Aerial

The Thirty-First Chapter

Do you think we ever fully let shit go?

Add that to the extensive list of questions for your death bed. After the course of today's events, you've got a brand new stock-pile of them. And throughout the past hour that you've spent sweeping your apartment with a frayed corn whisk broom with your hair wrapped up in a silken headscarf, the one piece of stubborn dust that you can't seem to scrub is the unsettling concern for your sunny boyfriend's well-being at the moment. The tragic morning that Tex showed up at your door to break the news of Harry wiping out on his surfboard is stuck at the very forefront of your irrational, traumatized brain. Every so often you find yourself pausing your manic cleaning session to open the front door, expecting to see a heartbroken Tex there, waiting to deliver another round of unbearable pain that you're not equipped to handle again.

Harry said that he would call you and since he never says things that he doesn't mean, you've been dragging your telephone all around your apartment tonight waiting for the jarring ring to slice through your gloomy, persistent jitters. It never does, but that doesn't stop you from glancing over at its lifeless receiver every ten minutes or so. 

Listen, everything you're feeling about me is valid, and it's also not real. Does that make sense?

The sensation of fear that you're experiencing is valid, the fear itself is not real. You're worried that Harry is going to hurt you again, but he's not going to hurt you again. This is probably the most succinct, engaging, mirror-flashing breakdown of anxiety you've ever heard and sometimes you truly wonder if you would've grown this intensely and this suddenly without the sharp beam of light poking holes in your curtains tremendously early each morning.

All you can hope now is that he proves your valid sense of fear wrong.

Each new sunrise leads to a new discovery; one about yourself and one about the person whom you've become so heavily involved with. The fuzzy little details are the ones that tend to soothe you most: how he flosses his teeth with his hips pressed up against the sink before bed, the way he nuzzles his cheek into your palm whenever you touch his face, the taste of his mouth after a cotton candy puff and the taste of his mouth after a bite of green apple, the peel of your sleeping mask at dawn followed by an immediate hoarse hello, how he plays air drums with a cigarette pinched between his lips when discordant rock records spin circles in his van, initiating Rock Paper Scissors to score things that are already his, the jump of his adam's apple when he tosses his head back in generous laughter, the pop of his cheek when he scarfs an enormous bite of food, how he dances when no one is watching and how it's exactly the same as when the world is watching, the smell of his golden neck after he's swam in the ocean and bathed in the sun. The feeling of his sculpted back against your stomach when you press up against it, slipping your hands under his warm shoulders and sponging a kiss into the top notch of his spine. The weight of his head after he drops it back to rest on your collarbone. The perfect way that he teases you. The perfect way that he pleases you. His lips on your throat. His hands. Him.

It's just after one o'clock in the morning, on your first night apart since your lips locked at Temptations, and you miss him.

His energy just takes up so much space in a room that when it's gone, it feels like someone has sucked the air out along with it. There are a lot of shadows in your small apartment without sunshine in every corner and your kitchen counter looks all wrong without a tepid carton of orange juice and a half-eaten sleeve of Ritz crackers resting on it. You've scooped up and washed all of his stray socks and undershirts. Six heart-shaped cigarette filters lay crushed in the ashtray on your coffee table. Cherry-scented candles burn in every corner for some semblance of light. Your bed sheets have eternally been steeped in caramelized strawberry-vanilla sugar tea. You have managed to survive your entire life sleeping alone, but now it feels as though you couldn't possibly bear it.

It has crossed your mind to show up at his van and knock on his door, but somehow that kind of thing is much cuter when Harry does it.

In hindsight, the nerves you'd been experiencing made sense. It's almost as if you instinctually knew what was going to happen, that the entire scenario was about to blow up in your face like a bomb that keeps on exploding. And in the midst of it all the frantic emotion, you had forgotten to ask Harry if he was physically okay after that brawl. But you suppose it doesn't matter, you knew the answer. No. He's not okay. And wherever he is right now, he's probably still not okay. Or maybe even feeling worse than before, which makes you anxious beyond belief. You want to search for him so badly that your feet itch, but he distinctly asked for space and Harry doesn't say things he doesn't mean.

It's either perfect or rotten that Nettie is spending the night with Asher tonight, leaving you with an apartment so quiet that you could hear a pin drop in your pink-tiled bathroom all the way from the dimly-lit kitchen. The space to spastically act upon each reflex of panic has an element of private comfort that you enjoy, but the solitude of going through the motions without springing one of your hundreds of questions on another living soul just makes you sink deeper into loneliness. Are you depressed or just isolated? What are you supposed to do when distractions aren't doing their job?

You make a conscious effort to convince yourself that you haven't been completely deserted by everyone you love tonight, considering that is most likely your fear of abandonment chipping away at the intricate molding of your fragile mind. You'll never quite understand why fear has to be so loud in the first place, acting as a brick wall that stacks from the ground to the sky, curling a taunting finger in your direction and daring you to climb. That nosy, permeating fibber. No one ever invites fear along, but natural selection has placed it as the front-lines of all of their wars. Everything that you want seems to be just on the other side of fear and it would be a much easier fight if it didn't morph and move so quickly. It meets each one of your fresh navigation tactics with an even mightier shield, proving to you over and over again that it's your work to constantly outsmart it in order to move forward with anything in life. And it's exhausting.

The spiky little details are the ones that tend to cut you deepest: the pokes and prods and jabs interspersed with brutal silence when you and Harry had first met, the arctic blast of truth that breezed through your dressing room when he unveiled his horrific past, the unnatural hush of his injured body and brain as he lay motionless in a hospital bed, the defeated-but-hopeful tick of his mouth each time he'd hand you a cluster of sunflowers and ask about your breakfast, a plane of glass across his eyes when he recounted how it felt to be raised by a disparaging parent, the way his fingers wrapped around Tex's strained neck in desperate anger, the flail of his frantic limbs as people tried to subdue his wild turbulence with all their might, the curl of his lips as he scorched you alive with heartbroken French, spatters of blood on his clothes and his face and the sizzling pavement, his stolen confessions and his voluntary ones, the rawness of forming bruises on his eye socket and jaw once his skin had been wiped clean. The feeling of his lips sealing a resolute kiss into your forehead when he told you that he needed freedom tonight. The slip of his hands through yours as he backed away. The sorrowful way he navigates his emotional and physical pain. The sorrowful way he navigates yours. His secure grasp on your heart. His eyes. Him.

Dark chocolate bonbons. Key lime saltwater taffy. Cotton candy. Hearts. Sunshine.

How does anyone exist without him?

Wherever Harry is, you know that he's thought himself in and out of so many circles that he's likely a dizzy, head-spun mess. A consideration flits by and you force it out before it can gain too much speed; Riff did mention that him and Tex were meant to meet at Hound Dogs. Would Harry go so far as to knock back a few beers with the steam of anger rising under his shoes and show up there in search for them with the intention of continuing their brawl or even worse, ending it all together? Is he all alone in his van like he said he would be, slugging Pearl after Pearl, playing intoxicated versions of his favorite songs on his guitar and cursing the idiotic position you've put him in – after laying out the rawest possible version of himself for so many weeks?

You finally understand that it hasn't been as easy as he made it seem to be this vulnerable with you all along and the biased film reel of your history starts to rewind and pause on various scenes throughout his pursuit of you, shining a light on them now with a completely different lens than your scarred mind would have allowed before. Each time he handed you a bouquet of sunflowers and you begrudgingly accepted them, each time you turned him down for a date, each time you denied him a touch or a kiss, each time you refused to meet him with honesty or open yourself up even the slightest nudge.

Where there was previously a beaming ray of sunshine in your memory, vying for the smallest bit of your side-tracked attention, there is now a cloud cover of cracked hope replaced by uncertainty, rejection, critical doubt. Once crinkled noses, flirtatious lip nibbles, belly-shaking laughter. Now downturned eyes, soft frowns, the curl of shunned fingertips. He tried so hard for so long for even a scrap of you, a piece of you that you both knew wanted him, and you took his efforts for granted. The moment that you had begun to reciprocate his feelings, you break his heart by unintentionally communicating a disregard for his struggles by silent omission. And the guilt is eating you alive.

You can see your mistreatment towards someone who has verbally and physically demonstrated their devotion towards you. Repeatedly.

You can see your rigidity and stubbornness, your lack of self-awareness and the disregard of his experience and feelings.

You can see your naïveté and your inexperience and it bothers you to death, you understand the impact it has on yourself and others.

Jesus Christ, you must irritate the holy hell out of him. It's a surprise that he even still has a drive to be with you. And for that, you must show your gratitude. It's time to let everything go. Right now. This isn't working for him or your relationship and easily most importantly, it's not working for you.

He doesn't deserve this. You don't deserve this.

You keep using words to tell him that you want him to feel as good as he makes you feel, but you can see now that he requires more action. He requires more conversation, more touch, more pursuit, more reckoning. He has practically spelled it out for you in a dozen different languages in a dozen different scenarios and although it's clear to the both of you that you have made some strides in all of those departments, it isn't quite enough for him to feel satiated. He wants your courage but most importantly, you want it too. You want the crush of complete and utter mutual worship and allegiance. Life-altering love. Beautiful destruction. Growth.

You have to believe me.

You have to trust me.

You have to forgive me.

Kiss me.

Touch me.

Look at me.

Stay with me.

I'll be your sunshine, but only if you let me.

For the first time since his surfing accident, his love for you doesn't feel unshakably unconditional and that realization of peril scares the daylights out of you, which must mean something remarkable. The thought of losing him makes your stomach twist in agony and that just has to mean something utterly remarkable.

He has been pointing to the final layer of your fleshy, complicated, calcified archives with a neon arrow, screaming "here it is, it's right fuckin' here, please get rid of it so that I can love you with every single part of me," for months and you're finally fed up with yourself enough to dig your fingers into that dismal inner core, the hottest and deepest parts of your being, and turn it inside out to discover what exactly you're capable of without that pesky protective coating stopping you anymore.

That veneer smelled like shit anyway.

Sure, nothing can become great without courage, but he failed to mention that love doesn't grow without passion either. Eager, hopeful, blind, determined, faithful passion. If he were here right now, you'd kiss him and tell him that you missed him. If he were here right now, you'd push him down into your sheets and crawl into his lap. If he were here right now, you'd gift him this precious chain that's been burning a hole in your jewelry box for days and feel the metal warm up against his summery chest. If he were here right now, you'd love him like he never would have expected and that's possibly the best gift that you could offer.

And this pillow just won't sit right, no matter how many times you fluff it and pinch the corners and maneuver the left side up an inch or down an inch and punch your fist into the center of the fluffy feathers. It just won't sit right.

This limp, shapeless blob is a complete eyesore and a perfect metaphor for the predicament you've found yourself in: whether or not you manipulate the hell out of it or leave it completely alone, it isn't going to end in a way that leaves you satisfied. You can never seem to get anything to settle just right, no matter how much you poke it and no matter how much you think you're approaching it with the correct procedure, and maybe that's just the lesson you're meant to learn tonight. And now you suppose you'll have to sleep with this imperfect, feathery smudge, alone, until you've unlocked the secrets to exactly what it is that's creating your dissatisfaction in the first place.

After all, any negative reactions we're having to a situation are simply an indicator for what we need to change. Your polished refinement, your modest diffidence, your stubborn stone wall, your skeptical hurdles. It's all merely a bandage for self-criticism, self-blame and a lack of self-awareness.

You'll never be able to control anything aside from your own consciousness and your own actions. Which is somehow both comforting and exasperating.

Which is why when a cluster of rhythmic knocks hammer against your bedroom window, you have no one to blame but yourself when you trip over your telephone cord in shock and catch yourself two seconds before tumbling to your hands and knees.

When you've relocated your balance and whip your head towards the direction of the prickly sound, you can make out the imprint of Harry's palm pressed up against the glass and just beyond that, his bottom lip captured by his teeth as he tries to stifle laughter for your sake. The sight of the streetlight casting dancing shadows across his handsome face, curtained by messy curls and fading into a backdrop of nightfall is so brilliantly sparkling and devastatingly relieving that you can barely feel any shreds of embarrassment. Instead you spring for your beam of light obstructed by parted, gauzy curtains, whipping them aside and sliding the window open as fast as humanly possible.

And without hesitation, your lover is leaning through the threshold with the cool sea breeze at his back, tossing his bag onto your floor and tucking a cigarette between his lips, his eyes fizzy with mischief when he goes straight for the throat, "hey Honeyklutz, how was the trip? See you next fall?" A flame sparks to life in his palms, his cheeks hollowing and his hair falling into his eyes as pink smoke bundles you up in candied comfort. He exhales pink towards the stars, his gaze finally locking on yours to tie your stomach into a pretty, fond bow, "workin' on some new choreography or just performin' a random gravity check?"

"Yes, and gravity is working just fine in case you were wondering." Harry playfully mocks you with a short round of applause, his cheeks splitting into appreciative humor when you curtsey once, "I'll be here all week." And then his expression dissolves into obsessive lust at your sudden heated proximity, his half-lidded eyes flicking from your mouth to your stare when you lean on the sill between his arms with your noses brushing, all shimmer and affection, plucking the cigarette from his mouth and breathing in his sunny sugar, "grace like that can't be taught, you know."

His voice is a tangy brush against fine cactus spines, "hey baby-"

"I'm so fucking happy to see you, Harry. I'm so grateful you came back to me."

A quick scan of his figure informs you that he's changed out of his bloody clothes and showered again, but everything else that he's done to occupy his time tonight is a complete mystery. You don't care what trouble he might have gotten into or why he's decided to show up at your place this late. You only care that he's here, on his own accord, with a giant smile on his sweet, amazing face. It must be a hopeful mirage that he's elected to come and end your misery when you were certain you'd be a ball of panic all night. You're suffocating on relief, so you make a conscious decision to squash both of your miseries before it can fester. After every single thing you've trudged through together for months upon endless months, you've earned your corner of peace and love.

You cup his cheeks and stir a rampant ensemble of butterflies in his tummy when you kiss each of his cheeks, his forehead, his nose – all before slowing to a snail's pace to fold your lips together with a consoling hum. A whine of surprise curls from his tongue and around your noses as does the soft smoke from his romantic cigarette pinched between your fingers, framing the portrait of your much-deserved reunion with an affectionate curtain of protective pink vanilla, your kiss quickly melting into another. And then another. And another. Slow, slower, slowest.

The tip of Harry's tongue circles yours before pecking your top lip and then your bottom, your core clinching tighter and tighter with each nuanced spark of his mouth before he pulls back a pinch to rasp, "mmm... if you win, I stay. I win, I don't leave."

You draw away just enough to see his fist hovering between your chests to initiate a game of Rock Paper Scissors, his perky suggestion ringing with clarity when you realize that he's gambling on something that he's already achieved yet again. A shiny-eyed laugh laced with relief bursts through clogged-up tears, "okay, you're on."

With three shakes, his scissors butcher your paper, your rapture nukes his heart, "I tried, but I couldn't sleep alone. I never wanna sleep without you, y'know." He grips your hand, leaning further into your window for a taste of your honeyed air, "I'm kinda buzzed and I know you're way too posh to have a caveman around. But I'm also really fuckin' selfish, so what's up, girl-"

But it suddenly becomes perfectly clear that he's leaned too far when he tumbles into your open window with a shocked yelp. He gives up fighting halfway through his short plummet and lands flat on his back at your feet, before rolling onto his side with one knee bent and his temple resting casually on his fist, "Slick Daddy Boss reportin' for duty. Gravity is fine, just like you said." His eyes travel up and down your body, fast at first and then slowing to a crawl with a low wolf-whistle at the awareness of your short babydoll nightgown. Bright pink with matching bloomers, which must be just for him, "mmm... damn. Whose girlfriend is that? C'mere."

You're a flurry of sweet giggles peppered with a couple snorts as you drop his burning cigarette into the ashtray on your vanity and collapse to your knees beside him. You lay your palm out flat, his chin immediately sinking into its home and nestling softly into your warmth with a hum. You squeeze his cheeks and kiss his heart-shaped lips, "I missed you. I missed you so much." He grips your hips tight when you push him onto his back and climb into his lap, mumbling everything that he wants to hear against his mouth with such furor that if he were to strike a match, this entire duplex may burst into flames, "I want you here. I need you here. Please tell me you'll stay. For me, for us."

You dive headfirst into honesty without a second thought, because it feels like it just has to be released or it'll fester in your organs forever. Plus, Harry needs it and most importantly, Harry deserves it.

His grin is ferociously wide with calm contentment when he unties the scarf in your hair and lets it float to the ground. He weaves his fingers to loosen your tresses and wedges you in place with his thighs, his nose resting beside yours, the tip of it squishing up against your cheek, "mmm... this is the fuckin' greatest. Course I'm stayin'. You're making my heart go bananas. Keep goin', please."

Except you're too distracted to heed his command when your fingertips traipse over the fresh bruises splashed across his eye socket and the bridge of his nose, the healing cut above his lip, the scratch on his neck, his raw knuckles, "oh my god... I'm so, so sorry that this happened to you. This is bad. Are you going to be okay-" You must have touched his nose or some other sore spot that you were unaware of, because he suddenly flinches away and hisses when he rolls his head back with a deep frown, "no- sorry- do you want some ice? This is all my fault."

He shakes his head and sits up carefully, his hand splaying wide to cradle your back and keep you pinned to his lap, "no, it's not, babe. This is Tex's fault. And my fault for losin' my temper like a savage. I really wish you'd told me, but nothin' that happened to you is your fault. You're a victim, plain and simple." It's evident that regardless of taking some space, he's still caught up in processing this whole distressing event and most crucially, the betrayal from and subsequent loss of his long-time best friend, "but I asked you. I fuckin' asked you right to your pretty face, after our first date, why Tex bothered you so much and what did you say?" He does a pretty good job of mimicking your high-pitched feminine voice, except with a dash of smooth accent, "'he's got a one-track mind.' Vague-ass. I oughta cream you for that shit."

"I know, I know. I explained to you that I was giving him the chance to do the right thing and come clean on his own. I know what I did was wrong. I told him he wasn't smart enough to play god, though."

Harry's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, "you stood up to him for me?"

"Of course."

"My sweet Cherry. Ow- go easy on me, yeah? I'm kinda hurtin'." He sucks air past his clenched teeth when you settle your full weight into his lap and chokes out a quiet, "mm- ribs." A soft groan propels his fingertips under your top and up the ridges of your bare spine when you push off of his shoulders and ease up on his torso, "fucker got me right in the spleen. D'ya know if we can live without a spleen?" He starts to tug at the hem of your nightgown, "can we take this thing off-"

"Will you be too sore for performance on Monday? Your face looks like it hurts."

He nips at your pouting bottom lip, "I'll be okay, promise. I've got two days 'til then. It's nothin' serious. And I heal faster than most."

"I'm not so sure about that."

Harry frowns and drags out his weak retort, "hey." His demeanor sobers up once again, his volume dropping just the slightest bit to impart severity as he pinches his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger, "I realized somethin', y'know."

"Hmm? What'd you realize?"

One of the many incredible facets of Harry is that he's able to turn his humor on and off to make space for what matters most. A true humanitarian with excellent timing, blanketed in iron magnetic charm no matter what he's trying to express, "you were honest enough to admit to me that you have a fear of me abandonin' you... and then I abandoned you."

A wretched, wilting memory gallops through Harry's subconscious and leaves with a gut-wrenching shriek in his skull. Six years old and cowering in a doorway with his palm slapped across his mouth to keep silent, his mother in hysterics as she weakly smacks his drunken father's chest over and over again, "what the hell is the matter with you? Get out of this house! Get out! Now!"

His recollection fades to dust for your sake and leaves behind a frightened pint-sized version of Harry watching in the doorway, wiping hot streaks of tears, wishing he understood why we treat the people we're supposed to love this way.

Better him than you. Men are always ruining women's lives.

"No, you didn't. You were amazing, Harry. It took me awhile to push past my own grief and understand your view, but you were well aware of what you needed and you put up a necessary boundary. You needed time. It's okay. I respect that. I deserved the suffering anyway."

"No. Quit that. You only deserve to feel good. Suffering is just growing pains and growth spurts and shit that we have to feel to gain perspective. That we're fortune enough to feel. And so, what? Some shit feels good and some shit feels bad. You don't get to feel your tummy flip on a rollercoaster until you've climbed. Be glad you feel anything at all, sweet Honey pie."

It feels cowardly that one specific clip from today has been playing on repeat, but you're learning that sharing your pain with Harry hurts significantly less than keeping it trapped inside and besides, he's begged for your honesty more times than you can count. The haunting of your coworkers' shrewdness following the brawl plays like a record slowed down to half speed. It's an emotional endeavor, but Harry's proved again and again to be resolutely on your team.

Your chin starts to quiver when you open up, Harry's fingers tangle into your hair beside both of your ears in anticipation and solidarity, his expression a painfully lovely combination of concern and compassion, "everyone was saying horrible things about me when you sent me away."

"Nah. What? In the courtyard?" He momentarily gets distracted, "please don't cry, I can't stand seein' it. It gives me bubble guts." He bows your head forward and devotes a lush kiss to your forehead before sizzling his gaze through yours, "they were talkin' shit about me too. I think your perfectionistic filter only caught the Cherry-specific trash talk. I heard someone call me an unhinged asshole. Which, to be fair, is kind of a funny visual if you take it literally."

His hands form the shape of door on a hinge, swinging back and forth in the breeze and you don't want to giggle, but when it comes to pure Sunshine, you just can't help it.

Harry joins you in oozy laughter as he rakes his hair from his eyes, "that's what happens when people mismanage their own anxiety, babe. They judge and they talk shit. Fuck 'em. When you internalize other people's opinions of you, it'll become your opinion of you too. They don't know what we just went through. That was supremely rough, for the both of us. Tex is the unhinged asshole. And what's that sludgy fuck's name?"

"Riff?" As soon as the word leaves your mouth, you prepare yourself for the overlord of grimaces.

Harry mouths his name is disgust then grits his teeth at the bitter irony, deciding instantly that it must be an earned nickname that he's picked up through his years of being a complete slime-ball. Once again, he's so angry with Tex's conduct that his vision blurs, but he knows that addressing your unease is much more important right now, "you can't be serious. Riff? Walkin' red flag, Cherry. I need you to pay closer attention to the people around you, yeah? Don't just fuckin' trust people, okay? I don't think I know enough cusses for that trash bag."

Nodding in agreement, the pad of your middle finger presses into the center of his bottom lip before you replace it with your mouth. Harry's claws dig into your skin as he starts to restlessly yank at your nightgown again, knowing that now isn't the best time to remove it, but sometimes he just can't help the intensity of cravings for you. You draw back and are met with a collapsed whimper that pulls on your core, "if you don't, then they must not exist."

Harry happens to take pride in his trademark, expert finesse of cursing-dialect, "thanks, babe."

Quiet settles around your bubble when you both get lost in thought for a moment, your hands mindlessly playing together, his fingertips swirling the ruby red ring around your finger, "do you think anyone suspects us of being together romantically after witnessing that?"

Only The Rat and Rusty as far as he can tell, "nah. I think they thought Tex and I were havin' it out and that I was defending your honor against a potential rapist. Which is exactly what happened, yeah?" You nod and he shrugs, "fuck 'em. They don't have any hard evidence. They don't know shit and they're not gonna say shit. Most of 'em are scared of me. May the bridges we burn light the way. It's just us, remember?" You nod and he kisses you once, licking his lips before kissing you twice with spongy, damp skin on the return, "we just have to be all business at work from now on. I'll pretend like I don't even know you."

"Perfect. You have lots of experience with that."

Harry unintentionally softens his retort by laughing through the whole thing, "fuck off, Honeytack. Those are fightin' words." His tongue slips out to lick his bottom lip, his palms traveling down your hips to sweep soothing strokes up and down your thighs, "listen. I need you to keep telling yourself that you deserve good things. Okay? Say it to yourself over and over again until you fuckin' drown in it. Every kiss, every cute-ass smile, every milkshake. Every orgasm. 'I deserve this. I deserve this. I deserve this.' Be easy on yourself. We're all living this life together. We're all just people with unique pasts and histories and experiences and preferences and difficulties, coming together and tryin' to figure this shit out. You deserve this. You deserve this. You deserve everything good. And I'm so fuckin' lucky that all that shit aligns for us; the good and the bad. We fit. Don't you think so?" You nod and the size of his voice falters a bit when his nose taps against yours, "we fit."

This speech, just like all of his speeches, is so moving that you can feel the sting of tears in your skull and for once you don't feel ashamed if they choose to make an appearance, "your sunshine is burning me up today." Your lips find each other for an easy kiss. Simple and perfect, like two ripe cherries plunging from a tree in broad daylight in unison, their fall cushioned by thick, freshly-watered grass, "we definitely fit."

"While we're at it, y'know what I'm fucked up over? I told you off in French. That's supposed to be our spongy love language."

You don't fail to notice how easily he's apologized and how he's labeled your exclusive foreign banter in the same way that you have as well. It's also extremely rewarding to have him spout so many truths in such a short period of time; his midnight reflections slowly bubbling up to the surface one-by-one and you see now why he wanted this so much from you. Because among many reasons, it means it's a lot easier for him to do it as well, "I didn't see it that way. It was still love because you knew to use it to keep our relationship a secret without even thinking twice. You had every right to be mad, Harry." You shrug, "besides, I like the way you talk. I love it. I never have to guess what you're thinking. It's sexy. But it's also scary, because... it seems like when you make up your mind about something, there's no convincing you otherwise."

Harry is swept with curiosity about your observations, "black-and-white thinking, you mean?"

"I guess so. But that also doesn't exactly fit, because you explore gray area more bravely than anyone I've ever met."

"The word 'adamant' comes to mind, but I don't see it as a negative aspect of my personality."

You shake your head, "no. You haven't navigated your life this purposefully without having a very firm idea of who you are, underneath all the pink haze and unfair obstacles."

Another effortless kiss, a rainbow materializing within the perfect conditions of rain and sunshine, "you get me." Your skin stings when he slaps you on the bottom once, hard, as a signal to get up, "I got some presents for you. Up."

"Ow-" He raises his hand to smack you again but you're too quick this time, rolling off of his lap in half a second and barking out a panicked laugh, "I'm up!" You watch him reach for his bag and rifle through its contents before remembering the object in your vanity, "I have something for you, too." By the time you scrounge through your red velvet-lined jewelry box, hiding the gift in your palms behind your back and spinning back around to face him, he's doing the exact same thing but with a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth.

This feels a lot like a wild west showdown from each side of your bedroom, "'kay, count of three, Honeysuckle. One, two, three-"

The revelation happens all-at-once; a voluptuous bottle of pink Provençal rosé nuzzled in two hedonistically-sculpted hands and a long chain dangling from the tip of a bijou finger, two jaws dropping in delight and two mouths blurting in unison.

"French wine!"

"Holy shit, that's for me?"

Harry blindly sets the bottle of wine down before approaching in three broad steps, his hands fumbling for the tempting jewelry swaying with grace from your fingertip and glinting light from your bedside lamp, "whoa. Fuck." He glances up at you and back down to the heart-shaped and glossy, flat and sleek, cherry red locket in his palm, flipping it over a couple times prior to popping it open with his thumb.

Before Harry has the time to properly process what is staring back at him, an uncomfortable physical sensation moves across his brain like an ocean wave, swirling and crashing before it's wrenching again with the insistence of a rip tide. A rubber band stretching and ricocheting around gray matter plasma nerve-endings tissue blood bone and all he can do is pinch his eyes closed in an effort to make it stop. He can feel your hand on his shoulder and a quiet questioning murmur on your end, but he doesn't comprehend what you say and he doesn't want to startle you, so instead he just nods. He waits until the feeling passes to slowly peel his eyes and hand open and peer more closely at the photograph inside; a black-and-white headshot clipped down to size, your hair brushing your collarbone as you peek over your shoulder, your gaze tropical and doe-eyed, your mouth dewy and chaste.

For someone who is so harmless, you certainly know how to work a camera, a man, a room, an audience, an army. And you have no fucking clue and that's exactly the reason why it's so sexy, "it's a heart. With my sweet baby inside." Your eyes connect with a punch and you spring forward to cup his jaw, swiping your thumb over his cheekbone once and then twice before molding your mouths together in a smooth, sedated kiss. He breaks away to unbutton his shirt and pull his wifebeater off before bowing forward in compliancy, his hair falling across his eyes in a motion of atypical submission. You lower the chain over his head, pressing the pendant against his warm chest with an even warmer palm. His hand lands atop yours to further heat the exchange and he speaks slowly, with lucidity and earnestness, "I'm so stoked. It's just right for me. I love this. I love it to the bone, Cherry love. I'll never take it off."

You knew that he would appreciate it because he's just that type of person, but you can't help but notice that his first instinct was to have it resting against his bare skin, as close to his pulsing heart as possible.

Harry cools his stunned senses, clenching his teeth and wrapping his palm around your throat. His thumb drags over your windpipe as he pulls you in and tilts your chin up to meet him for another kiss, a grateful kiss that whizzes straight to your guts. A kiss that speaks complete sentences to you.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

It's hard to articulate when someone is kissing your mouth, your chin, your jaw, your neck, "It was mine... I wore it for years. I want you to have it."

His voice funnels directly into your eardrum with a heated puff of breath, "you carry around a picture of yourself inside of a heart? Kinda egomaniacal, don't you think?"

"Clod." You laugh and push his shoulder lightly, "no, I used to have a picture of my mother inside. I switched it out for you. It matches your mouth."

The locket swings gently in the air as Harry sinks back onto your vanity stool to examine your gift, the charm passing far down between his clavicles and pecs on its long, slinky chain. Your shiny, red heart laying directly beside his tormented one upon his sun-kissed skin, his eyes and mouth and new necklace all glowing electric in color when he peers up at you, "thank you so fuckin' much. It's far out and I totally love it. It means a lot to me. Blew my wine right outta the fuckin' water." He beckons you close with a curl of his finger, "I've got more for you though, just gettin' started." His tongue clicks once against the roof of his mouth to heed your attention before presenting you the back of his arm.

Without a word of explanation, you know exactly what you're looking at.

Banana Split, in ink. Permanent ink. Its palm leaves spread out to accept the warmth of the sun, casting an umbrella of protection over anything that may happen to stand below it.

"Harry-"

"Mine's a little more intense, but makes sense 'cause so am I."

Impulsive, loyal, meaningful. Makes sense, because so is he. Just like that, another element of his evasive evening unfolds.

"I have no idea what to say aside from 'holy shit.'"

It's for you and your partnership and your affair, the pure magnitude of it and the impact on Harry's life, but also a reminder to stay within reasonable limits whenever possible. One thing that Harry has a need to do is to understand things and attach meaning to them, to express pain with art, to decipher the lessons that life throws at him. This tattoo is a reminder to keep himself in check, to follow through with self-imposed boundaries, to protect what he finds sacred by all means and compartmentalize it. His feelings regarding love, anger, upset; they're all extreme and that's okay because they're valid and real, but his impulsivity has always been something that he's needed to work on. And he sees that. You're the opposite of him when it comes to impulse, and perhaps you're a little too rigid and controlled and anxious for your own good, but that balance between the two of you is perfect really. Two people who are exactly alike wouldn't have much to talk about anyway.

Banana Split indeed. With all the fucking fixings. Nuts and hot fudge and sweet cream, with a big, juicy cherry on top.

His devout smile and that one particular laugh that's so quiet you can barely hear it may just be the most attractive quality on earth, "you're gettin' dirty. Kiss, please."

Your fingers drag through his hair as you rock into his lap, your eyes locked and breaths stolen when you zip your lips together with such bruising passion that air audibly sucks through both of your noses. Harry moans at the pure fervor of your shock and gratitude, the kiss breaking for less than half a moment when he slips your nightgown up and over your hair in one graceful sweep; a knife unsheathed from its scabbard, a flash of light on mineral. He's rewarded with the sight of your natural tits, your breathing chest, the dig of your fingernails into his scalp and shoulder, but he can't stop himself from kissing you long enough to fully swallow the sight.

"I'm possessed." His jaw is sharp as he gazes up at you with his hair tickling his eyelashes, "want you all over me." He hisses when he palms your breast, his cock pressing against the zipper of his trousers as your nipple hardens in his hand, "I was fuckin' crazy to think I could stay away from you all night. Kiss again. Gimme your tongue. Please." You lock your lips again, your tongue sweeping out just enough to gather his and suck it into your mouth. His busy hands are everywhere at once, from your thighs to your neck, each one of his emphatic moans spur one from you in return. A chuckle and a hum spin past his teeth at the same time when he draws back just enough to murmur, wet and hot, "good girl for me."

The pad of your finger traces a line down his neck and chest that makes him physically shudder, "I'm selfishly very glad you couldn't stay away." You nod your head towards his arm, "so, this is what you do when you're feeling betrayed?"

He shrugs, "they're cathartic. You sit through pain and bleed out, float high on adrenaline. The injury seeps and stews for a couple days and then it starts to scab. The scabs protect the fresh wound until it peels to reveal new, raw shiny skin. And then it sinks in and settles and heals. It's a part of you." His fingertips dip past the elastic of your bloomers as he rolls his hips against yours to prod your sensitivity, his gaze bouncing back and forth between your breasts and your face, "you're part of me. Y'know I analyze everything because I hate the idea of stuff goin' on in my subconscious that I don't even understand. How many times have you shed your skin, Cherry?"

"I dunno... I think this," your finger see-saws between your chests, "might be the first time."

"That's impossible. This is a big obvious one, but just think about it harder. Your childhood, your ankle injury, your cross-country move. It'll all make more sense one day. And this," he mimics your back-and-forth motion with his own finger, "isn't about me. You're havin' your own experience that's colliding with mine." You toy with the chain around his neck, sitting in warmth and comfortable silence to allow him to continue his contemplation out loud as you bake in yours soundlessly, "even after all this shit today, for once I like who I'm becoming. You can always see it happen in slow motion, y'know? This time it feels good. So, so good. Even the stinging parts."

Three inhales and exhales each; your breaths move in opposing primary colors, "you're so much."

"I'm no more than you, Honey. Got you somethin' else. Last thing. Maybe."

"Should I maybe drink that entire bottle of wine first? Because I don't know what you could possibly have that would top a permanent Banana Split."

Harry flicks his head towards his bag on the ground, "nah, be cool. Check my jacket pocket." Your eyes follow the direction of his gesture before you peel yourself away from him, but not before landing another smack on his shoulder when he adds, "and shake it for me when you cross the room."

Although he is pleasantly surprised, and expresses it with a sunburst of pealing laughter, when you pace towards his bag but pause to do a cool, carefree rendition of The Pony for a few counts before sinking to your knees to shuffle through his belongings. You are a walking paradox of confidence and modesty when it comes to your body and it's logical seeing as you're a trained dancer and born performer, raised along with strict, externally-imposed morals. But the best part about it is that he is the only person you've shown this side of yourself to, whether or not he helped prompt it, and that alone makes him feel outstanding.

A sickening memory resurfaces of being in this exact position in your dressing room months ago, searching for your headshot that he was holding prisoner in his wallet for unknown reasons at the time. Except now he's willingly wearing an exact version of it inside of a cherry heart against his chest.

How things have changed.

You locate his jacket pocket easily, your brow furrowing when you slip your fingers into the worn leather to pull out a modest object; tissue-thin, cone-shaped, iridescent pink paper that's stuffed full with green flower and expertly twisted closed at the top, tapering into a shiny golden end with the word "paradise" scrawled on it in holographic cursive. You stare at it for a while, spinning it between your fingertips before you spring to your feet with it held dubiously in the air.

I'll smoke with... and then maybe you'll let me go down on you. It'll feel outta sight. Believe me.

Promise?

Swear to god.

"Stingin' Nettle home?"

Your jaw drops before your mouth curls into a delighted grin, "no... she's with Asher tonight. How'd you get this?"

At your reaction and shared information, his grin pulls just as wide as yours or maybe even wider, "relentless charm."

"So-"

Leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, Harry's eyes never once stray from grazing over your half-nude figure, "I wouldn't be a proper surfer without some jazz cabbage. It's Cherry Thunder Fuck."

"It's what?" You finally pry your stare away from the joint long enough to study his confident body language, your mouth drying out in a sudden wave of nerves.

"That's what he called it. It's tastes like cherries. And thunder fuck... just like you."

"Who's he?"

"Can it and c'mere, sweet girl. Let's get you baked like you've been wantin'." Harry reaches into his trouser pocket, tugging out a small box of matches before patting his thigh as a signal for you to sit, "we have fuck-all to do tomorrow."

Before he can protest your distance again, you're climbing back into his lap and perching the joint between his curvy lips, watching with the curiosity of a newborn baby when he lights the tip with fire. The paper sparks to life and smolders back in fluorescent taffy as it burns, making way for dark pink fuchsia smoke, much darker than Harry's cotton candy cigarette puffs and matching strawberry lips. The smoke pooling from the joint itself forms hearts in the air before dissipating in intoxicating curls all around you, big bubbly exhales of magenta pour from his mouth toward the ceiling that smell like baking cherry pie laced with pine cones, sweet berries and wet earth.

You can't remember the last time you've been so curiously excited about something before, "my turn!" So far, everything about Harry seems exactly the same. He hasn't turned into the devil or participated in an orgy or assassinated anyone, and it feels like you're burning just as fiercely as the grass itself for an inside look. Harry raises both of his eyebrows before taking another unhurried, teasing drag, his whole body tingling when you lean forward with your bare tits pressing up against his chest and whisper into his ear, "please, Sunbaby?"

"Fuckin' hell, I'd lick a toilet seat if you asked me like that. I'm gonna shotgun you, yeah?" You aren't even sure what that means, but you trust him and nod in agreement anyway, "good girl. Inhale and hold it in your lungs 'til you count to five, then breathe out." His fingers tangle into your hair, tugging you close for a kiss before he flips the joint around and sinks the burning end into his mouth with his lips sealed tightly around it. He blows out a thick plume of smoke from the filter directly onto your tongue, nodding happily when you suck it deep into your chest.

Tart pink lemonade, lemon cream pie with basil, raw brownie batter and rose petals. Heaven in a rainbow sherbet cloud.

The taste and the billow of fruit punch melt away in a sea of tongue-caressing sweet vapor on the exhale and you instantly want more, "another?"

This time Harry pulls another drag the proper way, cupping your neck and sweeping your lips together before breathing the heavenly cloud straight to the back of your throat. This puff must be much larger than the first, because a tickle deep in your chest forces you to pull away and embark on a coughing fit into your fist.

"Whoopsie."

You manage to sputter out between choking hacks, "whoopsie?"

"You're gonna be stoney baloney. That was a killer toke. Champ status. You'll be all shiny mermaid tails and smooth-as-fuck sea glass in a sec."

Your lungs burn and now your stomach kind of aches, but having Harry gaze at you as cool as a cucumber with his fingertips rolling up and down your spine helps ease your malady, "that makes me nervous."

"Hang tight, Honeyhead. I got you. You got you." You try to pluck the joint from his fingertips, but he holds it high above your head and out of reach, "nah uh. Trust me, you'll feel it-" Harry bursts out laughing when you try to swipe it from him again, the heel of his hand meeting your forehead to physically hold you back, "pump the brakes, burn out. Give it a minute."

"You must be a really annoying little brother."

He's quick to agree, "oh, absolutely incorrigible."

And then all of a sudden, your head feels really, really heavy. Way too heavy to hold up all on its own and you're abruptly aware of your hands and how sweaty they are and how your heart feels like it's grown in both strength and size, pumping maple syrup through your veins to crystallize the process of all of your internal organs. Or are they speeding up? No, they're definitely slowing down. Are they?

Slow, slower, slowest.

Before you have too much time to get trapped inside of your head, Harry's soft lips are interlocking with yours, that little hum that he always exudes – either because he can't help it or because he wants you to know how good you make him feel – trickles down your throat and melts into your stomach and then just a second later, into your panties.

Are you breathing too loudly?

"Harry..."

Big fat wet kisses mix with delicate pecks mix with sharp bites in a path down your neck, the fingertips that were once soothing your spine are now brushing your belly button and tickling your ribs and squeezing your breast, "mmm?"

"That feels really good."

"Major head rush. Je suis défoncé a mort."

"Moi aussi." You roll your head back and smooth your palms down his chest and you've never realized how snug your bedroom really is with its walls and ceiling and furniture caving in on you like this, "your hair tickles."

Harry grips the back of your neck and draws your head back to him, his glassy eyes half-lidded, his face relaxed and beautiful, his tongue slipping out to lick his lips a little more often than normal, "hi, my baby. You good? Tell me somethin'."

"You know, it's kinda hard to think of things to say when I'm put on the spot like this."

"Fuck outta here, you're real choice at it."

Cozying further into his lap, the tip of your nose nestles into Harry's collarbone and his head lulls back in response, making space for you to drag your tongue up his throat in a ribbon of cherry frosting, your journey ending with a quick nibble of his earlobe. Harry's breath immediately picks up with your fearless exploration, his chest rising and falling and his length throbbing when you circle your arms around his shoulders and smile against his mouth, "I've always wanted to do that. Especially right when you get out of the shower and you've just shaved and your skin is damp."

"Oh my god... what did I fuckin' tell you?"

Harry's heavy panting breaths slowly rearrange into fizzy giggles and you follow suit, your foreheads and minds floating together and apart at the same time, sparks of static electricity following his hands wherever they go. You're both very aware of how hotly and heavily you flipped, but you can't seem to form the words to give it the right amount of credit. He makes his distaste for you rising to your feet obvious by the long, disappointed whine, his fingers locking with yours when you take a step back towards your door and insist, "come on."

"Can't move, your tits are speakin' to me." And the slope of your neck curving into your shoulder and the sweep of your hips, the way your bellybutton carves a peephole that he's dying to poke around inside, "what's under those teeny shorts?"

"Your dreams."

"Holy-" His mouth opens wide with a flammable cackle, "solid. Give her doobies more often."

"That's what I've been trying to tell you." It's amazing how vibrant Harry looks against the backdrop of your equally vivid bedroom, as if he is either perfectly camouflaged and simulated to be here or perfectly exposed and parading your space like the dream lover you've always imagined. Nonetheless, he is your favorite exhibit of all time, somehow always changing and staying exactly the same, all comfort and surprises and mouthfuls of sugar. It's divine how soft your carpet is against the soles of your feet and you kind of want to lay down and roll around on it, but you have a much better idea brewing as you dig in your heels and heave on his wrists as hard as you can, "I said come on, Sunshine-"

His favorite playful shriek of yours nuzzles in his ears when he bounces up and easily sweeps you off the ground, tossing you over his shoulder with a loud smack to your bottom that forces your feet to kick in the air. He knows exactly what you want and he's more than willing to always give it to you, especially when you're as gooey and frisky as you are now, "which record d'ya wanna dance to, Honeytits?"

"Nina, duh!" Harry blindly retraces his steps to swipe your request from the floor where he left it, "and don't forget the wine!" And then he laughs so hard that he almost drops you when you gasp dramatically with a sudden recollection, "wait! What about your disabled, shriveled spleen?"

"It's hangin' tough. No sweat, babe. Nothin' about me is shriveled."

Priorities first; Harry drops you to your feet in the living room and starts up your favorite See-Line Woman forty-five, pushing the coffee table and arm chair aside to clear space for a dance floor before grabbing a corkscrew from the kitchen. A sharp double-take over his shoulder distracts him on the return, his arms full of bubblegum pink wine and a pair of daintily-stemmed glasses that fall to his sides as he watches you cut loose in a way that he's never had the pleasure of seeing before. Your striking barely-clothed figure, melted boneless by potent, sensual smoke, painted by light from the dull glow of your hanging swag lamp, toes sinking into shag carpeting as your hair swings across your face and your ribs pop with every arch of your back. It's as if you don't need him there at all and normally that notion would fluster him, but based purely on the peacock mating call that he's receiving right now, he could fucking care less.

I think I'll always be the cat and you'll always be the mouse.

For an apprentice, you sure have a lot to flaunt.

In this moment, you're almost too precious to touch. Harry has had the honor of dancing with you before bed almost every night for weeks now, with him teaching you how to completely let go, and you teaching him how to assimilate more classic dance moves with a modern, sharp and graceful spin on them, mixing up current crazes with your extensive traditional knowledge and background. He's surprised each and every time, but then he remembers your academic emphasis on choreography at The Annex and why Rusty hired you to be his equal in the first place: you are startlingly inventive and unique. Sure, you're a flawless ballerina and quick to pick up on the hip dance moves of underground seedy clubs, but the type of movement that your body is capable of producing just falls short for others. You're unrivaled, exceptional, and right now, you're just for him.

Harry bounds into the living room and meets your playful Dog with a little Watusi, followed by a retort of a quick Swim and from him, a quicker Skate, his fingers wrapping around your wrist and spinning you into his arms before handing you a full glass of wine, "santé, Cerise."

Your glasses clink together and then empty down your throats, your mouths locking to share the tastes on your tongues and it feels so, so good to kiss him and have his skin pressed up against yours, even better than it feels to move your muscles to an impromptu choreography with your sunny lover to your favorite record.

The next hour passes as a blurry pink haze; flipping records and putting on new ones, dancing, kissing, laughing, refilling your wine glasses, backing up into furniture and walls to pause for heavy make-out sessions, dancing, kissing, laughing, more stripping, burning the rest of the joint down to the filter, spinning, the room filling up with pink from the thick cotton candy clouds of Crush cigarette smoke, pawing, the heart-shaped locket rocking against his chest as he moves, dancing, kissing, laughing. Dancing.

Two smiles that are so bright that you probably should have worn your sunglasses.

It's uncertain how you've both ended up breathless on the vinyl-littered floor in your underwear with your head in Harry's lap, reminiscent of your beach lunch breaks at work, except now with the added element of privacy and minus a few layers of clothing. Crimson and Clover plays on the turntable nearby, the oozy melody of the song matching your current physical sedation. Harry slowly knots his fingers into your hair, scratching his nails into your scalp and triggering waves of goosebumps down your legs. He leans coolly back on one hand, his feet rubbing together, a cigarette burning in the ashtray beside him and pauses every so often for a smooth drag, "Harry?"

"Cherry."

As opposed to how your incessant questioning used to rub him the wrong way, mainly because it was maddening to attempt to hold back a flood gate with nothing but a snarl and cheap insults, now he would toss himself in front of a speeding train just for just a chance to hear what you're curious about.

"Would you ever eat food that's fallen on the ground?"

"Did you really just ask me that?" He changes his reckoning upon visualizing some grody bathroom floors in dive bars he's been in, "scratch that. Depends on the floor. I would eat peanut butter out of a butthole though."

You have to roll onto your side in order for your laughter to explode in the way it requires, and then it takes you about a full minute to recover enough to ask, "any butthole?"

"Mmm..." One eye squints closed in contemplation, "is it the last scoop of peanut butter on earth?"

"You're the one who's made this about peanut butter and ass, I was asking about something completely different."

"What don't I make about peanut butter and ass?" Harry still isn't used to the amount of cussing you've set free tonight and he can't say that he minds it very much at all. He shows his appreciation through soft laughter, gently weaving your fingers together when you hold your palms up in the air for a spot of attention. Your joined hands drop to your shoulders as he hunches over to fold your lips in an upside-down kiss, moaning and slipping his tongue into your mouth when you cup the back of his neck to hold him in place, "mmm... sexy. That zipped straight to my tummy."

"Come here, please." He flops down beside you with your temples touching, your gazes fixed on the ceiling, your highs swimming through your bloodstreams, your fingernails scratching up and down the inside of his arm, "if you could have any pet... besides a dog I mean, what would it be? Like, absolutely anything."

"Oh, like... probably a duck." You split open with laughter again at how quickly he's produced an answer and how surprisingly benign it is. He combs his fingers through his hair but it ends up falling right back in his face, his other hand holding his belly as he tries to talk through his raspy chuckling, "yeah, man. Ducks are so sick. He could ride on my skateboard with me."

Tears squeak out of the corners of your eyes and your cheeks ache from smiling so wide, "you've thought about this before, haven't you?"

"Yeah. And he's even got a name."

You gasp and prop yourself up on your elbow to gaze down at him, your hair falling around your face in the most breathtaking, carefree frame around your cheekbones, "no! What is it?"

He can't help but tug on the end of a lock dangling down towards him and his dimple is just lovely enough to call home, "don't laugh."

"I'm already laughing, how can you expect me to just stop after you tell me your imaginary pet duck's name?"

Harry struggles to get the word out through his feral crackles of amusement, "...Minnow."

You're both laughing so hard that no sound is coming out aside from some wheezing and a couple errant snorts, "Minnow! Oh my god..." You wipe a hot and wet streak of salt from your cheek, "I'm crying. Actual tears."

He pulls you back down with him and it's your first instinct to cuddle into the nook of his shoulder while you both try to ease the stretch of pain in your jaws, "fuck, mm'crackin' up. What would yours be?"

"A bunny, I think."

"What?" He seems genuinely concerned with your choice, "they shit everywhere."

"And ducks don't?"

"Mmm..." Harry rolls onto his side and spreads his fingers over your tummy, inching his fingertips closer and closer to your tiny bloomers that you insisted stay on, "I'll be your bunny."

"You are. Sunnybunny." His eyes are a little bloodshot from fatigue and everything else that swirled by in a sloshy hurricane tonight, but he looks even more adorable than ever with his mouth relaxed into a candy pout and his typically fidgety hands moving in long, slow motion sweeps across your belly like they do in the mornings, "you ever notice how all strangers are men? And it's always like, nighttime when you see them?"

Harry's beautiful hoarse laugh reaches towards the sky, parting the clouds and spinning the moon into orbit, "I see your point, and I also think you're speaking to somethin' a little more rooted here." He paws at you until you take the hint and face him, cozying up close, regarding the flecks in his irises marbling like the earth and his hand landing at the base of your throat for a little squeeze, "have I ever made you feel that way?"

"I don't know, really. It was a different kind of nerves with you. I look up to you and just wanted you to like me. I think it was more a fear of the unknown, honestly. Suspense. Good suspense. Until it was bad suspense."

"Mmm? Am I scary?"

It's been so long that his chronicled sneers seem more like a dream than reality, and that sudden realization makes your heart start to flutter with the understanding that without looking, you've begun to take the necessary steps out of the past and into the present, "not anymore."

"Was I ever?"

"Intimidating. I didn't think I'd ever be secure enough to be intimate with you."

"You intimidate me, too. But I fuckin' love it, because not many people do."

You know for certain that the ages-long war on women exists simply because men are terrified of being controlled and of losing control, that they think emotions weaken them as humans because they've been taught to demonize and squash them. Women are the embodiment of those emotions, that sentiment, that passion, those demons that must be squashed. The evidence of war lies in the brutal history of mankind itself, in its current political state and possible future. All of those men shrink to a useless speck in comparison to Harry. A man that accepts and admits intimidation and vulnerability upfront is the bravest of them all, because he welcomes himself for who he is, every single part of himself, and works with his own internal dialogue on psychological challenges without hurling his insecurities onto others. He assumes his own responsibility. Like he's told you a hundred times before, he truly believes that his only intention is to make you feel good and you've yet to see any proof of the contrary.

And you don't even need to get started on the topnotch level of support that he withholds for your drive, your career and your personal struggles.

"So... you're saying that you saw me, I made you feel nervous and frightened, and your reflex was to dive headfirst into doing every single thing you possibly could in order to go on a date with me?"

He listens to your whole analysis with a pause before nodding once in agreement, "yep. I had to be in your life. I had to."

"Slick Daddy Boss." He chuckles against your lips, humming when you slide them together and mumble into his mouth, "thank you for being so brave." He doesn't answer and he doesn't need to, instead he threads your legs together and kisses you again, his hand floating down to squeeze your hip and palm the curviest part of your bottom.

The kiss dissolves to cut a path for a moment to regard one another; your gazes traveling over each other's faces and your fingertips painting stripes on every inch of bare skin. The pad of your finger grazes his bottom lip before your palm acts as a little nest for him to burrow his cheek into. When his eyes fall on you again, the hunt and the chase are immediately reawakened: chartreuse clouds snowing matching velveteen hearts up top, a layer cake with raspberry frosting down below. Sincerely succulent; one coveted taste will evolve you.

"You wanna say somethin', Honeycream."

Before you have too much time to reconsider, the sentence is blurting out with such candied tenacity that it might as well be dipped in milk chocolate and coated in sprinkles, "you are so pretty. I think you're the prettiest person I've ever seen. I could look at your face forever." You hear how raw and ridiculous you sound and your hands fly up to cover your face in an attempt to erase the vulnerable moment, "oh my god, sorry."

"Aw, cmon. You can't be serious. I say that shit to you seven hundred times a day. Do you think I sound stupid too then?"

Your voice is muffled, "no, you sound perfect."

His fingers wrap around your wrists, peeling your hands away for a look at your naturally stunning features, "so do you. Psychedelic. An' you're the foxiest chick I've ever laid eyes on. I get butterflies in my stomach every single time you look at me. See? Gravy. Tell me somethin' else, go on."

It's almost as if Harry already knows what you're going to say before you say it, "I really wanna make out with you."

But it doesn't stop his reaction from being any more visceral. Because he knows, he just knows, that what you actually mean is, "I'm ready to go farther with you," and he is always ready for that.

"Fuck, my baby. C'mere right now, lemme spoil the shit outta you." The passion in your kiss knocks his moan straight to the back of his throat, his skin burning against the rug when you push him onto his back with one leg kicked across his hips. He kisses you slowly, each nuance of his mouth and tongue precise and deliberate, because he can feel absolutely everything right now and he knows that you can too. Your tummies are jellyfish and your limbs are stinging electric tentacles, your palm has a mind of its own as it squeezes into the tight space between your bodies to cup his solid length.

His lips are dark pink and swollen when your head lulls to the side, his mouth trailing down your neck and collarbone, his eardrums throbbing when you slowly ooze a keen whine and exaggerate your words with a weak pull, "everything feels so good."

He loves your determination and outward lust, mostly because desire is equally as important to him as orgasms are, but you seem to have momentarily forgotten his preference for taking the lead.

And your punishment is a hard, stinging smack to the strip of bare skin peeking out from underneath your tiny shorts.

Your gasp is met with a wicked, evaluating grin, your eye contact snapping together as you watch him nibble on his bottom lip while he waits for you to voice your opinion, "what'd that feel like, sweet girl?"

"Like a spank that's still burning-"

"No shit." Harry pinches your nipple between his fingers then soothes the nip with his tongue, your head falling back as the residual smolder from his strike melts to glitter in your pores, "what'd your rosebud feel?"

"Dunno-"

His fingertips pacify the red mark before leaving another one, harder this time, in the same moment that his lips suck a hunk of your neck past his teeth. With the added cerebral attention he's brought to the connection between spanking and pleasure, your core clamps down on itself in response before a gentle rush tickles your panties and spreads all the way to your toes. The gentle cry mixed with a sharp moan is the only answer he thinks he needs, that is until his fingers push past the back of your shorts and underwear, straight between your cheeks to ghost your dripping folds, "Jesus Christ, Cherry. I knew it. You like it kinda rough, don't you? Hmm?"

"I... don't know. I think-" A gentle growl from him communicates his need for more intentional language, "do it again?"

The third spank leaves a damp mark from your excitement on his fingertips, the lingering pricking sensation pacified when the tense air in the room breezes against your hot, humid skin. Your agreement snakes out in the form of a whimpered "yes", your face dropping into the crook of his neck when his fingers find their way back into your underwear again to nestle the pad of his finger against your soaking entrance, "I want you to think about something for me, yeah?" You nod into his skin, whining and rocking your hips in the hope that you'll urge him further inside you, "I want you to think about gettin' spanked with my cock inside of you." His finger dips in just an inch and swims in a golden halo, "all filled up with me."

Always watering and casting sunlight on the seedlings.

"Harry-"

"Gives you somethin' to squeeze on." Your core seizes upon his suggestion and he knows because he can feel you cinching down on the tip of his finger, "shit- catch my drift?" And then it's as if his domination were skating on thin ice, his control faltering for a moment when he sinks his middle finger all the way into you, slowly, as far as you'll take him, "mmm..." He checks in quickly, "okay?" And sighs when you murmur a speedy 'yes' in response, "I wanna fuck you so bad, Cherry." After a couple pumps, his ring finger joins for sedated strokes that seem to get wetter and wetter with each pass, his underwear dampening with a little dribble of precome, "wanna feel you huggin' me, comin' with me. God, I want you so fuckin' much. I need you." His other palm spreads out across your stomach before dragging up to your neck to angle your face towards his for that searing, irresistible eye contact that you both crave, "and what do you want from me? What do you need? What can I give you?"

It's nearly impossible to concentrate with his fingers alternating between rubbing circles on your sensitivity and diving back into your core, over and over again, "I don't... oh my god- wait." He pauses his hand, but doesn't remove it; he devours each of your sweet panting breaths, "I want... your heart-shaped mouth. Can you? Like before?"

Your mouth is practically the size of the Great Barrier Reef.

And you have no idea what it's capable of.

His resolute promise from weeks ago has permanently stuck with you, but at times like these, it's almost as if your brain becomes so saturated with a smokescreen of filth that you'd do almost anything that yours or his libido suggested.

"No fuckin' way. You wanna come all over my tongue?" His fingers plunge through your muscles again, their movement a little hastier than before, "you gonna squash my brain?"

"No, I'll be good. I'll love every second. I promise. Please, Harry?"

Your compliance may just be the sexiest thing he's ever witnessed, mostly because it's such a dramatic contrast from the face that you show the rest of the world and he loves that only he gets to see it. He fucking loves sharing secrets with you, "good girl for me." Harry sits up, distracting you with a wind-knocking kiss and guiding your legs around his waist before mumbling, "hang tight," and hauling himself to his feet to carry you into the kitchen.

The countertop is cold against your back, but that feeling melts away as soon as he starts to leave wet kisses along your body, heated patches that turn to ice in his advance, his dragging locks tickling down your stomach.

"Does this sound right..." His lips tickle the delicate skin below your belly button, "you're so controlled and particular in every other area of your life that it feels real fuckin' good to succumb to someone else? Someone who you trust with your life? And then know you'll feel the best you've ever felt as a result? Just disappear on a cloud for a bit?"

Control; the requirement for flawless movement, impulsive rigidity with food, your frustrations with your body and your endless questioning in order to root around in other people's lives. The turmoil that comes when it's lost. Something that you feel you have too much of, and at the same time, are lacking. Harry promises to take all of that away, even if it's for just a short amount of time, and that escape is intriguing to say the least.

You're still trying to remember a time when he's been wrong, "yes."

"I'm gonna give you that. Wait 'til that cherry's popped. You won't fuckin' believe what you're capable of." He knows but at the same time, he has no idea. Because you're still figuring it out yourself.

He slips your shorts and underwear off in one fell swoop, hooking his hands under your thighs to scoot you to the edge of the counter before dropping to his knees before you. Your intrigue takes over when you prop yourself up to watch, but it proves challenging when he keeps his eyes glued to yours and dives in with a fat, broad lick from bottom to top. This time he's learned to keep your legs spread with his fingertips burning into your skin and he's glad, because he can feel your muscles working in an attempt to slam them back together.

"Mmm... score. Get a load of my dreams. Pretty cunt. God, I love it."

"I think you're the only person who can make that word-" The last bit of your sentence is obstructed by a soft whimper when he blows a puff of air against your bundle of nerves and then sucks it into his mouth, "...attractive."

Your legs tremble in his palms and you're just weak enough to fall onto your back, your arms stretching up above your head for something to grasp onto before settling on your breasts. Harry's tongue flicks and flicks in rapid little movements that spread thrill to the farthest reaches of your body, your core throbbing and pulsing and liquefying when he pauses for a sweep of cold air that vanishes with a big, soggy kiss.

"Would you like me to put my hands on you? Say it."

There's a daze snowing down on your brain, but you still manage to brace yourself on your elbows and fixate on his shiny mouth, "mhm-"

His fingers tip-toe up your stomach and then grip your throat, tightly, "yes?"

"Yes- Daddy. Please."

"Oh, really?" One stringent smack to your bottom, five little stinging secrets, "is that what good girls like?"

You practically sob, "yes. Please. Yes."

Harry pinches his eyes shut and rests his forehead against your thigh as all the blood in his body drains to his cock and forces it to pulse, "good, fuckin' sweet, sweet girl." He sinks his teeth into your skin and sucks to pool a deep red mark, his eyes connecting with yours again when he demands, "I want you to come even though you're struggling not to."

And all that you're capable of in response is a defeated whimper. You already know it's not going to take much.

Harry uses his thumb to draw circle after circle around your bud, never once directly applying pressure to it, but rather using it as a tactic to make all the hair on your arms stand on end. He traces lines around your folds with his tongue in a similar fashion before gradually, devastatingly, plunging and curling it all the way inside of you with his nose pressing against your sparkling sensitivity.

There really aren't enough places for your restrained moans to leak from.

Once you've become comfortable with the fact that he's doing this all for you; the work of his fingers and his mouth, the brush of his hair against your thighs, the filthy language, the curl of his fingertips as he drags his blunt nails through the valley of your tits and down your stomach, you're finally able to lose yourself in the sensations much like you would during practice or a performance. But this is much, much better.

And when he replaces his tongue with his thumb, coolly sinking it into your heat and finally presses his tongue flat against your swollen bud just where you've been craving, waiting and waiting as your legs quiver on either side of his head, you can't help but gaze down at him and blurt, "you look really pretty with your mouth on me."

Harry pulls away with his glossy mouth shaped into an astounded circle before scoffing softly, "what the fuck did you just say? You just talked dirty to me! Holy fuck and shit, I should start callin' you 'Daddy'."

"I'm sorry-"

"Okay, shut up." A whiplash grin slaps across his handsome face as you run your fingers through his hair and tug on his locks in a playful warning, "ow- I'm completely kiddin'. Keep rattlin'."

Your nose-scrunching laughter is cut short with a fat, open-mouthed kiss, his tongue slipping out between his lips for a kitten lick to your slippery knot. His mouth is everywhere, swallowing and devouring you whole, swapping between tiny, blistering movements and massive, sloshy ones, your juices dripping onto the countertop without a second qualm from either of you. His thumb pumps in and out before it bravely drops to your rim, carefully and steadily adding pressure there in a realized effort to sensitize everything below your navel.

With a harsh suck, Harry draws your clit into his mouth and hums so loudly that your entire core vibrates, breaking your blissful concentration as you moan out a soft laugh at his pure joy in making you feel good and the resulting overwhelm of sensation it brings you. You cover your face before reminding yourself not to be embarrassed, your hands returning to tangle into his hair for stability. His empathetic moans match yours to keep you with him, together, to let you know that he wants you to come as badly as you do. Possibly even more.

And he fucking loves watching your face alternate between giggles, coy lip bites and hard, painful pleasure, because what's the point of making someone come if you also can't make them laugh?

"Oh my god, oh my god, Harry- it's happening again."

He doesn't want to, but he pulls back just enough to spout some encouragement in a growl through heavy breathing, "shit. Good girl. I can feel you pulsin'. You're about to wipeout." His next sentiment spirals past his teeth on the tail of a whimper, his middle and ring fingers siphoning your release as they drag against your front wall, "you're all mine, sweet girl. All mine. And you're not goin' anywhere 'til I'm done with you. Let it go. C'mon. You're right there, fuck. Right there." He knew it before you did, but he loves the perceptible self-awareness on your end.

He's right, you couldn't hold this feeling back even if you tried and your bones and muscles stiffen when it hits you like a hard slap, all the moans that you were trying to curb before detonate with a shocked gasp and then unravel and unravel and unravel along with your mental and physical liberation. Every cell and nerve ending in your body is gushing glitter, your brain trapped somewhere in the atmosphere between radio signals, your control handed over and cradled gently in Harry's palms. The first two orgasms that you had yesterday pale in comparison to this, maybe because now you know what to expect before, during and after and are capable of cerebral navigation to heighten your body's reaction.

Or maybe you're just finally ready to completely relinquish yourself to this relationship.

Or maybe you're just so in love with Harry that it's exploding from the inside out.

Or maybe it's the weed.

This time, with your apartment empty aside from maybe a couple nosy neighbors, Harry has no need to help you subdue the reaction to your overpowering orgasm. Through his feverish efforts to push you over the apex of the rollercoaster, he has just enough wherewithal to fuck you with his fingers as sincerely as he can, helping you ride out the intensity of your ambitious climb and zealous crash in the way that he knows you need. He keeps his mouth and tongue on you until he can't stand it anymore and breaks away to talk you through your towering peak, egging you on the draw out the passion as long as possible. And it works.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, you make me so hard. You're so beautiful. You're so fuckin' drop dead gorgeous, baby. It's all for you, all of me, all of me. God. Feel me, feel it. Sweet, perfect angel."

That same smokescreen of filth speaks for you in the shape of a snaking whine, "mmm... I need you, Daddy-"

You aren't in the room enough to experience this, but Harry's entire face crumbles and one hand surrenders the hold on your leg to squeeze his length through his briefs, "fuck!"

Shockwave after shockwave roll through you, your back arching away from the countertop and your toes curling in the air, your fingernails digging into his scalp to keep him from pulling away too soon. Harry almost wishes he had another set of arms to properly coddle your impressive release, but watching you completely lose your shit because of him might even be more rewarding.

He always knew that, given the courage, you'd forfeit everything for pleasure because you are an innately sensual person. But he never would have guessed the magnitude of the earthquake and subsequent aftershocks. And the best part about it is that it will only intensify from here. Perfect love and perfect trust, obliteration of fear and shame.

Loud, louder, loudest.

The sensation of breath burns and cools your lungs over and over again as you settle back to earth, this city, this kitchen. There's a fleeting moment of silence through heaving panting and then the trickle of an astonished opinion, "damn, girl. That almost made me come, too. I'm not kiddin'. How long have you been holdin' that in?"

"My whole life?" A snort rolls through your nose, but you're not surprised to hear it and you don't even care that it's happened, "I deserved that."

"Yes, you fuckin' did." Harry swipes his saturated knuckles on your thigh and his grin accounts for half of his face, "you're not doin' it right 'til your hands get wet."

"You did everything right, Sunbaby. I can't feel my toes. Can we still get waffles at nine A.M.?"

Sitting back on his heels, Harry eyes your panting bare figure and oozing, throbbing core like an artist would admire a newly-finished masterpiece, "make it noon, but it's the only time we're leaving our bed until Monday morning."

Our bed.

Harry strokes your touchy, reeling sensitivity with his thumb and you push him away, except he does it again and your legs jerk before you burst into loud, snorting laughter. Sitting up, you gather his wrists to make the stirring barrage stop, "stop! Oh my god, oh my god. Stop, that is the worst tickle I've ever felt. It's inside my kidneys, please stop." He sticks his tongue out, taunting you with another lick as you shriek and kick him away with a smile pulled from one ear to the other, "you're such a dip, that was the most confusing feeling I've ever had. Right after the best feeling I've ever had."

"Coulda had another orgasm if you didn't push me away. Still can-"

"No way. I'm way too sensitive."

"That's the point?"

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip to hold back a curious, glowing smile, "you little shit. Not this time. I don't think I can handle it." Your back meets the cool countertop again, but now your skin is slick with sweat and you welcome the relief as you stare at the ceiling and nothing at all, "that was unreal."

"You're unreal. Kinda sleazy though, hmm?" Harry rises to his feet and doubles over on top of your melted giggly body, humming and smiling against your mouth, "that's all I wanna see 'til the day I croak- mmm..." You're a pile of pliable, sweet mush when you wrap your arms and legs around him, your lips folding together and your tongues caressing with a sharp flavor, "whose girl are you?"

Your fingertips brush his mouth, "yours. All yours."

"All mine. Now go and take a wee."

Searching his face for a trace of jesting, you laugh awkwardly and sweep your hair away from your burning cheeks, "what? Really? Why?"

"Don't you and your girlfriends talk about this shit at sleepovers? You'll get a yeast infection or somethin'. Go wee. I'll be here."

"That's kind of humiliating."

"How so?" Harry steps away and adjusts himself with a grimace, watching as you slip from the counter and pull your panties on. He grabs your wrist to stop your retreat to the bathroom, tugging you close for a quick kiss and declaring in a throaty murmur, "I love that you just called me Daddy and came in my mouth, but blush at the word 'wee.' You surprise me every fuckin' day. More secrets please, I want them all 'til you run out and I own you."

The subsequent stare-off only lasts a couple seconds, but feels more like a lifetime, "sometimes it feels like I'm not in control of myself around you, Sunny. And I like it. Which is very unlike me, if you haven't noticed."

"Just for me?"

"Only you."

.

"Can't get peanut butter in England, y'know."

It's just after three o'clock in the morning, and struck with a wicked case of the munchies, you and Harry are now sitting in your underwear on your tiled kitchen floor with your legs woven together, surrounded by a spread of snacks. Anything that you could possibly find in your cabinet raid; two different kinds of cereal, brown sugar Pop-Tarts, a jar of peanut butter, green apples, a sleeve of Ritz Crackers, a carton of orange juice, bananas, a jar of sliced pickles, a canister of Easy Cheese and one stolen can of Spaghetti-O's, but you're sure Nettie won't mind.

In another example of Harry's endless rare appeal, his special term for the hunger that hits after smoking grass is "pot belly" and honestly, you still giggle to yourself whenever it crosses your mind.

"What? What do parents even feed their children then?"

You just absolutely love watching his mouth and strong jaw work food as he chews it, but now that you know exactly what his mouth is capable of, it's kind of hard to think of anything else, "shit. I love American food, although..." His gaze drops to the food in his hands and his lap and your hands and your lap and all over floor, "it's kinda shit, too."

Harry's jaw drops when he watches you devise the genius idea of making little Easy Cheese, Ritz Cracker and pickle sandwiches, "what's your favorite food?"

"Peanut-"

"Okay, I get it. We all get it. You'd eat peanut butter out of Satan's butthole."

Harry shoves your shoulder and laughs with a mouthful of banana, "fuck off, Honeyfink. I miss proper tea and my mum's Yorkshire pudding, alright? What's yours? Can I have one of those little bombers?"

You make sure to prepare Harry's sandwich with extra cheese before passing it over, "probably mashed potatoes with lots of butter. Or my Aunt Cleo's ambrosia salad."

Harry's eyes widen as he sucks some gooey cheese from his thumb and his tummy grumbles at the mention of butter, "what the fuck is that?"

"It's Cool Whip and sour cream with chunks of canned pineapple, mandarin slices, little baby marshmallows, shredded coconut and maraschino cherries. Aunt Cleo adds walnuts and sliced grapes, too."

His facial expression goes through a series of humorous metamorphism as you list each ingredient, before landing on an acknowledgement of interest with his mouth downturned into an overstated pout, "...damn." The cracker sandwich disappears in one giant bite, "gnarly. That sounds bitchin'. Can you make me some one day?"

"Yeah, actually. I'll get the recipe from my mom. Hey, Harry?"

"Cherry."

"Where'd you learn to surf?"

"Mm... Spain, Portugal, South of France. By the locals. When Indy died, I bounced around Europe aimlessly before jumpin' ship, landing in Malibu, buyin' a camper van and living to surf until Rusty found me. I just decided I was going to learn how... and then I learned how. I had fuck-all to do with my time otherwise."

Hearing a snippet of the story of where he disappeared during his year of reclusive isolation is beyond intriguing. You know there's got to be a hundred layers to his story, to his emotional anguish, the level of burial and subsequent work of processing he went through to emerge this enlightened on the other side. He has done and changed so much in an incredibly short amount of time. More than you have in an entire lifetime.

It does cross your mind that there is some validity to Tex's warning about you being dispensable to Harry. Not to the degree that his burners are – but hearing how much ground he's covered in just over a year's time leaves a needling, hollow pit in your stomach. Is it possible that you're just another learning experience in his eyes? You haven't known him very long at all in the grand scheme of things, and it's conceivable that Malibu is merely one of the bridges that he plans or hasn't yet planned to cross to get to his next destination. His impulsive temptation to flee is much too strong to bury and you're uncertain of his own awareness about his nomadic habits in the first place. Or the level of his path of destruction. Or just how many partners he's been with throughout his travels, how many people have seen this honest side of him. You know that he's asked you repeatedly to stop doubting him, yourself and your relationship, but you just can't help but periodically contemplate it. You've already made the decision to not allow it to interfere with your romance, but it's healthy to consider all possibilities to a certain degree, isn't it?

You do believe that he would never intentionally hurt you, but you also wouldn't be completely surprised to end up accidentally damaged by a stroke of inadvertent undertaking. Honestly, it makes you feel intimidated and sort of nervous, comprehending his world view and how it's much different than the bubble of the small-minded hometown that you were raised in. It inspires an urge to travel and peel open your eyes much, much further than he already has. Clearly, you're just scratching the surface of self-exploration and the treasures that the universe has to offer. But hopefully the beginning steps are the trickiest and everything will snowball from there. With some nasty speed bumps along the way, of course.

"Your diverse drive is inspiring. I used to envy it, I used to think that everything came naturally for you and that you didn't have to struggle for things because of how attractive you are."

"Okay... except a pretty face doesn't move your muscles. Or respect people's difficulties. Or make healthy choices. I can't think of much that's come easily for me, babe. I've always fought."

"But you have to admit that life is little easier for pretty people. It just is."

"Speakin' from experience?" You look at him and pause, forcing away your instinct of defensiveness for a taste of his wisdom, "d'ya think Rusty still would've hired you if you had zero experience in the circus and you were injured and ugly?"

"Um..."

"Answer is 'no', sweet cheeks. Yeah, you're the best dancer on the planet, and you were also born with privilege; with good looks and tenacity, with a body that's capable of bending without breaking. With parents who were willing to send you off to arts school. But guess what? You know how to fuckin' use 'em. Even if you think you don't. And you're gonna learn how far you can take it. You're gonna be big. Trust me. This is just the beginning."

"Just me?"

Harry pauses his chewing to eye your features, his gaze never securing with yours before he shoves another stack of cheese and crackers into his mouth. He's had the misfortune of losing too many people, emotionally and physically, to conclusively promise any type of foolproof security. It's just realistic. But also, he's really excellent at avoiding questions, "you're so incredible and you have no fuckin' clue."

You climb into his lap, brushing your favorite lock of hair from his eyes and greeting him with a kiss that stirs up your guts. Harry paws at your breasts as his tongue slips out to slowly trace your bottom lip, his hands dropping to cradle the small of your back and lock your hips in place. Your gazes fasten together with a click, the end of your nose nudging against his when your foreheads meet, "I'm starting to get an idea... because of you."

If Harry's heart were any weaker, it would likely topple and go for a swim in his stomach, "hey... d'ya know how miserable I was before we met? I mean really met – when I was able to receive you." He cups your cheek and his breath tastes like orange juice and sunshine, "there were times that I didn't want to breathe anymore and I think there were times that I actually didn't. I don't remember much of what I did or thought about right after Indy died. I dreamed about her constantly while I was unconscious. She spoke to me. She begged me to try harder and to try less. You were such a shock to see cruisin' up on your skates that day in the courtyard. It was like I just knew that you were exactly right for me. I don't think I've ever been this happy and calm before. A big part of you makes the biggest part of me feel this way. I've never wanted to stick around before. Ever. You saved me, Cherry."

Blinking rapidly to control your tears, your previous fears about your withstanding wilt away as you sniffle and shake your head, "no... you saved yourself."

"Sure, but... sometimes we need a push. I'm not sunshine to everyone, y'know. I piss a lot of people off. I kinda think you see me through heart-shaped, rose-colored lenses. And I'm grateful for it. No one's ever really fought for me like you do."

In a way, you did. In the beginning, you fought him. You fought Tex. You fought yourself; pushing away your miserable history with him, pushing aside your upbringing and values and morals, pushing aside all of the risk that comes along with romantic involvement with a high-stakes performance career. Pushing away Nettie's warnings and your parent's warnings. Pushing hard on the discomfort that comes along with being vulnerable for the sake of open communication, for another person's joy and their well-being. For your own spiritual burgeoning. It has all been a struggle. And it has all been worth it. But it's not over yet. It's just the beginning.

His fights for you have been a little more obvious, and the evidence of one of them is currently etching a bruise into his eye socket. Harry fights for your growth, your safety, your love, and the most remarkable thing about it is that he merely acts as a sunbeam to awaken the seeds you'd already planted. As if all you needed was one bright, final push of trust to illuminate the path, "no one's ever fought for me either."

"I'll never stop. You feel way too good."

"I don't want you to." Your palm rests upon his heart-shaped locket, his palm rests upon your ruby ring, "one more slow dance and then snuggle time?"

Peculiarly for Harry, his response is a simple nod with his eyes glued to your pout. He's thinking, except this time, he keeps his thoughts to himself. And you let him.

He's awarded with a kiss before you make your way to the living room, "You Showed Me" by The Turtles floating in smooth circles on the turntable, your bodies floating in smooth circles across the floor. The dance is punctuated with a mutual plummet onto your red sectional couch, the needle hopping over the paper of the record before it automatically retreats to click itself off. Harry's eyelids droop very similarly, your limbs tangled together into a heart, your lips brushing when he rasps quietly, "Honeybunny..."

"Sunnybunny?"

"Mm, fuck yes." He whimpers, "you're a daydream." Harry slurring himself to sleep with your nails scratching up and down his back may just be your favorite thing ever, "s'fucked up, but we needed that fight, yeah?" His palm cups your cheek, his fingertips in your hair, all sludge and sleep as his words start to thread together like a string of crumbly sugar-filled pearls, "tell me m'good enough for you, baby."

"You're the best fucking person that's ever happened to me, Harry."

He slaps your ass lightly as soon as the curse leaves your mouth. His eyes fall shut, "bad girl."

"Good boy."

The curtains billow in the ocean breeze, Harry sucks in a lungful of the cooling air through his nose, "mmm... fuck. Tha' hit me real hard... you're so much, Cherry." 

"You're so much too, Harry."

Congratulations, you've just read the longest chapter in the history of chapters (17k words, pat on the back y'all) (they won't all be like this lmao) and I hope you loved every single word. I love how holistically and healthfully intimate they are, it's truly a beautiful thing to experience.

There are a couple things I want to say to you: thanks so much for your hysteria when Aerial disappeared for the squirmiest twenty-four hours of my life. It was cool to see how many of you care about it and care about me. And also, I want you all to know that I don't feel pressure from you to update. Deadlines are an internal motivator that I put in place to keep myself driven and they usually work, but I just get frustrated with myself when it doesn't because hey, turns out, creativity doesn't ride the deadline wave like we want it too. I hate saying something and then not being able to follow through with my promise. I know you see that I'm hard on myself, it's a good and a bad thing and I actively work on speaking kindly to myself so that writer's block doesn't completely destroy me when it occurs. So thank you for your support, your love, your nice words, your understanding. You're all so great.

A little more to transpire between these two, so hang tight! Working on the next chapter now and will always announce when it's on it's way, so if you aren't following me, you might want to so you don't miss those announcements.

AAAAAAAND if this is something you're interested in, the songs that I imagine for their dancing scene (Nina Simone, Classics IV, The Human Beinz, Jefferson Airplane, The Box Tops, Lee Fields, The Turtles etc) can all be found on the Aerial Spotify playlist (link in my bio if you want to follow. I updated it a bit for those who already do!). As well as Cherry's French pop records (France Gall, François Hardy, Jacqueline Taieb) and Harry's lo-fi garage/surf rock tunes (The Kinks, The Seeds, Link Wray, The Monks, Los Shakers) and a plethora of all the fun 60's jams sprinkled throughout.

KLOVEUBYE TILL NEXT TIME
XX B
(Also pretty sure Harry is photographed in the back of a 60's VW van with a lock of hair brushing his eyebrow in trousers and loafers for the new Gucci fragrance campaign sooooo..... my funeral will be held the day the campaign drops bye)