Happier - a drabble series

#5

You love summer storms.

There's something about the sheer power of mother nature, about the rolling of the dark clouds as they make their way over London, the soft rumble of thunder in the distance, and the smell of that hot, summer air mixing with the promise of rain that always seems to make you a little happier. This one seemed to have come out of nowhere - it had been quite pleasant only an hour before, and you loved that you'd witnessed the change with your own eyes.

You're sitting on your balcony with a glass of red wine perched on a little table beside you, your book lay untouched as you admired the sky, watching it grow ever darker.

The past week had been a lot like the immediate weather: sudden, unexpected, and just as tumultuous as you knew this storm was going to be.

You should have known that of course you were bound to see Harry at some point after everything that had happened between you. You'd not expected to react so strongly to him, to his words. When he'd ended it, you were reminded that it was he that did not want to be with you. You, who had tried hard to work things through, to be kind and understanding. You'd crossed an ocean for this man, and he....

It had broke you when he said he couldn't do this anymore. Whether it was out of guilt because he was never home, or selfishness, you'd never know.

So why, last week, did he look just as broken as you felt? Why did he look as though he'd seen a ghost when you turned to him in line at the bar?

Why did he tell you that you looked happier, when really you had been falling apart all over again?

You pick up your glass of wine, taking a sip as the first rolls of thunder start rumbling through. It gives you goosebumps, and part of you wants to sit out here and enjoy it for as long as you can.

You shut off your thoughts, letting yourself get submerged into the sounds and sights of the oncoming summer storm. The sky darker now, washing downtown London in hues of grey as the first few large drops of rain begin to hit the railing of your balcony.

The rain is heavy. It's calming in a way, and you settle back into your seat with your glass of wine in hand, swirling the contents every so often before taking generous sips. You're eventually going to have to go in and make some sort of dinner, though you're considering ordering some curry from the place down the road.

Your thoughts on dinner are cut short when the intercom in your flat buzzes.

You glance back into your home, quirking a brow at the intercom. You weren't expecting anyone - you'd closed yourself off to your friends after your little excursion last weekend - so you ignore it.

But it buzzes.

And buzzes again.

And again.

....and again.

You set your glass down on the table. "Alright, alright, I'm coming..." you mumble. "Don't have a conniption..."

You make your way to the intercom and press the talk button. "Who is it?"

You press the listen button and hear the soft breathing coming from the other end. You were about to walk away from the damn thing and enjoy the rest of your wine when a voice breaks through the silence. "It's me."

It's me.

Two words. Two words and it's like you're back there again. Back to the beginning. Your heart beats triple time. Your finger hovers over the talk button for a moment, tempted, but curiosity wins out."Harry?"

"S'me. I'm uh....I'm a bit wet."

You rest your forehead against the wall, letting your eyes fall shut. "Yeah. It's raining," is all you whisper out.

"I can leave if you want," he continues. You can picture him standing in the lobby, dripping wet and looking like a sad puppy. "I just came to talk to you...see if we could like....I can leave if you want."

You don't know what possesses you. Maybe it was the sound of dejection in his voice. Or the way the way he looked at you last week with such sadness, but you press the door button on your intercom, making a noise as you drop your hand away. There was not enough wine in the world, though you were considering grabbing the bottle...

It doesn't take long for him to knock on your door.

It takes you a whole two minutes before you open it.

You suck in a breath. He is soaking wet from head to toe, his hair falling a little into his eyes, with little rivers of rainwater tracking down his forehead, over his cheekbones and dripping off his chin. His hands are braced on the doorframe and he looks tired. Tired, pained.

"Little...." he begins, though something stops him from using the familiar nickname, and it dies in his throat. It makes your chest hurt seeing him like this, but you hold your ground, standing in the doorway, hand poised on the handle.

"I've been an idiot," he says quietly, in a voice that you've not heard before. It's soft, resigned. Broken, you think to yourself, and your heart feels like it's been pressed into a vice. "'ve been stupid and dumb, and you deserve better than me, deserve more than I can offer, but...fuck, I was fucking stupid t'let you go. I shouldn't have let you...and it's dumb f'me to be standing here to tell you I want you back."

You suck in a breath and it feels like your legs are suddenly made of jello.

"And you have every right to tell me where to shove it. Tell me to bugger off and never talk to you again and if that's what you want I'll do it. But..I do. I can't do this without you."

"Harry I–" you begin, but he shakes his head, dropping his hands from the doorframe to stand in front of you properly. He looks down at you, those green eyes serious.

There's a long moment between you both, and you can feel the electricity crackling in the air. There's a hesitation on his part as he lifts his hands and settles them against your cheeks. Your whole body seems to unwind from its tight coil, and his fingers cool and damp on your warm skin, and he tilts your face up a little to look at him.

"M'sorry," he whispers, and his thumbs smooth across your cheekbones. He looks as though he is memorizing every inch of your face, as if its the last time he'll ever see you. "I'm so...so sorry."

You shake your head - or as much as you can within his grasp, and curl your fingers into his shirt. You hate seeing him like this: like a broken shell of a man who doesn't know what he's doing. But you both need to talk. You're hurt, and he's hurting, but nothing is going to come of this right this moment.

You're going to talk.

But for now....

You walk backwards, tugging him into your flat, and he stumbles a little over his own feet as he is a little more occupied with looking at you, rather than where you're leading him. "Come watch the rain with me?" You ask after a heartbeat. "I have some dry clothes we can get you into and...."

You're going to talk.

"I'd like that, little bird."