The Executive & The Artist (H.S)

XXXIX

** Sexual Content **

(Big announcement at the end of this chapter - stick around :)

xxxix

"JUST sit still for a moment, please?"

The kitchen was dim in the mid-afternoon light and it cast these shadows across Harry's face as his lips moved, tongue pushing his mint gum to the space between his last molar and his cheek. There was a bit of stubble decorating his cut jaw and it bled into the hollows of his cheeks so Nat took a moment to reply, too busy wondering why he'd been getting skinnier. Her thoughts fought wars and fired cannons in her brain before they drew a truce and said "I have work. I don't have time to sit still." But Nat was lying, and Harry knew that, because she was sitting still right then - right in her (their) kitchen with her hand on her hip and her glasses nestled in the mess of chocolate curls piled atop her head.

They were standing on opposite sides of the island, Harry positioned with both palms propping his torso up and Nat looking absolutely unamused, but slightly enraptured with the way he was so enraptured with her. He didn't ever let his eyes leave her body - sure, they did tend to wander because he was a fucking boy and he had needs but nothing else came even relatively close to how effortlessly beautiful she looked among simple, un-enrapturing things. Nat was Harry's favourite equation, his favourite conundrum, his favourite enigma - Nat was Harry's favourite mystery and he planned on spending the rest of his life trying to decode her.

"You're making me nervous" he whined, tapping his foot against the hardwood and tucking a piece of hair back into his updo. Goosepimples pricked up on his arms as he spoke and Nat wanted to ask if he wanted her to turn up the heat. "Please, Bird. Please just sit down."

"Are you cold?"

"Please sit down."

Nat clenched her jaw and slumped into the bar stool sidled up to the island, rolling her eyes as she went and propping her chin up with her palm. Harry smirked at her, saying "now, don't you feel better?" and when Nat told him "no, I actually feel more annoyed than before" Harry just looked at her for a moment before shrugging and returning to his dinner attempt.

It was steaming - the dinner attempt was, she meant, steaming and bubbling and Nat thought that maybe it was supposed to be soup? Or possibly some cheese dish? The Artist crinkled up her nose and started to breathe through her mouth because the smell of it alone was enough to make her sick. She watched Harry's expression match hers - mouth slightly slacked, eyebrows tilting closer together, nose wrinkled. Nat thought that she should've taken a picture of him then, considering the things that happened after. Maybe if she'd have captured him in a time of normalcy, she would've remembered all the things they had lost. Maybe she'd have fought harder.

Because they were doomed from the beginning, really.

"Reckon I should give up on this, yeah?" His voice was laced with sad amusement. It sounded like waiting in line for a carnival ride, only to have it break down right before your turn and laughing at the sound the broken ride makes as they attempt to fix it. Sad amusement - Harry was sadly amused.

Nat nodded to him. Harry sighed and scraped whatever-it-was off the bottom of the skillet and into the sink, running the water until the mass of smelly dairy was far gone.

Nat should've taken a picture.

...

"Fuck."

The sound of skin against skin and headboard against wall filled Harry's bedroom the next morning, startling poor iPhone awake ("you have to take him in the hall, Harry - we can't have him witness us... you know.") But now iPhone was munching on his birdseed by the front door and Nat and Harry were carrying on with their actions guilt-free on the bed (well, relatively guilt free. Harry's nan still thought he wore a purity ring).