Dancing on the Moon {h.s.}

5. We're Crooked Men With Crooked Politics

how CUTE is my man?? xx
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(Jayden's POV)

When I was fourteen, I was sitting with my then best friend, Winona, during lunch hour. My relationship with my parents had started to go downhill, so I had been going to her a lot. Maybe I was hoping she would understand, or that she somehow had a remedy for the conflict and confusion I was feeling back then. What I don't know is if she ever really listened. I'm positive she did a couple of times because around the tenth time, she sighed in frustration when I was talking. That was until she looked me dead in the eyes and said, "Jay, saying all these things on a first date is guaranteed to cost you the guy."

Flash forward to when I was fifteen and my brain had been cultivating turmoil within itself for the past two years, and I had grown so frustrated with it that I finally swallowed my pride and walked into the counselor's office. She suggested I let my parents in on the situation so she could proceed to refer me to a some therapists. Long story short, I had walked right out of that cursed kitchen, with my mom's words ringing through my ears. You are completely fine. You are just convincing yourself you're not as a scapegoat. You are just as smart and intelligent and healthy as the other kids.

You are. You are. You are. I was growing tired of them telling me who I am and who I was to be and how to feel and where to go and when to go and what to say and how to speak.

That's when I vowed to never let anyone in ever again.

"So, are you done figuring me out?" I asked, growing frustrated by this foreigner's unsolicited attempts to knock at my door. He pursed his lips and looked up, a look in his eyes I couldn't decipher.

"I am still learning," he answered in a tone so soft I felt it could stop wars. I just scoffed and sat down on the bench next to me. I had begun feeling the alcohol wearing off, because the cool summer breeze was being completely noticed. The boy took his seat next to me.

"What was your name again?"

"Harry," he responded, smiling lazily. "Harry Styles."

I nodded. "Jayden Morris."

"No middle name?"

"What's yours?"

"I asked first."

"The first time isn't always the best time," I retorted. He just laughed and shook his head.

"Edward. Now you."

"Carter," I said with a sigh of defeat. "Jayden Carter Morris."

"Nice to finally meet you, Miss Jayden Carter Morris," he giggled, holding his hand out. I shook it hesitantly and gave him a slow nod. We stayed in silence for the next minute or so, until he decided to speak up. "Are you going to college here?"

I cleared my throat. "Taking a year off. Not sure what I want to do yet."

"No letters of acceptance?"

"I'm planning on going to SVA in New York, if my parents don't choose to fuck it up for me," I replied, looking down.

"You paint?" he asked, having a hopeful tone. I raised my eyebrow.

"Somewhat. Music is mostly what I do but maybe I can land a record deal before my art career takes off."

"That sounds amazing."

"It does, doesn't it? It's a shame I have parents who continuously piss me off by telling me I'm doing myself and their reputation no good by chasing a nonexistent potential of a career."

"So you have a problem with authority," he said, but it came off more like a question.

"A non-conformist, more like."

"I like you."

"No you don't," I stated confidently. I rested my arms on my legs as I leaned down to look across the street from where we were sitting. He nodded briefly and looked the other way. Just then a couple of college-aged boys stumbled out of the bar, clearly wasted out of their minds. One of them had two joints in one hand and saw me staring. He offered one of them and Harry looked at me, wondering what my next move would be. I gladly accepted and the boys began strolling off. I took a long drag and stayed quiet for a while, both of us lost in thought.

"You know what pisses me off?" I asked and saw him waiting for me to go on with eager eyes. I sighed. "It pisses me off that there's always another human out there who feels entitled enough to tell you who to be. Like they're qualified to tell you who you are and you're not to have a say. Be a doctor. Be a lawyer, for fuck's sake, Jayden. Totally not like there's thousands of artists out there who are living a better life than my lawyer daddy. Your money is dirt when you're not happy."

I took another drag, seeing his eyes were still on me. I wondered if they had left me anywhere along the lines. I don't think they had. He urged me to go on.

"I don't want to be a doctor. I don't want to be of the people who surround themselves with the sick and the dying every single fucking day. There's enough of those. There's too many of those. But at the end of the day, you all have a sickness that will never go away. I have it, too. And all your antibiotics and antipyretics and antiseptics are gonna do little to nought. There's also too many lawyers. I'd be one. Except I don't think I'd be able to maintain my cool around these halfwits we have the audacity to call authority. Plus, it's like I'm getting paid thousands and millions of dollars just to stand in the face of an old hag and say, "He didn't do it." It's all a joke. There's so many things that could go wrong and I won't be able to defend that guy when he's literally innocent. Then what am I gonna do with all this money that isn't morally mine?

"And let's say I get another job. One in an office. I'm gonna be climbing this corporate ladder. But all for what? I get the promotion and the money. Then what? I buy myself a house and some land to farm on for when I'm old and arthritis is kicking my butt. Then what? You begin saving all this money to spend but then when you do come to spend it, you realize it's the end of the line and you're ten minutes away from meeting your maker.

"I'd much rather paint a portrait with a big "fuck you" written across the face and hang it up on the Congress doors than sit in a seat for an eight to five job, typing away miserably on the computer and waiting for the numbers to go up. It's all a pointless game, really. An endless monopoly game for the elite to have a laugh and a drink about."

I looked up at him, and he kept on staring, his mouth slightly ajar. I huffed out a laugh as I observed his flabbergasted expression.

"Do you, by any chance, plan on running for president anytime soon?" he asked quietly, as if raising his voice in the slightest could burst this tiny bubble I had blown for myself. I just chuckled.

"Not in a million years. We're crooked men with crooked politics, Harry."

"I must be going crazy because I'm pretty sure I'm sitting in front of an insane existentialist."

"Kierkegaard's the name of the game, Styles."

"I love that guy! So depressing, he was-"

"Marry, and you will regret it. Don't marry, you will also regret it. Laugh at the world's foolishness, you will regret it. Weep over it, you will regret that too. Hang yourself, you will regret it. Do not hang yourself, and you will regret that too. This, my dear sir, is the essence of all philosophy," I rambled right before I started obnoxiously laughing at his expression again.

"You really fucking went at it, didn't you?" he asked, a dancing amusement in his eyes.

"Go big or go home," I shrugged.

"I'm going home, then," he joked and I shook my head.

"There's a lot you're gonna be missing out on, then, friend."

"If I go, I'll regret it," he said quietly as he leaned in, like all his secrets were going to drip from his mouth in any moment now. "But if I stay, it'll be the only thing I won't regret."

-

i enjoyed writing this chapter so much don't even get me started.

anywayssss

hope your Friday was well and full of sunshine. <3

Love

E. x