"Dude, relax," the elf laughed, looking at Harry like he was insane. I couldn't blame him though. Harry was glaring at the kid like he'd committed a murder.
I just rolled my eyes, turning back to the kid to take the ticket, "My boyfriend's a pussy," I groaned, tightening my grip on Harry's hand and hauling him away from the costumed kid.
"Am not!" He argued, his tone that of an offended child.
"Man of up and talk to an elf, then. When that happens we can talk. Until then, wait here so you don't shit your pants again while I go get our picture."
Darien Grace
After Harry's meltdown at Santa's village, he made sure to avoid any elf-related instances or activities—basically we wandered around aimlessly, avoiding any of the main holiday attractions. I was freezing my ass off and my feet were killing me. I'd been in heels for six hours straight at Daniel's the night before and now I was trudging around New York during the prime of holiday season.
Oh, how wonderful.
"Can we please just pick a warm place and sit?" I groaned, bringing my hands to my mouth and blowing on them. I was struggling to reintroduce some sort of warmth. The cold had managed to invade my gloves and I swore if I took them off my fingers would have been blue.
"No more elves?"
"Jesus fuck, okay! No more damn elves; just get me inside!" That man really was a child. He and I both knew that elves were not real, so it didn't make any sense for him to be scared of them. It was just plain stupid.
"There's a Barnes and Noble around the corner," he nodded his head forward and, immediately, I lit up. Barnes and Noble meant warmth and Starbucks—two of the things that I desperately needed back in my life.
"Buy me a latte and you have a deal," I grinned up at him. He just shook his head, a small smile curling his lips before agreeing, "Thank you!" I bounded forward and into the building. I swore I almost melted on the spot—the heat from the massive store and the scent of coffee overwhelming in their intensity.
"Come on; I want to show you something," he began to pull me towards the escalators and away from the sanctuary the Green Lady provided.
"I seem to remember you promising me a latte?" I huffed, already being carried toward the second floor.
"And you'll get it. I just want to show you something first."
"Fine, but now it's a venti." I grumbled, crossing my arms across my chest and pouting. This hadn't been part of our deal. I didn't recall agreeing to show and tell. We switched escalators again, only stopping once we'd reached the Children's section. Little humans were screaming and running everywhere. It was absolute chaos. Whoever had said that bookstores were supposed to be peaceful obviously hadn't been to New York City in December.
"You know I don't do kids."
"I'm not asking you to deal with them, I'm asking you to try to remember what it was like to be one."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You're going to discover the mastermind that is Dr. Seuss."
"You're joking, right?"
"Not in the slightest. Theodor Geisel is essential to all adolescent, and in your unique case, post-adolescent development. He is by far the world's leading expert on children."
"Yes, but I'm not a child," I argued, my irritation flaring. He wasn't listening to me. I didn't want to sit in a kid infested place and read nonsense. I wanted a nice latte and then a long night full of kinky fuckery. That was literally all I wanted and I was usually pretty damn good at making sure I got exactly that.
"Please, just humor me." He pouted prettily at me and I could not for the life of me refuse him. How the fuck he managed to do it was beyond me. No man had ever actually gotten me to agree to go against my will.
"Fine. One book and then Starbucks. Got it?"
"Okay," he laughed, pulling me towards the over the top display of cartoon human/animal hybrids, all pastel colored and standing on various animated plateaus among flowers and other shit. Large handwriting style letters hung from the ceiling spelling out "Dr. Seuss"—a picture of the man himself hanging on the adjoining wall along with a short biography. Kids were everywhere, running around and screaming, a few begging their parents for one thing or another. Harry walked over to one of the bookshelves and started reading the spines of the books advertised there. He pulled five or so off of the shelf before walking over to one of the overly bright love seats. He plopped down, books in hand and motioned for me to walk over. Sighing, I crossed the space between us and settled into his lap.
"So, we have Green Eggs and Ham, Hunches In Bunches, The Butter Battle Book, If I Ran The Circus and my personal favorite I Had Trouble Getting to Solla Sollew." I scanned the titles. I recognized most of them; my teachers from when I was little had read many of them aloud to us, but I'd never once heard of the last one.
"What the hell is 'Solla Sollew'?" I plucked the book out of his hands and began to flip through the illustrated pages: more cartoon human/animals and flowers with plateaus. I cocked an eyebrow up, the childish rhyming catching my eyes.
"It's a simplified version of paradise. Solla Sollew is rumored to be a place completely devoid of problems and trouble. Everyone wants to get there, but it isn't easy," Harry shrugged, flipping through the pages as he summarized, "The book is about the main characters journey there and how he is forced to confront and overcome the troubles that led him to seek out Solla Sollew in the first place. You see, Solla Sollew isn't a place—it's a state of mind. It's about making the world better yourself. You can't expect someone else to do it for you." The more he spoke the more confused I became. Why was this his favorite book out of all of the others? Was this some practical joke and he was only telling me it was his favorite to teach me some sort of lesson? He knew that I had problems dealing with my shit, but would he really go so far as to suggest a children's book as a self-help manual?
"Why this one?"
"What?"
"Why is this one your favorite?" I asked, struggling to keep the agitation out of my voice. I had no proof as to why he'd picked it and just assuming that he'd done so as a dig at me wouldn't help anything.
"I don't know. My mum used to read it to me a lot when I was little. It was her favorite, so I guess it just became mine." He shrugged, still flipping through the pages. The expression on his face was one of sincere contentment. Eventually, he stopped on one of the last pages, a small smile curling his lips as he began to read aloud, "'Then I started back home to the Valley of Vung. I know I'll have troubles. I'll, maybe, get stung. I'll always have troubles. I'll, maybe, get bit by that Green-Headed Quail on the place where I sit. But I've bought a big bat. I'm all ready you see. Now my troubles are going to have troubles with me!'"
I couldn't help the confused frown that contorted my face. I'd known that all of these books had some sort of life lesson to them—they had to if they were meant for children. What confused me, though, was still the overwhelming sense of irony. Out of all of the forty something books that Theodor Geisel written and illustrated, he happened to choose the one matching the theme I had the most trouble with. I'd survived by living in the moment and I was fucking good at that shit. I didn't understand why everyone else was so obsessed with dredging up their pasts when they would just be better off moving on and leaving it the hell alone.
Solla Sollew was as mythical and absurd as the concept of "heaven". It was impossible and idealized. It made sense that the story was intended for children; it was the stuff of fairy tales. I knew that I'd never reach "Solla Sollew"—the absurdity of the entire concept was ridiculous.
My thoughts were cut off by the overloud rumbling of my stomach and immediately, I stiffened. It was too obnoxious for Harry not to have heard it, let alone feel it. I was a fraction of a second away from being lectured on my eating habits. True to form, Harry closed the book and set it aside.
"And that's my cue," he chuckled, his hands moving to my hips in a motion that clearly said "get up". "Do you want that pumpkin thing?" I had to physically restrain myself from glaring at him. My tastebuds took his comment as a slap to the face, but lord knew the man was clueless when it came to anything other than fucking tea.
"No, peppermint. Stupid Starbucks and their seasonal menus," I grumbled, plopping back down into the chair that he'd vacated.
"Peppermint and something to eat, then," he laughed, bending over to press a quick kiss to my forehead before turning to head back downstairs.
"Bring back another fucking bowl of oatmeal and we're over, Styles!" I called after him, smirking broadly when he waved a hand dismissively at me back over his shoulder. I ignored the glare my profanity received from several offended mothers—they could get the fuck over it. Their kids were bound to hear the word eventually, whether it came from a purple haired bitch in Barnes and Nobel or while they were having their brains fucked out by the not quite divorcé the were having an affaire with.
I waited before he was completely out of sight before I even thought about touching the books he'd left on the table beside me. Gingerly, I opened the cover to the illustrated book and began flipping through the pages as I read. If it wasn't for the ridiculous rhyming it might have made sense. I was just in the middle of analyzing the illustrations on the last few pages when he came back.
"Have I converted you yet?" He asked, holding my drink out to me, his other hand balancing what had to be a cup of tea and two smaller pastry bags.
"It would be better without the rhyming," I snorted, taking a begrudging sip of the peppermint flavored caffeine.
"That's the best part!" He looked immediately offended.
"It's awful, I can't get that shit out of my head and half of these words aren't even real!"
"That's the point. You're supposed to remember them." He was talking to me like I was an idiot and it was starting to piss me off, "It's a children's book. They're supposed to engage the imagination. Through his nonsensical words he can create a world completely outside of reality where anything is possible." Fuck, now he was getting all 'literary' with me.
"I'm not looking for a lecture, Professor," I grumbled, gingerly pulling open one pastry bag and examining the contents. Immediately, I was hit by the scent of roasted tomatoes and mozzarella. It actually smelled kind of good. Who would have thought that he was capable of picking something that didn't have the same consistency as cardboard? Raising a skeptical brow, I pulled the panini partway out of the bag and took a small bite. He was watching me carefully with a strange expression that I didn't really understand. My frown had just settled onto my face when it hit. It was like an orgasm in my mouth.
"Jesus fuck," I muttered, taking another larger bite of the sandwich. I barely breathed between bites as I plowed my way through half of it. When I looked up at him he was staring at me with open shock. "What?" I asked through a mouthful of bread, tomato and cheese. He didn't answer me, just shaking his head. Rolling my eyes, I swallowed and reached for my coffee to wash it down.
"What is it?" I asked again.
He shrugged, "Well, that one really wasn't for you?" He laughed, his forced words coming out more like an apology. I paled immediately, my eyes growing wide as I stared at the three inches that were all that was left of his sandwich.
"I... uh-." I couldn't seem to find the words.
"I got you a chocolate croissant. I thought you'd like it because it wasn't as heavy." I couldn't understand why he looked so guilty? He wasn't the one that had just killed another person's dinner. I had no idea what to do or what to say. Never once had I gotten into trouble for eating something that I wasn't supposed to. Usually Caleb and John were just glad that I was eating in general.
"Shit, I'm sorry! I'll uh... I'll go get you another one." Frowning, I chewed pensively on my lip. This was fucking uncomfortable. I jumped up immediately, moving toward the escalator before he caught me around the wrist.
"No, it's fine! At least we know for next time that it's good," he laughed, smiling gently at me before pulling me back down into his lap in the love seat. Absently, I picked at the cardboard cuff around my cup, fraying it. Nothing ever made me this uncomfortable, especially not something this small. After about a minute or so, he caught my hands.
"Stop that, it's just a sandwich." I frowned further, completely unable to shake that ridiculous guilt. "Here, try this." He held out a piece of the croissant to me. When I moved to take it from him, he shook his head, pulling it back. I cocked an eyebrow up at him. "Open."
"Oh, fuck no," I laughed. I'd seen couples that did that shit before, they disgusted me. Like, if you can't feed yourself then you had serious problems.
"Humor me."
"I'm not going to have you feeding me like a child."
"Oh, come on. We are in the children's section, reading children's books; it's practically part of the territory. Now, open up," he ordered. Begrudgingly, I obeyed. I wasn't in the mood to argue further. I still felt too goddamn guilty. Dammit Starbucks. They were literally killing me. He popped the pastry into my mouth and it melted on the spot. Okay, that shit was good, but not good enough for him to continue babying me, and nowhere near as good as the fucking sandwich.
"There, I played along. Happy?" I quipped, swirling my coffee around in the cup before tipping it back.
"Appeased. There's a difference."
"What would it take to get you from 'appeased' to 'happy'?"
"You liking Dr. Seuss."
"Looks like you're shit out of luck then," I laughed, picking back up the book. It was like a rainbow of pastel had thrown up all over the cover and the pages within. Carefully, I leafed through the pages again, slowing as an idea gradually began to take shape.
"Why this book out of all the others?" I asked for the second time. I needed to be absolutely certain. "I've heard of most of these, but never this one."
"Sometimes things just speak to you." I felt him shrug behind me before his lips pressed against the hollow behind my ear. Heat sparked up wherever he touched me, the spark skipping all the way down to wake the sleeping beauty between my legs. Stella yawned, refusing to wake up for a false alarm.
"Hmm," I muttered setting the book aside again, mentally cataloguing the strange title before spinning around in his lap to face him; I'd deal with that shit later. I shifted my weight, rolling my hips forward to apply the slightest pressure. His mouth puckered, his lips forming a small "o" as he huffed out a puff of air. It had been far longer than either of us would have liked since Stella'd had her fix and she was ready and rearing—we both were.
"What about now?" I whispered, running the tip of my nose up the edge of his jaw to his ear, "Are things 'speaking' to you?" I didn't care if we were in the middle of Barnes and Nobel. We could have been in the middle of fucking Times Square. I wanted to fuck his brains out and that was exactly what I was going to do.
***
A little over a week later, I was just about halfway finished with Harry's Christmas present. The entire process had turned out to be a bitch and a half. Why I'd decided to not only translate, but illustrate that damn Dr. Seuss book, I had no idea. I knew for a fact that I couldn't draw to save my life, but my stubborn ass had tried to for about a day or so straight before I just about gave up on it entirely. I was going to scrap the entire idea before the man himself unknowingly gave me my saving grace. Of course, it required that I surrender myself to the enemy. I was already too far into this shit to give it up though. I'd spent way too much fucking time and energy just trying to translate that rhyming shit and I couldn't even be sure that I'd done it properly. Made up, nonsensical words didn't exactly have literal translations and what I'd ended up with was a weird French/English hybrid book-thing.
I was all in, but that didn't necessarily mean that I was ready for my pride to take such a massive fucking blow. I knew that I'd have to just suck that shit up and get it over it, but that didn't mean I wasn't going to bitch about it for as long as fucking possible. I'd put it off for another three hours and downed a bottle of Pinot before I finally just said fuck it and hit dial. She picked up after the fifth ring.
"What?" I could literally hear the bitchtastic glower marring her face. Rolling my eyes, I sucked in a deep breath. This was for him. This was for Otherwise.
"I need your help."
"I didn't think that word was in your vocabulary."
"And I didn't think civility was within your abilities. Good to know that I was right."
"It's funny, I thought you said that you needed my help? Please explain to me how insulting me is going to assist you in making your case?"
"I'm starting to think it actually isn't worth it." Even as I said the words, I knew I was lying. I needed these illustrations for his present to be complete and she was the only person who could do them without the entire book looking like it was thrown together by a preschooler. Frowning, I popped the cork on yet another bottle before taking a swig—I was past the point of needing a glass.
"Fine by me." She chirped, the line went dead the second the last syllable left her lips. I ripped the phone away from my ear, glaring at the "call ended" banner across my screen.
"Fucking twat-licker!" I howled, tossing my phone across the counter, taking another long drag from my bottle.
"What happened now?" Jas sighed, stepping into the kitchen and pulling the bottle away from me before taking a sip, herself.
"That British bitch just hung up on me."
"Well, what did you say?"
"In more eloquent terms— I called her a bitch."
"Can't say I blame her then. If you call someone for a favor it's tradition to kiss their ass first and insult them after it's finished."
"What can I say; she brings out the worst in me," I shrugged, taking the bottle back from Jas.
"You need her help. Now call her back and apologize."
"Yes, Mother," I grumbled, begrudgingly hitting redial. She picked up almost immediately.
"You just can't seem to stay away, can you?" She snapped.
"Look, Leala. I don't like you and lord knows you don't like me—."
"That's an understatement."
I had to actually bite into the inside of my cheek to keep from fucking this up yet again, "My point though, is that despite your best attempts we have something in common— Harry. I'm not asking you to help me. I'm asking you to help me do something for him." I waited silently on the line for her to flip the fuck out and refuse on the spot. Jas cocked an eyebrow up at me as her silence continued and I checked the screen just to make sure that the cunt hadn't hung up on me.
A slew of unintelligible British shit sounded through the speakers before she spoke at a tone that we could actually understand, "Explain." The rest of the conversation had been relatively brief and we'd set up a date to meet so that I could give her everything I'd bought for my little Christmas project. She'd been in a bad mood the entire fucking time, but she'd still consented to helping me. A thick envelope was waiting for me at home three days later—a note and the illustrations inside.
Frowning, I unfolded the note and stared at the smooth cursive within:
Barney,
I did this for him, not for you. For some ungodly reason, he seems to have fallen for you. Don't ask me why because I couldn't tell you. I in no way condone this "relationship"... but there is something to be said about this. I wouldn't have thought to do it, and that's an accomplishment. Do not ruin one of his best memories in the world. He is the best of humanity and I will protect him with my life. If you hurt him in anyway, just know that I will not rest until you understand just how immensely you've fucked up. Take care of my brother.
L
"What the fuck?" I was stuck on the word brother, completely unable to move past that one little fucking word. Since when were those two related? It made no sense. He'd never said anything about a sibling and Caleb has said that all of his family was back in the UK. So where the hell did the fucked up little British princess come into all of this?
Reeling, I'd made my way up to my room and spent the next five hours penning in the calligraphic text with the precision of a brain surgeon. As much as I hated to admit it, the illustrations were breath taking. I'd simply asked for less creepy pastel shit and she'd come in and transformed the characters to look like what I was sure were people in Harry's life. The main character even had his same wild hair, Tom Fords and that damn tweed jacket. They were stunning.
It wasn't until I got to the end that I saw the first dash of color. There was a female figure standing deep in the background, the pale lavender of her hair the only thing truly setting her apart from the background. I couldn't even bring myself to touch the picture for fear I was imagining it. It didn't make sense. Why would Leala put me into the pictures at all? She'd made it explicitly clear that she didn't want me to be a permanent part of his life and this was a pretty damn permanent symbol. I had to be hallucinating. There was no other logical explanation. I'd had way too much wine and not nearly enough sleep. Not to mention the gala was the next day and it was already well past four in the morning.
I shut off the lights and collapsed face down into my bed. I still had a week or so more to finish his present, but I had less than twelve hours until I had to impress a hell of a lot of rich bitches. Sleep won out.