Aerial

The Nineteenth Chapter

The rack clatters and breaks apart upon the strike of the cue ball dotted with fading scuffs of blue chalk, the drab rainbow of solids and stripes darting in a dozen different ways as the balls bounce against the green felted rails and sink into pockets with muted clacks. Harry has no outward reaction when he unfolds himself to standing and eyes the pool table, a single twist of hair brushing his eyelashes when his cheeks sink upon a harsh drag of his cigarette. He bangs the bumper of his pool cue against the worn hardwood floor and grumbles, "stripes," before aligning himself up for another shot, a lump of blushing rosy ash snapping from the end of his smoke and falling noiselessly to the table below.

Oh god, Harry. It hurts.

Harry feels endless guilt for the manner in which he left you. Your small, dejected and helpless posture on the mat, in the center of the high-ceilinged practice room with your beautifully tragic hair framing your cheekbones. It was so much fucking information for him to digest in such a short period of time; your tendon flare-up and only detectable flaw that he can see, followed by Rusty's malicious threat that backed him into a snaring cul-de-sac. Two punches to the gut, a set of deflated balloons replacing his lungs.

He meant it when he said that he could work around your weak ankle. You're an entire castle built of bricks and honey. Your injury simply adds a layer of beautiful vulnerability to your foundation and he's armed with more than enough fortitude to help you raise your flags high. As far as he's concerned, every single part of you down to your literal achille's heel and deflective questioning is stone-cold perfection and he just wishes you would creak your iron gates open the slightest bit for him to slip through the fortress style doors. To him, your reluctance is a paradox of reasonable and irrational. He can understand the fallbacks of losing your head over the one person who bleeds into every area of your life, but the temptation is so strong that it seems like a cowardly waste not to explore it.

What's the point of falling in love if it doesn't destroy your life a little bit?

He imagines that if you so much as heard a breath of Rusty's intentions, it could cause you to violently backtrack, not even giving a second thought to the idea of risking your dream career for Harry's idiotic shenanigans. Any sort of leeway that he'd made over the weekend would be completely crumbled to fluorescent dust, your lips puckering into a gorgeously mournful pout as you blew the pile of love glitter from your palm to set it free.

Harry's brain has been working on overdrive for the past six hours to try to come up with a rationale on how to convince you to proceed with the staggering passion sparking between you. He could risk your reaction with a heavy dose of honesty in the vain hope that you would throw caution to the wind and agree to date him in secret. Or he could brush it under the rug and pretend he's none-the-wiser, acting in pure shock when you're caught and both subsequently fired from your posts. Except he's a shit liar and he knows it. He would never be able to pull off a hoax that tangled and long-winded for his own benefit and in the bitter end, you would absolutely hate him for everything he's put you through.

Then of course, there's always the option of backing down completely, but that's not fucking happening.

He was so close this afternoon, with your body tucked underneath his in the grass and his lips a mere lollipop stick away from yours, but he blew it. It was the wrong place and the wrong time for a girl as classy as you. You'd never dream of giving away a first kiss in such a public, spontaneous setting, but he struggles every single second he's around you to contain his instincts. It feels as though they're constantly pressing against the seams of his clothing, begging and whining for a sip of fresh air and sweet cherry syrup.

Keep your rod in your pants, Styles.

Harry grits his teeth and sucks in the final drag of his Crush cigarette, the paper burning to give way to the filter, before stubbing it out into an ashtray full of squashed hearts and burnt flower petals, "'mm gonna strangle the skuzz fuck who ratted us out."