Melancholia | Drarry

the boy by the shore

Dawn comes with a scorching headache and the deadening promise of another dreary day. I don't want to go to work. This is Harry's first thought, before he opens his eyes, before he throws back the sheets to reveal a body damp with sweat, clad in red silk pajamas. His mouth is full of sand and his temple bears the invisible wounds of one-two-three whiskey shots, but he doesn't remember drinking. He doesn't remember last night at all.

The mirror, the closet, out the door to the parking lot – the route that Harry has taken many times before is marred by an ugly gouge in the gray metal of his Toyota, deep and straight in the side. "What..." He mutters, looking around the rows of cars, but there's no one nearby. He glares at the ostentatiously violet low-rider next to him, which looks suspiciously close. Harry kicks its tire, which is no solution at all, and settles for a murmured "Asshole," before slamming the damaged door of his car and heading for the train station.

I didn't go to the office today, He writes, later, sitting on the steps of an abandoned beach house, a tattered journal in his lap. Took the train to Montauk instead. I don't know why. I felt terrible this morning – I suppose I needed a break.

It's a split-second decision, standing on the usual platform, hearing the announcement for the outbound Montauk train, then running off in the other direction. He gets on just as the door closes.

It's Valentine's Day. That doesn't help.

Winter nips at Harry's fingers as he calls the administrative office for Ashfell's police department. "Hey, Penelope. Listen, I can't come in today. Will you tell Minerva for me? ...Yeah, I just don't feel well...Thanks a lot."

Valentine's Day is a holiday made up to make everyone feel so bad about themselves that they buy masses of stupid trinkets to feel better. Single people spend money on chocolate. Couples spend money on useless, sparkly gifts.

The beach house is painted dark blue, its inhabitants vacated, the white shutters and door still intact. He's been here many times before, but never has it sagged this much, like a lover weary of arguing.

A face flashes in his mind: freckled cheeks, brown eyes that remind him of a fireplace. Ginny liked Valentine's Day. Apart from that, I can't think of a single flaw in her. She's reckless, maybe. But so am I. Harry sighs, looking at the beach. She loved me.

It's then that he notices the boy by the shore, standing just where the diamond-gilded ocean meets the flat, snowy sand. At least, he thinks it's a boy, with short, bubble-gum pink hair and a forest green puffer jacket. He's gazing out at the sea, just standing and breathing. Harry wonders what he's thinking, whether he's ditching work, too. He feels a slight kinship with the boy, which is silly.

The café near the beach has a decent cup of hot chocolate and less-decent booths that make Harry sit up too straight. He bends over his journal again, doodling meaningless things, writing meaningless words. Someone else walks in – Harry spots the pink hair again, and the boy. More of a man, really, but clean-shaven and with an air of sophisticated youth. He slides into a booth facing Harry, just far enough that he can still see his face. The stranger orders a plate of pancakes and a cup of coffee.

Harry watches as the man brings his mug under the table, dumping into it the caramel-colored contents of a tiny glass bottle. The stranger looks up, accidentally meets his eyes. He smirks and raises the mug of coffee in wordless cheers. Harry glances away. I'm a grown adult with only two friends. I can't ever seem to make new ones, He writes, then thinks to himself, that's because I'm a shy bastard who has the social skills of a college freshman.