Aerial

The Twenty-Sixth Chapter

"Shh."

Hiccup.

"Fuckin'-"

"I'm sorry," the tiniest, organic snort ripples through your nose, "I haven't had champagne in like... a year. Or more." Harry hushes you again and you think you lower your voice this time, but you actually end up whispering just as loudly, "Harry! It tickles my insides-"

Harry cups his hand over your mouth, the leaves from the bushes that you're hiding in clinging to his curls and the crescent moon glimmering in the bend of his iris like a shiny balloon, "hey, do me a favor, Honeybunny?"

Your voice is muffled against his palm, "hmm?"

He peels his hand away to speak against your lips, his adorably frisky tendril of hair teasing your forehead, "you're so fuckin' far out, but remind me not to give you bubbles before covert gigs in the future."

Your spongy kiss is punctuated with one, delightful word of agreement that tugs on his tummy, "Roger."

It was Harry's idea to celebrate the closure of your first full week of successful and grueling practice by guzzling expensive champagne straight from the bottle, then heading up into the Santa Monica Mountains to find a pool to swim in. Harry doesn't own any champagne glasses, but you were both feeling so accomplished on a radiantly hot and sunny Friday afternoon that you didn't even bother to return home after work for proper glassware.

It had become your daily routine for Harry to run off from the theatre in a hurry to return to your secret, cozy life by leaning against Banana Split to await your arrival. You'd made a mutual decision to time your exits each day in order to remain undercover, with Harry following his historical, pre-surfing-accident pattern of jetting out as soon as he possibly could. About twenty minutes later, you would come jogging around the tree after he'd burned through two or three cigarettes, your grins enormous and delectable as he cupped the back of your neck and pulled you close for the most relieving, stomach-flipping kiss of the entire day. After all the tension from practice had heaped on top of itself for hours; the flirtatious touches and pinches, the silly teasing and funny faces, the forbidden, smoldering stares from across the room that curled your toes. That was what you both looked forward to each and every day. That first permissible kiss behind Banana Split, which you knew would likely slowly snowball for the rest of the evening until you'd both fallen asleep, cuddled up in your soft sheets.

Although you still have your clandestine beach lunch break each day, rendezvousing at Banana Split was exceptionally more satisfying than having the dread of returning to work looming on the horizon. Plus, Harry was usually asleep in about five minutes flat, after his food had been digested and he mumbled several lines of nonsense into your neck or the mercy of your stomach.

He had great terminology for this evening's plan, and in your sober brain it suspiciously sounded a lot like breaking and entering into someone's multi-million-dollar Malibu mansion for a stolen dip. But in your slightly intoxicated mind, it sounds more like borrowing someone's pool who doesn't need it as badly as you do. Harry is really good at decisive interpretations, but one thing you do remember him saying is "loaded folks are never home, Honeycomb. You're hot. Let's get you wet."

You trust me, remember?

You've never had this much champagne in one night before and you swear the bubbles are popping inside of your stomach and making it impossible to stop giggling or something. Harry is being exceedingly patient with you as usual, even though he doesn't see it that way. He doesn't view you as a tenderfoot or thorny obligation. In fact, he hardly seems bothered by anything you do; your daily gunfire of questions, your naiveté, your reluctance to be forthcoming with emotions. You're aware of his tolerance and composure anyhow and you appreciate it beyond all rational measure; the way he doesn't force you into anything of sexual nature even though he's literally and metaphorically bursting at the seams for a taste. The way he defaults to tender kisses when you're anxious or upset. The way he wields determination and natural humor to cushion almost any tense occasion. The way he supports your maddeningly perfectionistic drive for dancing and trapeze. The way his continual, nonjudgmental insights and empathy enhance resiliency and promote mindfulness in everyone who comes in contact with him.