Sweet Tooth [HS]

THIRTY ONE

Later.

They had moved onto the kitchen floor a while ago. Harry was laying on Max's stomach, his head nestled between the soft peaks of her breasts as her hands played lightly with his hair. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them felt they needed to.

Max was sort of just revelling. Sort of just unwinding from what had just happened. Sort of trying to remind herself that this was not a dream and that this was actually completely real. That Harry, this man laying on top of her stomach, who had all but broken his finger knocking her door down, who had just fucked her on her kitchen counter, was real.

And he had just appeared because, what? He needed her, he wanted her, he cared about her.

That was why.

And Max had to fight the school-girl yelp of joy that threatened to escape from her lips at the reminder that she was not alone in her care.

That this beautiful boy cared about her too.

"What you smiling about, baby?"

Max looked down and saw Harry staring up at her, watching her in that way he did. She wanted to tell him there was no need to ask, because she was convinced he could already read her mind.

"What do you think?" She countered, tugging gently on a lock of his hair.

"That I just fucked you like a pornstar?"

Max laughed. "Close enough."

Harry hummed, laughing too. He then moved his body upwards, rested his weight on his elbows either side of her head so their eyes were level.

He didn't say anything, just stared at her. And she just stared too. At his eyes, his nose, his lips, the shape of his forehead and the pores on his cheeks. She was trying to commit this moment to memory. Wanted to keep this second, this particular angle of his face and the feel of his hot breath on hers and the heaviness of his body as it pushed her into the kitchen tiles - she wanted to save it. Wanted to lock it all into her somehow. Wanted to keep it, conceal it, bury it so she never lost it. So when he was away it could fall over her again like rain, so that tomorrow she could gather it up and press it over herself again. To relive this.

To have him forever.

The words I love you danced in her mind. Fell upon her lips and she wanted to say it. Wanted to scream it, actually.

But then Harry rolled off her, and lay beside her on his back. Max hated how cold she suddenly felt.

"Maxie," he said quietly.

"Mhmm?" She asked, turning her head to look at him. He was staring at the ceiling, suddenly far away.

"I'm always thinking about you," Max bit her lip. He made it sound like a bad thing. "It's why I came here tonight. I couldn't sleep. I just wanted to be near you." He paused and looked down at her. The light from the moon outside had seeped into the room, casting her in a glow so that she looked like an angel. A ghost. Like she wasn't real.

"Hey," Max said, bringing a hand to his cheek. "Hey. What's up? Is something wrong with that?"

"No, I just- " he paused. "I don't know how this is gonna go. The label loved my song. They were already talking about the new tour, when I've written the rest of the album. I just - I need to be near you. I can't be near you when I have to go away again."

And it was like suddenly Max was in another moment. A new lifetime. The warmth and the softness had gone cold and suddenly the kitchen floor felt hard and painful. There was something sour in her mouth. There was suddenly a knife in her gut.

They didn't need to talk about this. They didn't need to talk about him going away. It was too much for Max. It was too ugly. It brought back too many nasty memories of rattling pipes that weren't Harry at her door and unread messages and empty spaces and all the heartbreaking fucking rest of it.

So she couldn't talk about this, not right now. It was too cold a reminder of how finite this was, when in that moment it felt like it would last forever.

She wanted to put the thoughts- this very real fact that Harry would have to leave at some point - she wanted to forget it ever existed. Wanted to put it in a box and label it DO NOT OPEN. Stow it away. Out of sight, out of mind.

And besides, the album was nowhere near done. He had a single finished song, right? It was going to be at least a year before he had to go away again.

Right?

Max decided to shake her head. She wasn't talking about this with him right now. The box was taped up and it was getting shoved into a dark corner of her brain.

She was too happy right now.

This was too good.

"Harry, stop. That's so far away," she leaned down, pressing her body against his, holding his cheek in the palm of her hand. No, he couldn't leave. She couldn't even think about it. Wouldn't even let herself.

"Don't think about it," she said to him, but it was more for her own sake. "It's just you and me right now. Just us. Nothing else."

Max leaned forwards and kissed him lightly on the lips, squeezing her eyes tightly closed so that no tears could escape.

"You're so lovely, you know," he said when she pulled away.

And Max could have said I love you, then. But the cold realisation of Harry leaving again, even though it wouldn't be soon, had made her realise, yet again, how fucking complicated this all was.

How unsteady they were.

How impossible this could be.

But then Harry leaned up, lifted her up from the floor and carried her gently into bed. Silently they curled into each other, their bodies becoming one beneath the sheets as they inhaled each others exhales in the small gap between their lips.

Max couldn't think of anything but his hands as she fell asleep.