Yellow || hs au

|72|

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I grin lightly down at my sketchbook that rests on my thighs, my knees propped in the air as I sit comfortably on Harry's outdoor couch. The sun is warm against my skin that is burnt and tinted pink, the heat radiating from my sunburn through my shoulders and down my back. Harry stands with a towel wrapped around his waist, freshly showered as he holds his acoustic guitar to his chest.

His fingers pluck and strum the strings quietly but perfectly and smoothly. I can recognize the song he plays as blackbird by The Beatles. The sun casts over his body, the tan of his skin glowing as he stares out over the city, his curls being lightly assaulted by the small gusts of wind as he mindlessly plays his guitar.

My head falls to the side, my cheek resting on my shoulder as I watch him in awe. My pencil stops moving across the paper, forgetting the drawing of Harry while I take the moment in for myself. I take a mental photo, hoping to remember this moment forever as Harry continues strumming the quiet chords of the song.

   The two of us have been busy soaking up the last of the summer sun all day as the season comes to a close. With classes starting in less than a week, Harry and I have spent all of our time together, simply enjoying the last of our all too short break before everything picks up again.

The ink that swirls amongst his skin is highlighted with the golden hour sun, my eyes raking over every inch of his exposed skin. The way his ribs stick out, how skinny his arms have gotten. I notice the loss of his love handles, something I had grown very fond of. Regardless of how skinny he is, I still stare at him with nothing but love and adoration.

"I haven't played The Beatles in years." Harry voices after awhile, his gravely voice stirring me out of my thoughts. I sit up straight, tossing my sketchbook to the ground while Harry wanders over to sit beside me.

"I thought you loved them." I point out, slightly referring to the albums in his music room and the photos of the band that decorate his empty apartment. He shrugs his shoulders, setting the guitar on the ground gently, the neck resting on the chair adjacent to us.

"I did," He nods, running his fingers through his now famous curls. "Their songs make me think of my mum though, she always had them playing over the radio when my dad wasn't home." He explains lowly, a small frown forming on my lips as I stare at him.

   Harry's curls shine in the sunlight, his irises glistening as he turns to look at me. His eyelashes are thick and dark as he blinks at me innocently, my chest practically exploding with emotions. The way I feel about him is unexplainable and sometimes it's even painful. Not being able to express to him how much I love him is the worst pain I think I've ever felt.

   "Your dad didn't like them?" I question, Harry chuckling at my words which only causes me to frown. He lets out a quiet sigh, his eyes dropping from our shared gaze, but I continue to watch him and his slow movements.

   "He didn't like a lot things." He finally speaks, his hand reaching over and gently massaging my thigh. I watch his fingers mould the flesh of my leg gently, his rings cold against my warm skin. "He liked drugs and alcohol, that's it." He shrugs, looking up at me now.

   Regardless of the halfhearted smile that plays on his lips, I can see the pain in his eyes. Even if he never admits it, no matter how badly he wants to pretend his fathers death and his actions while alive didn't hurt him; I know that they did. He was only a child, a ten year old, who was stuck taking care of his deadbeat father. He was just a little kid, what was he supposed to do?