Background Noise [HS]

TWENTY-ONE

Violet and Harry found sleep to be near impossible, that night. Wide awake, stunned by an electric pair of lips against her skin moments prior, she found it difficult to close her eyes. Fearful of what occurred and what it meant—the loss of his control—Harry sat perched on the edge of the otherwise vacant couch, head held in his hands, heart threatening to burst in worry from his chest.

The monumental moment carried on through the night, adrenaline lingering in the veins of both involved, one in disbelief and the other, in guilt. This intense increase in pressure heightened the tremors, so much so that his hands gripped his hair, pulling, trying in frustration to stay still.

If Harry couldn't control his own body, how was he ever supposed to control himself around her?

Inexperienced when it came to physical affection, Violet had nothing to compare it to. Was there underlying emotion behind the tender lips that graced her skin, or was it merely just that: a kiss goodnight? Was this something she should be looking into or had she already delved too deep?

Down the hall, Harry rose from the couch.

Violet couldn't even think about sleep; all she could think about was him. From the first moment she laid eyes on the man, he had her attention. Behind everything immediately apparent about Harry, there—hidden—was something deeper. Singer; artist that strode across stage wearing boots with an uncountable amount of holes, black skinny jeans, frilly shirt parted like he had nothing to hide. Beauty; olive skin complimented by features both light and dark, displayed, distracting from the hollow and sunken areas that suggested otherwise.

Perhaps delving deeper wouldn't be such a bad thing; it was what brought Violet there in the first place. No one had ever taken the time to look past Harry's rockstar persona and see him for what he really was: quite the opposite of the self-assured man they pinned him to be.

Beyond the superficial layers were ones buried deeper over the passing years. Ones that would require more digging, more delving.

The harsh fluorescent kitchen lights reflected in a body of pills, a head tipped back.

Violet's trust toward Harry had grown immensely in the passing days. After spending years without anyone worthy of such, suddenly she had someone to confide in. Violet found it difficult to describe in words the feeling of being so drawn to him from the very moment she walked into Club 102. First, it was his voice, and then—everything else. Everything she couldn't explain that occurred between then and now. It all began with an innocent infatuation and lead to nights spent away from her home to instead find refuge in his. The inexplicity of it distracted from the bond forming, from wondering what it might mean.

Before tonight, Violet thought little of where such innocent infatuation might lead her. Never predicted that she would end up there in the man's house for reasons one would least suspect. Never anticipated that he might one night leave her not only with a goodnight kiss, but speechless.

It was not until his lips graced her skin that Violet realized how Harry made her feel.

And it was not until he left there on his bed—alone—that Violet realized she wanted more. Whatever that meant, she wanted it.

Given his daily dose, Harry shut of the lights and settled into the couch, finding it to be stiff on his lower back. Placing his head at one end and feet at the other, sticking out from a blanket lacking enough material to cover his long frame, Harry closed his eyes—tried to sleep.

Violet pulled the blankets closer, stared at the ceiling—tried to sleep.

Sometimes, what-ifs are more maddening than the what-has-beens; an untold story is far worse than one that has already been written; closure is better than the unknown. There is nothing more tragic than two people vying to be with one another, kept apart by fear.