Noir

On tourne en rond. (we're going in circles)

[tw: domestic abuse]

•••

The red Malibu Player Fender Harry's sister Gemma gave him for his birthday last month sat in his lap. He plucked at its strings, the fire roaring in his backyard's sunken pit reflecting in his exhausted eyes. Tiring of his lengthy mane falling into his face, he pulled the elastic from his wrist and quickly tied up his locks, his attention following a pair of his friends speeding past, screaming at the top of their lungs.

"Might have to post 'no running' signs out here, H," said Kyra, honey eyes wide as she, too, watched Paris chase Nick around the pool. Nick wore a unicorn float around his slim waist while Paris repeatedly bopped Nick's head with a pool noodle.

"If they slip and die, they deserved it," Harry said loudly enough for them to hear, complete with an innocent smile as Nick scoffed, holding his middle finger high in the air as his bare foot skimmed one of the infinity edges of the shimmering blue pool.

"That's homophobic!" Nick shouted, dodging Paris yet again only to stop in his tracks to take a proper drag from his cigarette.

"Swear to god, it's his favorite fucking word," Kyra chuckled, wrapping her arms across her baby blue sweater to hold off the cool wind blowing around Harry's backyard. Southern California was hardly ever cold, really, which created the illusion that it was freezing whenever the weather dipped below seventy degrees. "Now he's stopped to have a fag break."

"Are we using derogatory phrases against me?" Nick gasped as he schlepped to sit beside Harry on a wooden pit bench, the float squeaking with his motions.

"She's talking about the cigarettes, you twit," Harry laughed, adding a flourish from his guitar for effect. "Been on this side too long?"

"Times are changing, Harold. Get with it," Nick said, taking another drag, blowing the smoke in the opposite direction. "Paris! Come have a sit, we're gonna have a chat."

Paris gave up galloping solo, dropped the noodle, and joined, settling themselves in the empty space next to Kyra. Paris Ortega, though assigned 'male' at birth, didn't subscribe to any particular gender. Paris was usually quiet but made for good company anyway, and an even better friend. Harry had met Paris nearly two years prior at a mutual friend's pop-up shop where Paris was pushing apparel and cosmetics and they'd remained steady friends ever since.

"All right, it's go time," Kyra said, blowing unruly wisps of short, recently-dyed violet hair from over her eyes. Kyra Darji was an aspiring fashion designer from London, where she'd initially met Harry. They'd sang Wham! songs during karaoke at Alexa Chung's after party following Alexa's London Fashion Week runway show a year ago. The rest was history. "What's new? Well, aside from Harry's beautiful new home," she said, gesturing toward the towering structure to their left. "Round of applause!"

Harry took a bow. It'd have been months before he was settled but his friends had come to his rescue. They'd spent the day unpacking and putting things in their proper places. They'd even painted the kitchen and dining room. The group was down one man, since Jeff had lent a hand but had to cut out early, but the majority of the work was done.

All they'd requested in return was dinner and drinks, vodka mostly to blame for their shenanigans. They'd cracked open a bottle gifted to Harry for Christmas; he'd frequented Emma LaCroix's Parisian boutique during a long stay months prior and she'd sent the premium Jean-Charles Boisset as a token of appreciation.

It was worth the price tag. Harry found himself carefree, swaddled in both blasé and a soft pink sweater as the spirit worked through his system. With delightfully loosened limbs, he toyed with the guitar and quietly surveyed his friends as they conversed, reminiscing about their last gathering, a night of shots and karaoke in Barcelona last summer.