And Then There Was You [h.s]

Chapter Thirty-Four

The night was long, and consisted of me selflessly helping Anne clean up any evidence from last night's party, all while she went on about her book club.

"I wasn't a fan of it, Wuthering Heights. I mean, it was so depressing," Anne persisted, bending over to collect the empty solo cups. I filled a trash bag with remnants of food and rolled blunts, pretending to be interested. "I was all for 50 Shades, and they vetoed me, for this book! This damn book!" She waved the copy in her hands, taking her anger, rooted by Harry's poor choices, out on the novel. "I've never read it," I told her, adding a solemn, "I hate the classics." Floods of Hemingway and Fitzgerald, accompanied by symbolism and morals to stories I never understood, reminded me of one of the many things I hated about reading. I preferred modern novels, with modern problems and modern life. They were easier to understand. "Harry loves the classics. He liked Wuthering Heights, too. It's on his bookshelf somewhere. You should read it,"

"I've suffered enough on this trip," I spat.

"You and me both, kiddo," she sighed, picking up the last cup that encompassed this part of the vicinity. By the looks of this large, hallowed house, we had a long way to go.

Hours later I woke to the sound of Harry's groaning, muttering something along the lines of, 'What the fuck is going on?'. I propped myself up, unraveling from my weary slumber. "In America we call it a hangover, sweetheart," I grinned lazily, stroking my fingers through his hair. The action only reminded me of last night, and the claim Harry made. "I love you, Logan," he breathed, falling into sleep. I tried to ignore the words he spoke several hours ago, knowing he was under the influence. But it felt so real, so raw and unfeigned. The beating organ in my chest was convincing me of such. I did my best to ignore it, just as I did everything else.

Harry laid there, the ends of his hair and corners of his forehead drenched in sweat. His chest rose and fell slowly, still getting acclimated to the realm of sobriety. Last night's clothes covered his body, encapsulating his aura with the alcohol and weed delivered by the unexpected party guests. 

"Can you turn off the lights, please?" he asked, his voice strained. 

"The lights aren't on," I snorted, looking around the room to make sure I was right. The drapes were drawn and the lights were off, our room surrounded in nothing but darkness and the natural light that begged to come through from beyond the window. "Bloody hell," he groaned, his body wincing as he attempted to sit up. "Bloody hell," I mocked, causing a smile to tilt on both our faces. "You remember everything from last night?"

"Everything,"

"Oh," I looked down, fiddling with the hem of my shirt. Did he remember his confession, too? I prayed not. "Everything?"

"That's what I said, isn't it?" he chuckled, leaning over to kiss my forehead.

"Okay, but can you be a little more specific about everything you remember?" I was eager, the words rushed out of my mouth before I could properly filter them. Deep, deep down, too deep for me to want to admit, I wanted him to remember. I wanted to hear him say it again, and again, until I grew tired of hearing it, though a part of me knew I never would.

His laughter ensued, leaving my question unanswered. His hand gently coaxed his forehead in pain. "I need some Advil," he said. "You need a shower," I countered, my agitation derailing my suggestive tone. "I do. Care to join?" his grin was playful, child-like laughter leaving his lips as he noticed my stunned expression. 

I loved seeing him like this. I loved seeing happy, and I loved seeing him even if he wasn't. I loved knowing he had a story, and I'd love knowing if he didn't. I loved those stupid dimples, those damned brown locks. I loved his towering height, and the ink that covered his flesh, the very same ink I could never interpret. I loved... him. I loved Harry.