Eroda is a cold, dark place and Harry means that quite literally. In fact, he can't think of a single instance where the sun has ever shone on their little island. The wide skies seem to hide behind the thick, grey clouds and there always seem to be a hint of mist in the air. Perhaps that is why Erodians are as cold as their weather.
Maybe he's just complaining again. Eroda is not so bad. It may have its own faults but its sights of grandeur are something to behold. They are surrounded by the mighty sea which stretches on for miles and miles, the waters that touch his feet glitters like precious stones. Yuna, Harry's village, is perched on top of a hill, overlooking the island. There are many industries on the island; alcohol brewing, salon and spas, candle-making, and such but the island's main metier is fishing. Erodians don't just love fishing, they live for it. They might as well live in the sea, since their hearts belong to the waters. Harry doesn't really understand it; the vastness of the seas terrify him. He tries to stay as far away as possible. Tries being the keyword. As much as he tries to hate the sea, he can't help coming back. Mostly because he is literally surrounded by it.
The island is gorgeous at every turn, but what really puts their quaint isle on the map is the Lighthouse. The Lighthouse sits solitary on top of a cliff, at the edge of the sea. The grassy hills and the rocky coast surround the short, white tower, and the light shining from it during the night serves as a beacon, a call from home for all fishermen and sailors.
Harry wakes up with a ray of light hitting him on the face. He opens his eyes blearily, confused. He's awake but not quite; he can feel that his left arm is numb, having been resting it beneath his head. He always sleeps on his side, so this is not a surprise. He blinks rapidly at the sunlight, not believing what he's seeing. He sits up on his rickety bed, properly looking at it. Harry's never seen sunlight like this before; just one straight beam from the sky to the ground. He runs his fingers through it, delighted as the light seems to dance on his hand. A smile creeps up on his face, and before he knows it, a flash of light rips from his own mouth. He covers his mouth, but the it seeps through. Harry closes his eyes and tries to control it, when he opens them again; it's gone. He sighs in relief.
It gets worse as he grows older; and he's barely twenty now. He can't help it sometimes, the light just comes out of him like a supernova exploding. His mum and Gemma assure him that he should cherish a gift like this but Harry thinks it's a curse, actually. Half of the villagers despise him, and the other half are terrified. He doesn't know where it came, and how he got it (or how it got him), but as far as Harry is concerned, he's the only one he knows that has this condition.
That is why he mainly just keeps to himself in his room. He's been lucky enough to get a job in a tiny bakery in town from Gemma's mate's mum, who doesn't quite hate him. It's not much, but Harry loves it. The bakery he works in is three blocks away from the market, which means it's busy in the mornings when they release the first batch of fresh pastries. It is also fairly packed in the afternoon when locals come in for biscuits for their teas.
Harry stands up, stretches, and looks at his reflection in the small vanity near his bed. A boy with a crumpled mop of curls and beady, emerald eyes stare back at him. He raises his eyebrows and widens his eyes, watching as his reflection does the same. He stands for a while, and looks back to the beam of sunlight from his window, still radiant and warm. He eyes one of the glass jars on top of his dresser. He reaches for if and very gingerly sits on the edge of his bed. Harry unscrews the lid, and slowly and carefully moves the opening of the jar near the light, watching in fascination as the glow snakes around the jar and claims it as its home. He puts the lid back on and puts it beside his bedside table, beaming.
He takes a hot shower, and gets dressed. Harry loves dressing up; loves the way fabric clings to his skin, loves the way his outfits says a statement. He's wearing a loose, creamy white dress shirt and loose, cuffed trousers. He snatches the over sized, suede coat hanging on his chair and goes downstairs where his mother, Anne is humming to herself and cooking breakfast. His sister, Gemma is sat at the dining table already with a steaming mug of coffee and a book in her hand. 'Morning,' he mumbles while taking a seat across from his sister.
'Morning, Haz.' His mum gives him a sleepy smile. She looks tired, he notes. Gemma softly grunts in return, engrossed in her book. Harry eats his scrambled eggs and toast in silence, sipping on a hot chocolate. When he's done, he washes his plate and kisses his mum goodbye. He puts on the coat and steps outside their little house, peering thoughtfully at his neighbourhood. It's small, and all the houses vary in size but they all sit in a close perimeter together. He walks the cobbled streets towards the bakery, feeling a slight chill in the air even though it's in the middle of June. Summer doesn't really exist in Eroda, they mostly get rain, snow, and more rain. Typical English weather.
Harry stops in front of a brick-walled building, and brings the collar of his coat closer to his face. The words Mandeville's in faded, yellow paint welcomes him. A steam of his warm breath wafts back to his face, and he pushes the creaky, wooden door and steps inside. He can hear Mrs. Oakes tinkering with the utensils in the kitchen, and he assumes his seat behind the counter. He's a little early, which is no surprise. He leans on his back and props himself backward, balancing on his seat. By the sound of it, Mrs. Oakes must have already put the goods in the stone oven.
The morning passes him by, with Harry almost instinctively bagging in the pastries like he does every day. Some of the customers look at him hesitantly, having known of his reputation but the locals just treat him with indifference. Before he knows it, it's past 10 o clock, and Mrs. Oakes is already baking fresh, new batches of danish, strudels, and pretzels. The smell of baked goodness fills his nose and he quickly fixes his maroon apron when
Mrs. Oakes steps out of the kitchen, her hair tied into a bun and her whole head comically wrapped with a large hair net. She looks cranky, and her cheeks are dusted with flour and sugar. She looks at Harry and says, 'Harold, love,' She always called him Harold, 'Be a dear and fetch a bottle of rum from Frankie's.'
Harry could only assume they were for the tiramisu, or probably something else. He dares not ask. He nods and pockets the five pound note. Frankie's is two blocks away from Mandeville's, and he's skipping towards Beachwood Street. He stops when an old man passing by looks at him with a frown. He feels his face burns up and he stops and looks at his shoes before assuming normal strides.
When he reaches Frankie's pub, his mouth thins to a frown. Harry looks around, anxiously fiddling with the zipper of his coat before he spots the owner. He sits on one of the wooden stools and settles his arms on top of the counter, looking contemplative. The man, Frank Jr., is serving someone a pint of beer when his gaze drops to Harry. He sits up straighter and raises his hand when the man just waves him off. Harry frowns and slumps back to his seat.
Frank Jr. comes back not a minute later, sporting a deep frown and wrinkles in his forehead and cheeks. He is a large man, wearing a pullover that seems a little too tight for him. His greying moustache bushes his upper lip, and when he speaks his tongue touches it, 'What issit?'
'Mrs. Oakes—' Harry almost stutters out. Frank Jr. waves him off again.
'Rum, innit?' The man grumbles and turns his back from him. He nods and fishes the note from his pocket when his eyes catch someone else's. Green meets blue. Harry stops, and so does the boy. He's wearing a beige, wool sweater and faded denim overalls. His brown, floppy hair seems to hug his whole face and his fringe is swept to the side. The lines on his mouth promises trouble, and God , his eyes. They're so blue; blue as the seas Harry wakes up to. Impossibly bluer even. The moment seems to go on forever until the boy looks away and takes a sip of his beer, returning his attention to his friends, presumably. When he laughs, his eyes crinkles.
Harry stares at the boy's back for a quarter of second before he snaps out of his reverie and turns back to Frank Jr., who's glaring at him. He sheepishly sends him a tight-lipped smile and hands him the money. The man huffs and gives him the bottle, no taller than a brass spoon. He stares at the clear liquid sloshing inside the bottle. Frank Jr. returns with the change. He thanks the man and stands up from his seat, putting the change inside his pockets and clutches the bottle of rum with a tight hand.
He heads over to the door and steals a glance towards the boy, who was already looking at him. Harry quickly looks away and exits the warm pub.
Harry returns to Mandeville's, and dazedly hands Mrs. Oakes the rum and money. His shift ends at three in the afternoon and as he receives his daily, fresh croissants, (Mrs. Oakes always insists on giving Harry two croissants as a sort of thank-you for his hard work all morning and most afternoon. He always flushes whenever she does but gratefully accepts.) he strides on his way home, mind adrift.
The boy must be new, since Harry has never seen him before. (He definitely would have remembered.) He wonders when was the last time Eroda has seen a newcomer.
The next day, he wakes up with a crick on his neck. The sunlight he captured from the glass jar still glows brightly, and it brings a smile to his face. Today, he wears flowy, high-waisted denim trousers, blue turtleneck, and a blue newsie cap. Harry goes downstairs, and plants wet kisses on his mum's and sister's cheeks. They look at him weirdly but he grins at them, flashing light. He tries to rein it in and he bites his cheeks, but the smile is persistent on his face. He has no idea why he feels so giddy today, but he is. His mum smiles at him, pleasantly surprised by his good mood. 'Morning, baby.'
'Morning, Mum. Morning, Gems.' He chirps, taking a huge bite of his crispy, buttered toast. Gemma snorts on her coffee, and turns a page of her book pointedly. Harry ignores her.
He decides to take his back on his way to work today. The wind threatens to knock his cap off, but it thankfully stays on. He parks his bike in front of the building, and he enters the bakery. It seems that he's right on time because inside, the fragrant smell of bread straight out of the oven. Harry grabs his apron from behind the counter and visits the kitchen to greet Mrs. Oakes. She just grunts in reply and orders him to bring out the first batches of cherry scones, muffins, tarts, and crumpets.
When he goes back, there's already a customer approaching, and he puts his best salesman face. The day passes him by like a blur, and Harry feels his muscles ache. There's still an hour left in his shift and he does his best not to look impatient as the thin, old woman scrutinizes the platter of pastries in front of her. 'Have you decided, ma'am?' he asks politely.
'Give me a minute,' she snapped. Harry's shoulder slump and he looks down, waiting. After what seems like forever, the woman finally decided on a slice of a banoffee pie. That's when Harry made a mistake. He got so excited that he flashed a bright smile towards the old woman, possibly momentarily blinding her when a flare of light erupts from his mouth. He quickly slaps a hand over his mouth, eyes widening in horror. The woman stares at him in shock, then it turns into anger.
'Learn to control yourself, young man!' The old woman hisses, making Harry's breath hitch in his throat painfully. The people inside the bakery whip their heads toward them after the woman's outburst, and Harry wishes the earth beneath would open up and swallow him whole. His cheeks are flaming when she stalks out of the store. His old pals, scorn and shame, greet him again and he hangs his head low, trying to will the hot tears away. He fumbles with his apron and dashes to the kitchen, heavily breathing.
Mrs. Oakes stops what she's doing and looks at him, 'Harold?'
'I'm,' His lips wobble, and he looks away, 'I have to go, Mrs. Oakes.'
'What happened? You okay, love?' He shakes his head. 'Do you want to talk about it?' He shakes his head again. She seems to understand, but she grabs his two croissants and places it on his hands. She ruffles his hair, looking concerned but she thankfully shuts her mouth.
'Thank you,' Harry mutters before he goes straight to the door at the back. Then, he starts running.
His legs take him to a lone bench near the beach, and directly above a cliff. His place. It's quiet and undisturbed; only waves splashing on the shore. He stares at the calm dribbling of water against the sand, mouth open and eyes red. Harry closes his eyes, hair plastered on his sweaty forehead, and breathes the saltiness of the wind. His legs buckle down and he sits on the bench, eyes still shut closed. He wishes his mind would stop spinning, and his breath would stop escaping him but it doesn't. He wonders when it would stop being so hard but he already knows the answer.
His heartbeat had just stopped hammering in his chest when he feels a sharp pain at the back of his head. Harry whips his head around, when he feels a stone hit him squarely on the forehead. He touches his forehead, and looks up. It's the boy from yesterday.
The boy is picking up another pebble when Harry yells out, 'Oi!' His voice came out scratchy, but it does the effect because the boy looks down and does a double take, 'Hi. You hit me.' Harry says, sounding petulant.
The boy blinks, 'Did I?' His voice is high, and heavy with a hint of Yorkshire accent. He definitely is a newcomer.
Then, the boy starts walking away, and just disappears, making Harry frown. He's still clutching the paper bag containing the pastry when he stands up, wondering where he'd gone when he hears light steps creeping up on him. The boy was walking towards him, his brown hair flying away from his face making his face look more bare. The naturally blue, almost greyish sunlight Eroda has seems to highlight his jutted out cheekbones, and the edge of his jaw. He's wearing a yellow windbreaker jacket with orange highlights and fitted, cargo pants. His head turns upwards, and to Harry. 'Oops, sorry about that.'
''S fine,' Harry mumbles, and sits down on the bench. The boy seems to shuffle closer to him, and Harry tries not to tense up. He hovers near the bench then just plops next to him, staring at the sea.
There is a beat of silence and the boy looks at him and bluntly asks, 'Were you crying?'
'No,' he sniffles. The boy snorts. 'Yes.'
'Sorry I hit you with pebbles. You were probably having a bad day,' His voice is like honey laced with sugar, but something tangy and sharp, too—like clementines. He could probably listen to it all day. Harry briefly daydreams about clementines. (He loves clementines.) 'If it makes you feel better, I was having a bad day, too.'
'Really?' He looks up, because the boy doesn't look like it. The boy looks like nothing bothers him, so it surprises Harry that he said that.
'Yeah.' The boy lets out a bitter smile, 'I miss me home.'
'Oh.'
The boy rests his arm on top of the backrest, and regards him with a tilt of his head. 'What about you, Curly? Why're you sad?'
'My name's Harry,' He says, while ruffling his fringe self-consciously. 'And I'm not sad.'
The boy snorts again. 'It's okay to feel sad.' Harry doesn't know what to think about that. 'I'm Louis, by the way.'
'Louis,' Harry says, testing the name on his tongue and looking at the boy, at Louis . His name suits him; regal and grown-up.
'That's me,' Louis smiles at him, his crinkly eyes returning. Instinctively, Harry feels himself smile back but he covers his mouth just in time. The shorter boy looks at him strangely but partly ignores Harry's weird behaviour as he goes back to staring at the sea. There's a weird serenity that settles between them, and he relishes in it. It's rare to find someone who doesn't run away from the sight of him.
At that point, he suddenly remembers something. He looks for the paper bag somewhere, and finds it nearly squashed by his bum on the side. He brings it up to the level of their faces, and asks Louis politely, 'Do you want a croissant?' His mother didn't raise him to be rude to strangers.
He blinks at Harry, then at the paper bag, then shrugs. 'Sure, Curly.'
Harry pulls the croissants out from the bag and cringes when he sees that they have been partly smushed, oozing chocolate on one side. He squishes the bread and is slightly relieved that they're still crispy. He looks at the other boy and smiles tinnily, 'Sorry, they're kind of...'
'It's food, ain't it?' He grins and snatches the croissant from Harry's hand, chomping down on it like a kid. His smile widens when Louis starts groaning with pleasure, looking at him in alarm. He bites again and sinks in on the bench dramatically, and Harry giggles.
'Harry, this is the best croissant I've ever had.'
Harry's stomach flutters when Louis said his name. He looks at his own croissant and nibbles at it. He looks at the pastry at his hands and takes a bite as big as Louis', chewing slowly. The firmness of the bread, the grease of the butter, and the richness of the chocolate all collide inside his mouth and he nods, agreeing with what Louis said.
He's been having this croissant for years, almost getting sick of them but right now, sitting with a boy named Louis, it's never tasted so sweet in his tongue.
'Did you make this?' Louis waves what now is a small piece of the bread in his fingers. He pops it on his mouth and looks at Harry questioningly.
He shakes his head. 'No, erm, they're from the bakery I work in.'
Louis nods, sucking the chocolate on his fingers. Harry looks away, blushing before focusing on eating the remainder of the pastry. They presume their silence from before, but it's much more comfortable now, welcoming even. Harry knows that the boy beside him is just a stranger, but something about Louis that's just so relaxing, and familiar. He feels oddly easy.
The boy suddenly stands up, making Harry jump in his head. Louis looks around wildly and at Harry, 'What time is it?'
Harry shrugs, bewildered.
'I have to go, Curly,' He's already walking away, but he throws a look behind him and a wave. 'Thanks for the croissant!'
'Bye.' Harry calls out, hand raised in vain. He thinks about how this was the most peculiar interaction he's had with a stranger.