Kismet

Eight [The Embrace]

The music is dragging its nails across Harry's skin, running its fingers through his hair, weaving his stomach into knots and surging blood to his center. The swirling lights are massaging his feet and his hands, the crowd around him is rocking him like a boat in the middle of a choppy ocean, your sweet, harmonic voice is making love to his heart, "c'mon sweetie, let's go cuddle on the dance floor just like you wanted. I'll take care of you."

Harry licks his lips and releases merely a grunt with an imperceptible nod, his fingers twitch when your hand brushes his, a sparkle of tension glittering up his arm and snuffing in his shoulder. He shudders at the sensation of sweat trickling down his back and stomach in a slow roll, drying and cooling his skin as he rubs his palms against the seat of his pants again and wishes to himself that you would hold his hand. Or did he say that out loud? When was the last time he spoke? It would be so nice to be taken care of. It feels like everything is falling into place around and inside of him. God, this shirt is absolutely suffocating the shit out of him.

His eyes fly open when you giggle and press a hand to his chest to check the pace of his heart, relaxing when you find it calm and steady, the revoking of your hand a bit delayed as you scrutinize his features carefully for the first time since you've met. His mouth is full, ample and kissable, glossy from his near-constant tongue bathing and glowing a particularly dark, cherry pie red. You're unsure if his lips are always this pigmented or if it's the room and it's ferocious lighting or perhaps the molly or better yet, the nonstop fussing with his tongue and his fingers.

The striking almond shape and easy softness of his eyes draws you in and are likely the most attractive you've ever seen on another person, even if they're eclipsed by darkness from obvious lack of sleep and pupils blown wide from ecstasy. He feels familiar and inexplicably heart-warming, like the anticipated change of seasons or the scent of an extinguished candle after a family holiday, your bed when lined with clean sheets or the sound of a loved one's voice on the phone after not hearing it for some time.

His draw is enigmatic and honestly a bit puzzling; you don't understand it but you've always been someone who has leaned more towards matters of the heart rather than the mind. You suppose that your fascination may not make sense now but you know that it soon will - everything has a way of explaining itself in time. You trust nature and most importantly you trust yourself and your gut tells you that Harry has something very important to show you and you are delighted to discover it when the moment is right.

You cup his cheeks and his hands land on your wrists in accordance, a simple touch at first before he wraps his fingers around your forearm and grips tightly to brace himself from melting to the ground in a puddle at your feet, his eyes sluggish before he suddenly wakes up with razor sharp focus. He switched from drifting through a careless fog to ice skating on hyper awareness in a snap as his high tipped over the edge of a cliff, your breathtaking face coming into view followed by the realization that your sight is glued to his mouth, your thumbs swiping back and forth across his cheekbones and rippling goosebumps along his skin. He attempts to speak but his esophagus is a desert, he swallows and clears his throat but your stare doesn't falter, "...Nova." Clap, clap, pause.

You watch his mouth form the word that you heard him utter a few minutes ago and you're trapped in confusion as you squint your eyes and lock gazes with him. You've had friends get high before and repeat themselves, typically when they reach their peak and tumble inside of a loop of confusion. You don't know Harry well enough to make that judgment call and now you're starting to worry that you're going to end up psychologically babysitting tonight, "what was that? Do you wanna tell me something? I'm all ears when you're ready."

He shakes his head and swallows all of his prior thoughts of wanting to spill his guts to you, he knows better than to give himself to anyone so easily. But he thinks you're so fucking nice, he can't imagine you ever harming another living thing and it makes him want to curl up into a ball like Pru does when she's going down for a long nap on his chest. You decide to leave his mutterings alone because you don't want to careen him farther into disorientation if he doesn't realize what he's revealing, so you drop your hands to his shoulders and let them drift down his chest before halting at his bellybutton.