Summertime Sadness [H.S]

Part 5 (Part 1)

The first few days of the holiday dragged by horrifyingly slowly, wasted to the torrential downpour that persisted outside the cottage day in, day out.  I lay awake each night listening to the pattering of the raindrops on the tiled roof, and Harry’s feet shuffling in the kitchen.  I would hear the tap running every so often as he filled yet another glass of water for himself, and his soft sound of his voice drifting up the hallway as he hummed yet another familiar song in that husky, homely tone of his.  A voice that reminded me of being nine years old, and watching Top of the Pops with him singing along, the two of us eating Rice Crispies, listening to each little grain crimple and crackle before devouring them cheerfully.

I felt very sorry for the poor boy.  He’d taken to sleeping on the sofa simply to avoid the stench of the small bedroom, which was becoming more appalling every day, rather than improving as our mothers had hoped.  While listening to the sound of his softly padding feet in the darkness of my perfectly inhabitable bedroom, I wondered if I should be polite enough to swap with him, but I was too much of a self-centered twat for that.  I almost thought about inviting him to sleep on the other side of my King bed, but I didn’t have half enough confidence, or the certain knowledge that I wouldn’t explode into a mortifying mess of nerves with him in my bed.

The simple idea of Harry’s long, boyish body lying heavily beneath the same duvet as me gave me pangs that I supposed were butterflies, but were not unlike nausea.  It wasn’t due to any personal issue against him.  He wasn’t any particular favourite of mine when it came to physical attraction, though I could obviously appreciate that he was good looking.  All it came down to was a simple, universal  truth; he had a penis.  The notion of any form of living creature with a penis sharing my bed made me go all goosebumps and shallow breathing.  Barring my cat, Tommy, of course.  Although, he’s neutered anyway, so doesn’t really count.

Our mothers remained oblivious to his currently sleepless situation.  If they’d been aware, they would surely have forced me to take him in, penis and all.  I did felt bad, really I did, but there wasn’t much I could do other than sit by idly while he napped on the sitting room sofa during the day, with some shitty made for TV kids movie playing on BBC in the background. 

He looked adorable when he slept.  But didn’t all boys?  With his hair all dishevelled and the slightest pout on his lips, broad chest rising and falling with deep breaths.  Everything he did had an essence of manliness about it now, a sort of dash of masculinity, not quite completed yet – but he was still young.  In time, he’d be a proper man, I knew that.  But his strong jaw and his huge, mannish hands, his long fingers that held a sense of certainty no matter how fumbling and awkward they may be in most activities, all reminded me of the fact that he was no longer the innocent boy I’d once known, despite his chubby face and mischievous, teasing smile. 

I found myself staring rather creepily at Harry’s hands remarkably often.  They were attractive, I guess.  I denied myself the thought that he could probably do really, really amazing things with those hands. 

We were talking more and more these days.  Since we’d made up about the whole bet thing.  As time went on, I began to realise that nothing was all that bad with Harry around.  He brightened up the day, a light in the monotony when it bucketed down outside from the dull, dead-looking grey sky, the little framed windows of our cottage battered by the pounding of raindrops.  We often found ourselves trapped in idle conversation with each other, lacking anything else to do, and I discovered quickly that we liked all the same music (excusing my inexplicable and rather guilty liking for Justin Bieber, which he laughed at extensively) and that we could talk at length with no trouble about movies, school, clothes, furniture, ice cream, socks…everything was a topic of discussion with Harry – his witty banter and dry, sarcastic humour could make even the strangest of subjects interesting.