Reticent (h.s fanfic, punk Harry)

Chapter 32

Maybe I've ripped it all apart, but the pieces are all there.

Harry's mattress was lumpy. Not the comfortable kind where you kind of wiggle around while the material sucked you in. It was bloated one some places while it felt like you were on the floor in others. I wondered silently what dad would do about this one. Another lie?

Harry laid on his back, his black shirt raised a few inches, feeding my eyes with the small tattoo at the bottom of his stomach. The only noise between us was the water dripping, the tub slowly taking the blows one by one as the droplets came to splash, spread, then slowly dissipate into nothing.

His chest rose and fell, reminding me of that inky butterfly that flew up and down, matching the theme of his respiration, his flutter of a heartbeat. Without a thought, my hand traveled to that spot, the black butterfly, covered by that black shirt, awaiting, calling for my touch. If I closed my eyes, I knew, I knew I would make out a small dark butterfly, fluttering off his chest. sashaying right and left, no knowledge of how to fly. I could imagine the thing, flapping with too much strength, getting tired. Sitting, sleeping. Wilting away. And somehow, someway Harry would bring it back, set it back on his milky chest, and share his own breath, his own heart, to keep this creature alive, to let his mother caress it softly while she wilted away.

His breathing didn't stop from my touch, it fastened. The flutter became more prominent. The beat vibrating off my hand.

"Why is it black? Why haven't you colored the butterfly?"

His light green eyes cascaded down to me, boring a hole through me. His full pink lips opened to let out a breath he had been holding. His hand came to mine. "Why should I color it in?"

I thought, his words, his voice, his simple stare made me forget why I would think such a thing and question his artistic mind. "I'm-" I sighed, I felt subdued under his viridescent eyes. So while I sat there with one hand on his chest, another on my own lap, I watched him watch me and wait, for what? I had no idea.

Harry looked away after some time and let his eyes feed on a small butterfly that had came to sit on the window sill. It danced around the sill until it decided to come inside, then it circled around for a minute until the urge to go back became too much. It flapped it hovered, but it had no way to get back outside, no indication of where his entrance laid. So it flew to wall and sat on it. Harry's eyes followed the creature, his pupils dilating slowly as it came closer flying over his head, sitting on his hair, then flying off again.

"I tried making a crown once," Harry's voice overpowered over the dancing of the butterfly in the room. "But it broke too many times, so I gave up."

"A crown?" I suppose my question had died away from the entrance of the butterfly, or maybe it flew around, waiting to be called to once more.

He nodded, his long hair shifted slightly, a few strands had escaped the bun he'd made. "A crown made of butterflies. Louis and I were running around in my backyard, but whenever we placed a butterfly on our heads, it would fly away."

"You tried to make a butterfly crown?" For some odd reason that warmed my heart. I could almost picture a small Harry running around a field filled with butterflies trying to get the things to stay on his head. I let myself envisage making him a crown. A crown of butterflies. One that wouldn't fly away.

But they would have to be dead to stay.

"That's cute," I let myself say. "I made a flower crown once," I told him, hands sliding away from his chest landing on his hand, on a rose tattoo.