Forever Young

Chapter 1

Harry walks past the bar again. It's only his third attempt at going inside, well, for today anyway. But his resolve is steely; tonight will be the night he finally goes inside.

He just needs a little more courage and the park bench on the other side of the street seems as good a place as any to work on that, so he steps up to the edge of the footpath and waits for the traffic to pass before crossing over and sitting down.

He's never been particularly confident around new people; his slightly awkward nature and the self-consciousness that can gnaw at him when he feels like everyone is looking at him but not really seeing him, judging him before giving him a chance. Once he gets to know someone though, things improve markedly, his true colours shining through. He's intelligent and thinks he's pretty witty, and though he's accepted that his brand of humour isn't necessarily for everyone, he has a good heart and is a fiercely loyal friend. He just needs people to give him a chance and maybe, he needs to give himself a chance too.

The town is softly humming around him, steeped in that innate normalcy of life that happens without explicit thought or consideration; people lugging bags of shopping and heading home after their workdays are done, a couple holding hands, a man walking a dog.

He'd been taking an evening stroll on his first day in town when he'd first spotted the bar. He knew the piles of moving boxes in his cottage wouldn't unpack themselves, but he'd needed to get some fresh air and a little wander to get to know his new town center had seemed like a good distraction. Wedged between two red-brick buildings, the blackened wood frontage of the bar had seemed to have been painted on, out of place and yet somehow perfectly suited to the eclectic mishmash of its surroundings. It was welcoming and drew him to it instantly; a strange familiarity calling to him like an old friend.

But on that first night, and those that followed between then and now, there was something holding him back from going inside. He'd initially rationalized it as him just being cautious, not wanting to put himself out there until he was certain, but of what, he didn't know. It was just a bar.

As the weeks passed, however, it was as though the calling intensified, until he now finds himself staring at it from the distanced safety of the other side of the street, the last niggles of nervousness prodding at his psyche. It's absurd, is the thing, and he's truly not even sure what's driving his trepidation anymore.

A man walks past, momentarily distracting Harry, his trench coat flapping against his thighs as he strides along, a bunch of flowers in the crook of his arm and a bottle of wine in his hand. Harry wonders what sort of reception awaits the man when he reaches his destination. Is he meeting a date perhaps? Maybe it's an anniversary? Or is he wracked with guilt and these gifts are his way of asking for forgiveness from whoever he's wronged?

Harry's mind offers up a flashback: Stefan standing at his door, scarf wound round his neck to ward off the winter chill, a bouquet of flowers held out in front of him, and a beaming smile on his face. It was the first and last time he'd brought flowers, Harry recalls, and realises that the once-off gesture really should have been a red flag. Not that Harry's someone who needs flowers and other gifts, but it's the intent behind them, the thought more than the materialistic aspect, that's what's important.

His and Stefan's relationship had lasted nearly two years, but it really should've been over after one, Harry can admit that now. He'd just been so desperate to make it work, to prove that he could, that his secret didn't define him. That he could have a normal life and maintain a relationship like regular people, but he'd held on too hard and for too long. Looking back, they were both to blame, but it had ultimately been Stefan's dismissal of Harry's work, his art, that was the beginning of the end.