SURPRISE DOUBLE UPDATE! AGAIN!
Just as you suspected, your night was more like a fever dream than anything resembling actual, restful sleep. You climbed out of bed before the sun did, standing under the heat of the shower-head with your gaze focused on nothing in particular on the blush-tiled wall. It felt impossible to stomach your usual breakfast and it made you mildly nauseous when you considered the volume of food that Harry was probably consuming in that moment, so instead you swiped a banana from the bowl of fruit on the kitchen counter and decided to skate to work an hour early to give yourself some quiet time for grounding before he arrived.
The theatre is marvelously peaceful this early in the morning, the halls dark and quiet and most of the overhead lights still asleep to give off an even more profound feeling of enormity than usual. You flick a few on as you walk towards your dressing room, your palms sweaty and your heart ready to leap out of your chest as you pass the practice space that you and Harry will be occupying in just a couple hours. Your mind is shrink-wrapped in suffocating plastic by the time you swing open the door with the word 'Trapeze' scrawled in glitzy golden cursive, the sight of a tall, shadowy figure just beyond the other side of the door bubbling a strangled scream up your throat.
Obviously Harry wasn't expecting anyone to be there either because his first reaction is to fall to the ground on his back in full-on theatrics, his arms and legs hanging in the air like a stunned, dying beetle with an unlit cigarette dangling between his lips.
You clutch your palm to your heart and laugh at his exaggerated performance through the soreness of your throat, your hand reaching down to help him up from the ground, "you enormous idiot, get up."
Harry wraps his fingers around your wrist and halfheartedly attempts to tug you down on top of him, his dimple sinking into his cheek when you giggle and struggle against his playful haul. He uses your leverage to pop himself up off the floor, crossing the room in two steps to snag yet another bouquet of cheery sunflowers from the vanity. He pads towards you, sweeping his hair from his eyes and appearing deceitfully innocent when he chews on his bottom lip, "didn't expect you so fuckin' early. You usually don't get here 'til eight. G'morning." This time he is prepared for you to try to refuse his gift, so when you close your eyes and shake your head softly, he takes another step closer and breathes out a fragile plea, "c'mon. I'd give anything for another chance." The weight of your conversation last night had left residual emotional film on the lining of his stomach, having gotten a glimpse of exactly how painful this whole partnership and accident has been for you as well. He did dream of you just like he had promised, but it wasn't as sexy as he was hoping it would be. The sound of distant ocean waves breaking against sand kept him in a light, fitful sleep, finally deciding to drag himself out of bed around four this morning to surf and then spring for an uncharacteristically warm shower at work.
I'd give anything for another chance.
His words spark an uncomfortable memory, except they aren't words that you'd ever heard him say before. They're your words. Words that you had uttered to him in the comfort of his powerless unconsciousness while he laid to rest in a drug-induced coma with dried blood still clinging to his ear. You know for a fact that he was in a deep sleep because Bunny told you so, and now you're wondering if he's articulating a coincidence or if he's reciting something from the tangle of his subconscious. Perhaps Bunny was right about him being able to hear you, your little speech spoken through the haze of swampy and marshy oblivion having a hand in shaping his current adoration. Either way, the sunflowers held in the air between the two of you seem to glow to life with his confession, his grin matching their illumination when you pinch them from his fingertips with a tender expression of gratitude.
"What'd you have for breakfast, Cherry?"
You exhale a huge breath of air as you drop your belongings into a sloppy, atypical heap on your vanity before plopping the bouquet of sunflowers on top and then resting your hip beside them, "um, nothing really. I just brought a banana along with me. I didn't have much of an appetite this morning." You tend to babble when you're nervous about something, but Harry doesn't seem to mind, he's much too busy eyeing the spot where your skirt brushes your bare legs. You can hear yourself rambling and the habit irks the ever-living crap out of you, but you also can't seem to stop, "I took a long shower and then skated the roundabout way to work. I've already had two lollipops. I chewed them before they got soft enough and now my jaw hurts a little and my teeth feel scuzzy. What'd you have for breakfast?"
"That's it? You gotta eat, babe. Wanna go to the diner? We have a buncha time. I'll buy you waffles." Your cheeks puff out at the thought of swallowing something so heavy and sugary and he wants to laugh at your adorable chipmunk face, but he decides to answer your question instead, "'kay. I scarfed like, half a bag of granola and a couple glasses of Carnation Instant Break-"
"Okay, I can't hear this right now. I'm sorry. I think I'm going to yak."
Harry grins and flops down in the small vanity chair beside you, his knee brushing yours and his proximity an instant swell of soothing sensibility, "d'ya need me to split so you can get your shit together?"
You shake your head and watch him tilt his head to light his cigarette, the familiar ambrosial scent working to further ease your nerves, "no. Stay." It feels like his heart physically grows in size at your request followed by the coy nibble on your bottom lip, "I had all these nightmares about you losing your grip or forgetting everything as soon as you'd learned it or realizing you could find a million better partners than me and then firing me in front of an entire audience." You decide to leave out the part about him regaining his memory and reverting back to all of his old habits, making your current situation nothing but a brittle leaf in the wind.
"Man, quit talkin' all that static. We're gonna be fine. Better than fine. I got you." He rests his elbow on his thigh and reaches a hopeful hand out to you, "I can't fuckin' wait to get my hands on you."
It's unexpected to feel so much comfort from his company and candor, the source of all of your current frustration and turbulence simultaneously beaming a steady stream of light straight into your heart. Nettie's warnings dissolve into the mirror at your back as you reach through his cloud of pink sugar to curl your fingertips around his. Harry chokes on his smoke, his digits squeezing yours tightly in recognition of your advance as he hunches forward and presses your knuckles to his forehead first and then his lips, "so, can I jump your bones now?" His delighted smile rivals your unamused frown, "cop a quick feel then?"
He laughs when you playfully smack the back of his head and move away from him all at once, rifling through your bag of clothing to pull out your warm ups, "nope, turn around."
.
There never seems to be a perfect moment to break the news to Harry of your Achille's injury. Considering his betrayed reaction when you'd told him the first time, you're forecasting the same circumstance happening all over again, even though he seems to be taking information with a grain of salt these days. It hurts to even imagine purposely disturbing his genial mood for a whiplashing trigger. You're hoping the opportunity will present itself naturally so that you're not forced into the awkward position of sitting him down and staring into his faithful eyes while you brace yourself for the heat of his biting anger.
Harry asks a ton of questions during your long, slow warm up. Whether or not this was your typical procedure before his accident, if he could put music on and dance with you a bit instead of boring himself to sleep on the ballet barre, if you could hold his ankles while he does his round of sit ups, if he could lay you down and help you stretch out your hips, how much longer you have until it's time to take your sunny break outside, how much longer you have until it's time to practice on the fly bar together.
Due to his surfing, skating and general restlessness, he's maintained a nearly perfectly fit physique while on sabbatical from the circus. You project that he will probably be ready for the giants in just a few days' time, so long as his brain can withstand retaining information and routines, but so far that hasn't proven to be an issue either. He swears up and down that he's already got your performance choreography locked by how much time he's spent watching you practice, that he lives and breathes his role in the circus, that his muscle memory is impeccably strong enough to withstand even a life-threatening head injury and that he's a natural born athlete.
All of the time that he spent observing you with his fingers wrapped around a worn novel or buried in Beau's fur, he's been multitasking as he tried to fit himself in with you, imagining the yin to your yang, picturing himself curled around you and vice versa as you worked and tweaked your static routine on the low-hanging fly bar and knotted rope.
Even though it's clear that you're the one in charge of scheduling your day now, the two of you find yourselves in a stand-off as you try to decide what to do first now that your bodies are limber and prepared for more serious activity. Harry moans and groans about the tedium of calisthenics on the uneven bars and how he doesn't need to do them, holding his fist up in the air for a quick duel of Rock Paper Scissors. You snip his losing paper in half, his fingers fumbling to grab yours as you laugh and swat him away, "let's start with ice cream makers and some strengthening on the uneven bars, then we can work our way to the trampoline for an easy reintroduction into tumbling."
He groans and emphasizes the first word of his startled inquiry, "start with ice cream makers? Ouch. Indy used to make me do those."
"You used to make me do those."
He laughs and surveys your expression before glancing to the bars, "alright. That makes sense then, Honeyboss. I was pretty mean, huh? Taste of my own medicine, I guess."
"Mean but effective. I was in shape for the giants in a couple weeks."
"I'm in perfect shape for the giants." He untucks his wifebeater from his belted gray sweats and pats his stomach carved with soft, effortless sinewy plateaus and valleys, streaks of black ink shrouded in mysterious history, "wanna feel?"
"Nope. I believe you."
"Worth a shot."
He's not wrong about being ready for the flying trapeze, with the way he so painlessly plows through dozens of ice cream makers with only a couple grunts and frowns towards the end. He nails his pullovers and dismounts, a couple beads of sweat collecting on his forehead when you push him to do several repetitions of hanging leg lifts. He proves the trampoline exercises to be nothing but a cakewalk, your regimented training derailing steadily when he grabs you by the waist and tosses you onto the bouncy mat with a shout of "popcorn!" and jumps so fiercely that you become breathless from laughing as you try to regain your balance.
Several hours into practice, Harry takes note of your irritability and how it's mostly aimed at the pressure you put on yourself to perform flawlessly. He's never been one to take harebrained procedures too seriously, having strong enough faith in himself and his ability to accomplish his goals when the situation calls for it. Of course there are times when he becomes frustrated with himself when his body refuses to do what he's asking of it, like when he's trying to remember who his partner is for example or when he's attempting to perfect dance choreography that he's never had specialized training for. But watching you pout over your own form and efficiency is honestly breaking his heart a little bit because you're easily the most talented and beautiful dancer he's ever met in his entire life.
When you snap at him for his simple suggestion to take ten for a snack, he rolls his eyes and swipes his pack of cigarettes from the ground, tapping one out with the heel of his hand before he points at you with his book of matches, "you turn into a real crab when you're hungry, you know that?" You shake your head in defense and he nods as he brings his cigarette to life, "please eat before you bite my head off. My face is way too pretty for that."
"Wow, it's nice to hear you being so humble for a change."
"I know, right? Go eat, babe. M'serious. I'll hang with you outside and we'll trip out on vitamin D before we hit the trapeze. I can run to the drugstore for you if you need somethin'. Just take a chill pill."
After a much-needed meal and reboot in the sunshine proves Harry right, you find yourself standing on the edge of the mat much like he would always do when roles were reversed and he was nit-picking your rehearsals. Harry hangs from the low fly bar that hovers a mere eight feet from the safety mat below, his eyes flicking between your anxious form and the mirror on the wall as he slowly and carefully twists and maneuvers his way through what he's observed of the performance choreography. You help him with fluidity by providing verbal cues of what position comes next, your fingers snapping at your side to help him keep time as a substitute metronome.
The door to the rehearsal space swings open to reveal Rusty behind a cloud of sooty, licorice-stained smoke, his unwanted and unexpected appearance an instant damper on the energy of the space around you. He says nothing as he keeps his eyes trained on the wounded star of his show, his back meeting the cold wall as he sucks another drag of his cigarette and takes stock of the future success of his business. Harry doesn't seem to be affected by Rusty's presence but he does take note of your disturbance, his body hanging in a wringing one-armed side planche as he awaits your next instruction which never comes.
He clears his throat to snap your attention back to him, "hey Honeybear, if I stay like this too long my shoulder might pop outta the socket." His smirk curls into his cheeks before he hoists himself into a barrel roll and bends his knees over the bar to float upside-down, his voice dropping to a whisper with a dash of provocation, "c'mere." He reaches his hands towards you and nods away your hesitation, "yeah. Trust me. I'm fuckin' buzzin'. Let me just get a feel for you an' see what we're workin' with."
You would hate to seem obstinate in front of your boss and it's possible that Harry knows that and is using Rusty's company to his advantage, but you've also been itching to revive your configuration with your partner just to see how it feels now. Part of you understands that you've been evading it due to nerves and the tension between you, but you accept that you can't avoid it forever. Your eyes fall closed when you breathe deeply through your nose, sweat breaking out from each pore of your body as you cross the mat and reach up to slip your hands into his.
Harry lifts you into the air with ease and perches you on the bar between his knees, "roll forward." He continues to speak to disrupt your hesitance before it begins, "I got you. Drop."
Your gaze snaps to the distant ceiling before falling on the mirror displaying your reflection, the sight of Harry's brawny and determined physique finally pitching you forward into a graceful tumble that lands you straight into his arms. He wraps the rope around his foot as he spirals your joined figures into an impressive pike in the same moment, his knee catching yours and locking your thighs and hips tightly together as you both hang in unwavering suspension in an intimate, confronting embrace. His arm sweeps between your shoulder blades and along your spine, his hefty palm supporting your neck and shoulders as you both suck in a gasp and gawk at one another through the explosion and reestablishment of your parallel universes.
His pupils dilate and saturate like a dry sponge dropped into a bucket of hot water, an entire Christmas tree lighting up with colored bulbs and shining tinsel the moment its plugged into its socket. You can feel his fingers inch upwards to cradle the back of your head, the tips of his digits tangled into the underbelly of your ponytail as your gazes smolder and you both pant softly into the heated gap between your mouths. His nails dig into your hair, your bellies expanding with shaking breaths to surge goosebumps down your back and across your limbs. If Harry had any less dignity, he'd moan into your mouth and rut your hips together, begging you once and for all to end his suffering and make him yours.
For the first time since you've met this new version of Harry, he's stunned into speechlessness, his mouth vacuumed dry and his heart beating in his throat and temples. Lust drips across his features and you can't help but feel like a quaking rabbit caught in the teeth of a hungry, cunning fox while the room and the whole world around you fades into obscurity. His desire seeps from his skin right to your bones, chilling you from the inside out when you muster a choked, uncharacteristic curse, "holy shit, Harry."
The reason for his attraction to you now is obvious. It's the chemistry. His body remembers it. And suddenly yours does too.
Rusty peels himself from the wall and saunters towards you, his hands slamming together into slow, stunned applause, "now that's the Harry Styles I remember!"
Harry lowers you to the ground gently before releasing himself, the two of you simultaneously staggering away from each other with the force of your reeling magnetism. Rusty approaches and you can feel Harry's gaze oozing into you from the corner of your eye, his chest heaving as he catches his breath and tries to comprehend what the fuck just happened.
It's wholly validating to feel the jolt of wonder paralyze him as it has you, the bewilderment of unsuspecting fireworks deafening you both into submission. It's as if a key element that you were unaware of for your entire working relationship has finally clicked into place, making it feel as though there was no boundary between where he ended and you began. Every fear that kept you awake last night vaporizes, your mind turning black and filling with a burst of shooting stars, your toes curling into the safety mat where you stand frozen in place. You have become true, uninhibited and faithful partners and it's the most absorbing feeling you can ever imagine.
Rusty speaks but it sounds like he's talking into an empty coffee can attached to a string held to your ear, "that was spectacular and it's only the beginning." His voice becomes more and more muffled when your eardrums start to ring from the intensity of Harry's all-consuming stare, "I can see the headlines now, 'Harry Styles Comeback a Victory for Russell Buchanan's Circus Extravaganza'."
It's as if you and Harry are both gaping straight through Rusty's skull at one another, your hearts attempting to jump out and collide mid-air to perform breathtaking feats. Harry's lips form around a silent question, your head slipping into a slow-motion nod in response without your awareness, "feel that?"
.
"So, I need help with somethin' tonight and you're just the girl."
You had practically run off to shower after your rekindling with Harry, his heart left in a cloud of dust as you disappeared from his sight while he was stuck barely listening to Rusty talk his ear off about matters of bureaucracy. He waited respectfully for you to bathe and change before taking his turn, his jaw falling slack when he emerged shirtless from the bathroom to find you combing your hair and allowing it to dry naturally around your neck and shoulders. You had decided to wear it down for a change of pace, not because he's been begging you to do it and trying to pull the ribbon from your ponytail or anything desperate like that. Although your heart did skip a beat when he crossed the room and squeezed between you and the vanity, his fingers tangling into your hair and damp heat radiating from his chest as he muttered, "so pretty with your hair down. Cool. Such a sweet, ripe Cherry."
The walk home seemed to soar by today much to your dismay, with your reflections of the day seeming to swallow time with each step forward. The journey is quieter than usual, likely because Harry hasn't been filling the air with his typical crude quips and endless questioning for the same reason. Instead each time his hand brushes against yours, you have a strong undeniable urge to cling tightly to his fingers but lingering anxieties and Nettie's cautioning keeps you just out of reach. Harry can feel the switch in energy and he has a feeling your strides for the day aren't going to start and stop on the trapeze bar, so he decides he isn't going to give up easily.
"Tonight? I'm not going on a date with you, Harry."
A flock of seagulls passes overhead and Harry uses your moment of distraction to tickle the inside of your wrist before gripping your hand, your defenses melting into your loafers and falling behind in heavy footprints when he weaves your digits together in utmost trepidation. You watch your hands enmesh before squeezing, his heart sending a jolt of bloodlust to his stomach when you don't brush him away for once. He's been working on a new tactic since pushing you with the word 'date' has proved to be too strong, so he lets it fall wayside for the sake of subtlety. His eyelids flutter closed before drawing in a breath and humming on the exhale, "it's not a date. Just a little road trip."
You come to a stop on the sidewalk outside of your duplex, the feeling of his warm, large hand flipping your stomach and thoroughly scrambling your brain, "road trip?" He nods but you narrow your eyes in hesitation, "where?"
"Down the coast a bit. I'll have you home by midnight. Please say yes." Harry compresses your hand once and raises it into the air for a kiss to your knuckles, "please. I promise you'll have fun." He sucks air into his lungs and waits with baited breath as you study his face and take your time formulating an answer, his heart quivering and ready to either burst with happiness or implode in frustration.
"Okay. Fine." Harry gasps and beams like a lighthouse, sponging several more kisses into the back of your hand and the inside of your wrist. You laugh and try to push him off but he seems to be adhered to you like superglue, "not a second after midnight though." He nods and nods, much too elated to verbally respond as he tugs on your arm and pulls you in for a warm cuddle. You hum as you return his embrace, his velocity rocking you back and forth before he peels away and has to physically restrain himself from kissing your supple mouth, "thanks for walking me."
"It's cool. Far out, babe. I'll swing by at nine." Harry feels too excited to stand in one spot, so instead he passes your belongings to you and begins backing up towards the street, "you won't regret it."
You smile and wave goodbye as you try to quell the brewing sickness in your stomach, your feet pulling you away from him in the exact same manner, "okay. I trust you." After the way he cushioned you today at practice, it seems impossible not to.
Harry waits for you to let yourself in, a hundred butterfly's wings flapping in his guts when you unlock the door and signal your safety. He nibbles on his bottom lip and cups his hands over his mouth to shout after you, "it's a date!" You can tell by his cheeky smile that he's just teasing you, although you know deep down that part of him wants to believe it. You don't respond because he never seems to hear your negative answers anyway, instead he fills in the hiccup of silence just before the door slams shut, "oh and Cherry?" You poke your head through the threshold to find him swimming in cotton candy ripples, "wear trousers."
OH MY GOD I JUST LOVE SPOILING YOU SO MUCH!
The next chapter is epic, so I might need a little bit of time to write it for it to be perfect. I've been looking forward to it for MONTHS. I'll let you know as soon as it's ready. Any predictions on where he's taking her?!
I love you so much! See you all very soon.
xx Birdie