Aerial

The Twentieth Chapter

Harry has been waiting on the steps of your building for over an hour now, actively pushing Rusty's threats and Tex's warnings to the back of his mind as he spins the thick, fuzzy stem of a single sunflower between his fingers. Neither of them has any fucking idea how he suffers, how the depth of importance regarding you winds much deeper than either of them can even begin to comprehend. This is a force beyond him or beyond you; gravity is what holds the fiery ball of gas which we call the sun together and this isn't much different at all. We can't explain why stars exist, so there is so point in piecing together all of the fragments and reasons behind your attraction, it just is and it must be. So fuck Rusty and fuck Tex and fuck everyone. This romance is for your eyes only.

This isn't about his rod or his career or his friendships or his brain injury, this is about learning to fly with clipped wings. This is about finding satisfaction in the midst of a struggle, opposing heartbeats begging for a merciful opportunity to interlock, soothing the angry roar of confounded demands in his stomach, the vindication of hearing you hum against his lips that he's right and he's pure and he's yours. This is about everything that has happened and has yet to happen. This is about a love that's teetering somewhere between forbidden and explosive, and no one besides you and him have any fucking idea the sway of its unrelenting power.

Rusty's plan backfired anyway. There's nothing that Harry loves more than something that's prohibited and difficult to attain, a dirty and naughty little secret to keep tucked away inside of the chambers of his heart. A red lipstick stain folded up inside of a silken handkerchief and nestled into his shirt pocket right next to his tender love muscle. The very nature of it is a romance for the ages, a weathered novel about a love affair with the divine princess of an exotic land, sharing stolen kisses in cold, echoing hallways when no one is watching and loving each other regardless of what anyone says. Regardless of how much it aches every second that you're apart.

Harry knew it was inappropriately late by the time he left Hound Dogs and stopped at his van to throw on something more presentable, more respectable for your sake. Cuffed denim jeans, broken-in high tops and a clean wifebeater covered up by heavy leather, a hunk of fresh gum and a couple swipes of his fingers through his hair. But he didn't give a fuck when he showed up at your place, he knocked on your door and rang the bell until your roommate answered in her bathrobe and sent him away with a vague explanation of you being out for the night.

Her summary didn't feel right, her eyes conveyed a short story of obstacle courses and perhaps a dash of pity for his sake, but he couldn't place exactly why because it would seem that she is just as evasive as he is when it comes to shitty feelings. Maybe you'd come home and cried on her shoulder about how he'd left you hurt and exposed in the practice room and she was merely being protective, but it was unlike you to be out this close to midnight, especially when you were meant to be up for work in a few hours.

Harry had considered the possibility that you were actually home and she was just covering for you, so he asked if he could come inside and wait on your couch, but her horrified expression made his insides bleed. He begged for more information, but she simply said that it needed to be a conversation between you and him. He tried once more to cross your threshold, with the excuse of leaving the sunflower on your kitchen counter or needing a drink of water from the tap, but she sadly mumbled an apology and shook her head.

Apologies are the fucking worst. They don't mean shit unless they're trudged up from the churning, bona fide wrench of your guts and he has a feeling that he might have to dust off his dormant atonement and toss you one tonight to win you back. To win you once and for all.

Your roommate's dismissal wouldn't send him far away though and they both knew it. He flung his weak body down your steps and plopped himself on the front stoop outside, checking his watch every thirty seconds or so and glancing up and down your street each time he heard the ghostly melody of your roller skates on the pavement. His stomach swirled and swirled with dread and it drove him nuts that he couldn't place why, but his intuition is healthy and distinct, and he had a feeling that something was about to disintegrate in his hands.