Inclination

Spirits, Snarled Rugs, Smashed Slumber

Tequila. Aside from haunting images of you crying into Harry's chest, laughing with your head thrown back, moaning with your lips wrapped around his cock, the only other thing that Harry's mind is able to process is tequila. Drinking it straight from the bottle the moment he passes the threshold of his front door and washing the taste of his fuck buddy clean from his mouth.

"If you think you might be in love with someone else, then your sexuality shouldn't matter - you're in the wrong place right now." Was he in love? How can you be in love with someone whose gender you've never been physical with? How can he be certain that the last two encounters he had with men weren't just negative flukes? How could he know how long his feelings for you are going to last and this isn't just fleeting curiosity? Is it worth ruining your friendship for experimentation that could go awry? And how does one draw the line between romantic and strong feelings of platonic or sisterly love?

He thought that he had his feelings brought to the surface and tattooed deeply, but now his mind is a mess of clippings from a magazine like a ransom note, flung into a fire and the ashes blown into a murky cloud in his mind. He wishes that he never received that phone call tonight or more importantly, never said yes to it. All of the strides that he's made towards acceptance have been kicked up like dirt and now he just wishes it would settle again.

The unnatural blue-based white lighting from the streetlights ahead roll over his skin in endless waves as he speeds home, tears burning behind his eyes and in his nasal cavity as he fusses with the brim of his backwards hat. He has the music turned completely down in his car for once so that he can concentrate. He considers going straight to your apartment but he feels too insanely unhinged to form a coherent thought let alone a verbal utterance.

He imagines meeting you at your door and pressing his lips to yours, backing you through your apartment before picking you up bridal style and tossing you into your sheets. He would kick his shoes off before diving into the mattress after you, your hair sprawled out underneath your head as he climbs on top of you and allows his weight to rest upon your melted body.

He would attach his lips to yours and draw in a deep breath when your tongues meet, encouraging you to wrap your legs around his waist as he flips you on top of him. He'd pick the sheets up and throw them over your heads as he kissed you and made out like teenagers, pressing his hips into your center and sliding his hands up your shirt. But he won't do any of those things because he's a coward. He won't do any of those things because he just had a guy's cock in his mouth and he needs to get rid of the taste.

He drives to your apartment and sits outside for long enough that it could be considered creepy. He allows the blissful artificial scene to tumble through his head on constant repeat as he watches the still, soft yellow light of your bedroom. He wonders what you're doing and wills you to page him; he tells himself that if you paged him right now, he would run up your steps two at a time and knock on your door until you appeared, recreating the bit from his imagination until you were putty in his hands.

He grips his steering wheel until his knuckles turn white and bloodless and grits his teeth equally as hard, ripping his hat from his head and tossing it into his passenger seat as he digs his hands into his hair and tugs firmly at the roots. He narrows his eyes at your window one last time before turning his blinker on, peeling back into traffic and rushing home.

His door opens violently and slams against his wall with a loud thwack, he stomps inside and trips over his scarlet Persian rug with a hushed curse, the tips of his worn boots staring back at him when he toes them off and leaves them in the middle of his living room. The top to his bottle of tequila uncorks when he pops it with his thumb, falling onto the floor as he lifts it to his lips and drags a long suck of liquid down his throat. He cringes and chokes at the harsh and bitter flavor, shuffling into his kitchen and pouring himself a double shot in a cocktail glass, flinging open his studio door and flopping onto the couch.