love Harry very much, you don't technically have any mandatory responsibilities towards him aside from friendly company and last night self-preservation was your priority. You went home and made yourself a frozen pizza, watching re-runs of Seinfeld in bed and trying to get the image of Harry being sexual with another person out of your head.
There is no reason to feel like he had been unfaithful to you, but the pang that knocked against your heart echoed a lot like the pain of deceit. The rational part of you knows that your emotions are inaccurate and you're trying your best to convince your heart as such; hopefully with time you will be able to accept the reality of Harry as your friend and be able to support him through moments of dilemma and strain in his relationships.
His bedroom door is flung wide open and all of the lights are on; one glimpse at the clock tells you that it's nearly two in the afternoon but Harry is nowhere to be found. Your fist lifts to the doorframe to meet it in a knock but when you peek inside of his bedroom and see him curled on his side atop his sheets, his face puffy as if he had fallen asleep crying in his same clothes from last night and an empty bottle of tequila strewn at the foot of his bed, you creep into his room and fall to your knees at his side.
Your thumb traces over the worry lines between his eyebrows, his mouth is parted to let air escape and his body seems extremely vulnerable when a shiver racks his spine and his face presses further into his pillows. You consider waking him, your regret for leaving him alone last night practically eating you alive as you absorb the sight before you. You had been so consumed with the ache in your chest that your forethought was cut short and now here it is, staring you in the face and it fucking hurts.
Your bottom lip is tucked underneath your top teeth and your throat is tight with trapped tears, your shoes are discarded when you softly climb into bed with him, careful not to disturb his much needed sleep.
You trace down the center of his nose with the pad of your index finger and in the dip of his top lip, across his cheekbone and down his scruffy jawline. You scoot close, your body pressing against his and your face tucking into the crook of his neck as you carefully wrap your arm around his back, holding him tightly against you as you close your eyes and inhale his Ivory soap deeply. His curls tickle your forehead and as you draw the blanket up and over your sleeping bodies, you whisper, "I'm sorry, Harry," into his throat just before drifting off to sleep.
.
Crawling on hands and knees through a desert; mountains and hills of interchanging stretches of rippled and smooth soft burnt sienna sand, the sun directly overhead as it parches and scorches every inch of skin. An oasis is just up ahead; a small sparkling pond, the flashes of light reflecting from the water's surface so brightly that they leave little blind starry specks after eyes are closed.
The sand is so hot that it burns palms and knees but the respite is so close that giving up is not an option. Two large palm trees grow from seemingly nowhere, casting much needed shade - an instant relief that begins to cool the streaks of sweat that have dripped down fiery cheeks and burned into eyelids.
Desert dandelions and golden suncups add splashes of muted color against the titanium colored smooth rocks; birds clean themselves and preen their feathers on the bank of the pond. When two palms dip into the water and shaky hands draw nearer to where it's needed most, Harry's eyes peel open and the uncomfortable heat transfers from his dream to his half naked frame.
The first thing he registers is tightness across his chest, undeniable thirst and a pounding headache from two nights in a row of drowning in toxic tequila, very little food and even less water. The second thing he registers is someone clinging to his body like a baby koala bear and the smell of your shampoo and when he looks down he gasps slowly, a long and drawn out inhale of air that nearly draws tears from his eyes.
A hand grips your hair and the back of your neck, pressing your cheek into his warm chest as a hasty groan vibrates his throat and leaves his lips. You moan and squeeze him tighter, cozying yourself against his body and forging your limbs together like puzzle pieces.
His leg hooks itself over yours to draw your hips closer and soft kisses are planted all along your hairline and your forehead. "Ace," his voice is a cotton ball dragging over pavement, "I didn't think it was real at first." He exhales deeply in consolation, "mmm. Mmm. I'm so happy you're here. Needed you last night. I still do."
His truth is dripping from him like maple syrup after a sugar snow, his filter lowered from having fallen asleep to a real-life devastating nightmare and woken up to a tangible dream.
He whines and tries to pulls you closer to his body which seems impossible; he draws his head back to take you in, his hands petting your hair away from your face, "when did you come?"
You notice that his eyes are still inflamed from upset and hard sleep, you lift your wrist to glance at your watch before clearing your throat, "bout an hour ago. Got right into bed with you. I'm sorr-" He shakes his head violently before wincing and pressing his fingers into his temples.
"Don't be sorry. Don't. Everything that's happened is my fucking doing and I have to face... it." His eyes drop before rising to yours again meekly, "bet I look super hot right now." Your frown lifts slowly into a smile and his face carves a path for a bit of happiness as well, "can we try to have a semi-normal Sunday? I need my Ace today."
His bare torso feels hot and consoling, like a cup of perfectly tempered herbal tea and a change of dry clothes after getting caught in a thunderstorm. Your fingertips have a life of their own as they drag up the expanse of his stomach and his chest and back down again, goosebumps emerging and revealing his body's appreciation of your careful movements. You avoid mentioning it for fear of embarrassing him, "are you ready to talk about it? I can listen now."
He shivers and rubs his palms over his nipples, "you're making it a tit bit nipply in here," you giggle but allow him to carry on, "I can't... not yet." His mind rewinds back to how it felt to be on his knees with a cock in his mouth, harsh words muttered into the bitter air of the kitchen and he shudders when he thinks of how he's never enjoyed a sexual encounter less.
When his sight finally lands on yours, for a split second his eyes resemble the earth you fell to in your dream; swirling pine and seaweed, sapphire and midnight, lupine and crocus. His mouth is the carmine parachute that ceased your chaotic plunge and you're rushing forward to press it against yours, your noses bumping before you stop yourself and squeeze your eyes shut.
He is reeling and upset, not fully himself, still processing Friday and Saturday's events and your timing is bullshit. You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling, hoping that he will brush that off as if he didn't notice. You have begun to consider the reason for Harry being so upset as possibly being related to you, if not wholly, but you keep squashing the idea in the back of your mind for self-protection. If you built your hopes up around someone who has to remind you on more than one occasion that he is gay, you would be humiliated. And your friendship would be over.
Harry's entire body is a thunderous heartbeat; he wants to grab your face and turn it back towards him, kiss you and suck on your tongue, nibble a red spot into your jaw and press his thumb against your center, asking you to tell him what to do and how much pressure to use, how deep to sink his fingers and when to stop. He would do anything you asked to make you feel good, but now is not the right time.
He cups your jaw and presses his lips against your cheekbone, humming at the feeling of your soft skin against his mouth before sliding his hand down to land on your belly. Your shoulders shudder at the feeling of his widespread palm, his pinky and his thumb nearly spanning the entirety of your stomach before he presses his fingertips gently into your skin.
His voice breaks through a handful of pebbles, "pretty." You turn your head to face him, smiling at his considerate handling and sighing through your nose at the level of comfort you feel with him. You roll back onto your side to face him, nuzzling comfortably against him and propping your cheek on his same pillow. He pants at your proximity and tosses one arm over your hip, "this was all I wanted last night."
You close your eyes to allow yourself a minute to gather your thoughts, "better late than never." You can't find it within yourself to admit that you cried the entire car ride home thinking about Harry's dick in someone else's mouth, possibly moaning their name or sweating with his head thrown back in pleasure, his hands tangled into someone else's hair and his eyes pinched shut. If you had found it within yourself to admit it however, Harry might have told you that he was imagining it was your mouth instead.
He shakes his head and licks his lips, "you're right," his digs his fingers into your ribcage as a threat to tickle you and you're screeching, squeezing your legs around his hips and flipping both of your bodies so that you're straddling his waist and pinning his wrists to the bed above his head.
His mouth is dropped open in shock and his pupils dilated with lust; he had no expectation of you reacting so playfully to a simple dig but now his cock is starting to stir and he's wondering where this sensation was two days ago with his fuck buddy. There's a second of shared silence before you're leaning close and narrowing your eyes at him, "no tickling, unless you don't mind being compromised," and he takes note of that for future reference.
He overpowers you and tosses you into his mattress and fluffy clean sheets, his knees staking your hips to his bed and his fingers weaving through yours beside your shoulders. He's reminded of his earlier thought of how he handles his flirtation with you like a child; playing, poking and teasing. But right now you're making his hangover crumble and doing that thing that you do so well where you spin a shitty mood into a good one, like someone gathering invisible strands of sugar onto a paper cone until they've formed a thick, pink cloud of cotton candy.
You bend your knees and try to kick his butt and his back but the angle is all wrong and he starts cackling at your determined expression mixed with your failed attempts. You burst out laughing and push your hands against his; your strength is no match for his and now you're starting to feel trapped, "Harry! I'm suffocating! Fuck the fuck off!"
He reaches down to tickle you again and you start whining and squealing, your body recoiling and flailing. You manage to wriggle a hand loose and when he sees it coming for his crotch, he jumps away and covers his center with his hands, "done, done! Done. I'm done. Promise."
Your middle finger appears in his face, smashing his nose down and he does the same to you except he pretends to stick his fingertip up your nostril and you scream before swatting him away. He laughs loudly and scratches his nose with his knuckle, "glad to have you back, Ace. I need a shower, but then what's on the agenda?"
You roll off the edge of the bed and dig into your purse before pulling two objects out and hiding them behind your back. You circle around the foot of the bed frame to stand before him, your thighs pressing up against his knees, "guess."
He runs his fingers through his hair and yawns, covering his mouth with his fist before allowing it to drop to his lap, "I dunno, something stupid?" You laugh and punch his arm lightly; he winces and whines, complaining you're making his hangover worse and rubbing his eye sleepily, "I give up."
Your hands present themselves in front of his face, your fists opening slowly one at a time to reveal first, a bottle of black nail polish and second, a Foreigner cassette tape. His smile peels slowly before eventually growing so large that it forms crinkles in the corners of his eyes and then a dimple in his left cheek, "fuck yes."
.
Harry's better than you thought he would be at applying nail polish. You're both sitting in opposite ends of the couch, your legs entangled and your heel pressed into his firm thigh as he runs the tiny brush over your toenails, his eyes narrowed in concentration and his tongue bitten between his teeth.
"Okay," the folded crossword puzzle is hovering above your face, effectively blocking the view at the other side of the couch, "obedient, six letters."
He hums and puckers his lips to form an "o" as cool air blows against your toes to dry the polish, "hmm... docile?" You count the boxes in your mind and roll your eyes, muttering a wry complaint about how he's good at everything.
You pull the paper away from your face to let the sight in front of you absorb; Harry's curls falling around his eyes and his jaw, his obscenely pink lips alternating between blowing on your feet or being bitten as he attempts to focus.
"Ask like a dog, three letters." His eyes glance up to yours and you notice his cheeks dotting roseate. He laughs lightly when you two continue to stare at each other in tense silence, "don't make me say it."
You write 'beg' in the three boxes before raising an eyebrow at him, "okay, I see how it is. Flying hero, three letters." He watches you nibble on the end of your pencil and when he recognizes genuine bewilderment on your face, he tosses his head back in laughter.
You start to feel flustered, "what?" He shakes his head and tickles the bottom of your feet. You kick his shoulder playfully and whine, "stop, for fuck's sake. Just tell me the answer."
He gestures for you to switch feet as he starts painting your big toe, "come on then. You can do it. Think." You're distracted by how flawless he looks with his shirt unbuttoned far below the twin swallows and your moonstone ring stuffed onto his pinky and pressing against your skin. He puffs another soft breath against your toe and this time it radiates up your leg to your core. You squirm from the sensation as he rubs his smooth palm up your calf, looking up to lock eyes with you, "ace."
You frown, "what?" He smiles and tugs on your smallest toe, "flying hero, three letters. The answer is ace."
Happy Sunday everybody! Please vote, talk to me, all that fun stuff. Hope you're enjoying it.
Xxx Birdie