The Executive & The Artist (H.S)

XVI

HARRY woke up with his head in Nat's lap and his heart in Nat's hand. 

The heart, the heart in Nat's hand, bled alcohol and painful childhood memories onto the white carpet, the white carpet that was already ruined by the alcohol and painful childhood ridden blood seeping from the cut in his hand. Strands of chocolate curls fell into his eyes as he looked up to the girl who held his head and his heart, praying that he wouldn't find her scowling down at him.

His prayers were answered- instead of scowling, he found Nat's head tipped back so it rested on the cushions of his (white) couch that still had (red) wine stains from that night a couple weeks ago, when he gave her his t-shirt that he knew she still kept in her closet. They were seated on the floor, with her long legs splayed out in front of her and his head resting on the tops of her thighs. Cherry-red lips were slightly slacked. Blue eyes were hidden behind snowy eyelids. Button nose was scrunched up as if she smelled something awful, but she still looked beautiful.

God, he had it bad. 

He felt the whisky weighing down his bones as he reluctantly rose from her lap. Harry tried to recall the events that took place a couple hours before, right after the lonely 'Happy Birthday Nat' sign and right before the bleeding heart and comfortable head, but all he saw behind his eyelids were muddled memories of red and blue eyes and ruined black t-shirts that cost too much, now streaked with alcohol and painful childhood memories. So he made his way to the kitchen, stumbling over his socked feet, forcefully taking down all the streamers and signs hanging from the ceiling. Harry didn't feel any anger towards the beautiful girl leaning against his couch, but for some reason he couldn't quite put his finger on, every time he saw that damn sign, the familiar spark of irritation and frustration consumed his actions.

Harry was in the process of ripping the sign from 15 pieces into 30 when Nat rose. It took him a minute to process that she was actually there because he was so accustomed to being alone on his drunken rampages, but then she yawned and looked at him for one, two, three seconds before saying "I got a birthday card from my dad today."

And the confession was so random, so out of place in this apartment illuminated by only moonlight that Harry kind of... swallowed and blinked and stared before nodding and asking a simple "step-dad?" The girl with sleepy eyes and sure movements shook her head and said "biological. Step-dad's dead." And then Harry felt like sinking into the carpet. 

There had never been discussion between them of families beyond talk of Bea, and Harry's sister. He knew Zayn, the boy with the seemingly-constant hay fever and long eyelashes was her step-brother, and that his father was hard to love by everyone besides Nat's mother. Nat never let herself give anymore information on the topic. 

Harry swallowed again and looked to her hand, which was empty. His heart bleeding alcohol and painful childhood memories was no longer there, and he wasn't sure how to feel about that. "Did you appreciate the card?" Nat looked at him with her head cocked slightly to the side, like that was an odd question to ask. Harry reviewed his words in his head, and scrambled to reword himself. "I mean, like, is this an annual thing? Do you... is it a bad thing to get the card or-" "Yeah, yeah. It's a bad thing," she told him, taking a few tentative steps forward. He thought her actions were odd, simply because his head was in her lap ten minutes earlier and if he wasn't mistaken, they kissed a couple hours ago. She seemed scared, and that was troubling.

To try and ease the situation, he cleared his throat and turned to grab her a glass of water, striding over and handing it to her while maintaining eye contact, something that was easy for him but difficult for her. She said, barely above a whisper, "He hated painting. He said he didn't like the smell of it. I would sculpt and use all these different mediums to make different types of art, art that I thought was good enough, but all the clients wanted paint. Paint, paint, paint." She shook her head to herself, like she was trying to shake the memories from her head. "I had other places to do my work- I had Niall and Liv's house, and the recenter down the road. But every time I would try to paint something, it's like he was right behind me, yelling at me."