Aerial

The Twelfth Chapter

SURPRISE DOUBLE UPDATE!

Harry has never been the kind of person to ignore his instincts or the guidance of his body's desires. Luckily he has thick skin and a set of oily feathers with as much slick resilience as a penguin, otherwise the countless denial of you wanting to be close to him would have withered him hours ago. He watches you watch your bare feet kick sand as you walk a safe distance from the lap of the shore to a hidden cut out where Harry remembers spending a lot of his free time. He would often park his van there because it felt sheltered and private, allowing him to be naked at his leisure and to sleep without feeling exposed.

He has exactly two goals to apprehend by sundown today; seeing at least a sliver of your bare skin and convincing you to go on a date with him. The word 'determined' comes to mind, but Harry doesn't see it as a negative aspect of his personality. He never rests until he accomplishes exactly what he wants and he is anything but proficient.

If Harry could shoot laser beams from his eyes, your skin would have melted off within the first ten seconds of being in his presence.

You draw your sight from your feet to bare the burden of his everlasting stare, your attention dropping to the dazzling smile that's been permanently etched into his features, "what?" He doesn't respond, his smile only growing bigger which is so ridiculous that it only causes yours to spark as well, "Harry. What?"

He shakes his head but keeps his gaze glued to you, "you're so cute. Dunno. Really want you to like me." He rolls both of his lips into his mouth in a coy pause to gauge your reaction. His earnest simplicity is endearing, but you simply can't bring yourself to fully believe the authenticity of it. His vulnerability shines through the uncomplicated statement, his confidence a contradiction to his sincere expression.

You roll your eyes and study the sand again, "do you always just say the first thing that pops into your head?"

"Yeah."

Your delivery is not very convincing due to the laugh blistering your words, "well, stop it." You can see his fingers reaching for your hand in your peripheral vision, so you use the opportunity to toy with the strap on your skate, hoping that he will just take the hint so that you don't have to bark at him your need for space, "where are you taking me?"

"Little date spot."

"This isn't a date."

Harry shrugs with no conviction behind the action. He figures if he keeps saying the word 'date' that it will eventually seep into your subconscious and get him what he wants, "'kay. What does your hair look like when you wear it down?"

"I don't wear it down often-"

Harry laughs and tries to tug on the cornflower blue ribbon wrapped in a bow around your hair to keep it from your face, "that's not what I asked." He holds his palms up in mercy when you gently swat his hands away. He was so close to tugging it loose and seeing it tickle your neck and shoulders, "tell me somethin' you wouldn't have easily let me know before. I'll start. I like cold showers."

You remember running into him the morning he was showering at the beach and for a moment, you're sad that you're the only one who has a memory of it. Even if you were well beyond embarrassed to see his personal bits hanging and dripping along with the watery sunrise. His advice about not relying on your body as your only means of identity suddenly makes much more sense now that you know more about his damaged history. You wish that you could somehow have the best of both worlds with Harry; the cognizance of your history along with the sweet doting that he's laying on thicker than buttercream frosting on a birthday cake.

The hitch in your throat conveys some sort of hesitance that he doesn't quite understand, but he navigates your silence and continues to push anyway, "'kay... what's your favorite smell?"