The Timeline [h.s.]

82.

March 31st, 2019:

Harry had cut his hair.

Which was quite unfortunate for David, because he couldn't even make fun of him when he opened the door for him, on the early evening of that Sunday.

He had been counting on that. No offense, nothing personal (that one was most likely a lie, let's be honest), but Harry's hair had been quite the mess for the past couple of months, and during his event in New York they had looked pretty funny to David. He was looking forward to seeing him, when he showed up to pick Claire up for their night together, and throw some veiled comments about them.

But Harry had decided to upset the applecart and get a dignified haircut that made him look quite similar to how he had been during his Dunkirk shooting times. That was, according to David, quite handsome. Sexy, even.

When he opened the door and was met face to face with the man - they were the same height, David had never spent too much time thinking about it - his mouth had dropped slightly in shock at the sight of him. Harry had had the good sense to keep quiet, knowing that the last time he had spoken to David, the younger guy had cleared him and given him a run for his money, berating him for not being honest with Claire about his feelings for her.

"Well, well, well..." - he had recovered, soon enough, with a slight shake of his head. - "The prodigal son returns."

Harry took the jab with enough grace, bowing his head and nodding slightly, his bottom lip jutting out.

"Evening, David." - he answered after a short beat, looking up and over his shoulder to the illuminated hallway behind the guy, hoping that he'd be invited to step in so he could wait for Claire in the privacy of their home, and not stand there like the idiot he was starting to feel.

He was sure that David had been informed about the contents of his call with Claire, the previous day, of how eager he had been, how he had been holding up the reservations until Claire was going to give him an answer. Privileges of being as rich as he was, sure, but Harry was under absolutely zero impressions that David would have any qualms about making fun of him. For being so down bad.

He squared his shoulders, then, because he reminded himself he didn't care what David thought about how he chose to express his feelings for Claire. They had been bottled up and neglected for just enough time to last him a lifetime; they ought to be let out, and he couldn't care less how pathetic the expressions of said feelings would make him appear to be.

Unless said judgement came from Claire, of course.

He cleared his throat, and sent another glance to David. He hoped it'd be eloquent enough.

David snorted softly. - "Of course you can come in. I'm not an animal. Come on." - he stepped to the side to let him inside and Harry gingerly set foot inside of the house.

As he had expected, Claire still wasn't ready. But that wasn't a problem: he had been a bit early, his nerves forcing him to get ready and drive the short distance between his house and Claire's in Wembley. He was eager to see her, to see her face and watch her eyes, spend the evening with her, make up for their lost time. And, truth be told, he was incredibly nervous. Anxious, even, for things to go the right way. Almost as if it was the first run of a show he had been planning his entire life.

He walked to the living room without waiting for David to make way - he knew their house like the back of his hands, by then - and leaned his head through the threshold, expecting to find Theodore sitting at the coffee table, playing with one of his toys or coloring. He was looking forward to also seeing the baby, because his presence had been known to have a calming effect on him. But he was met with an empty room and a turned off television.