Blurred Lines // h.s.

Part III

This kinda just keeps... growing. Think this is the last of their forward moving journey for now, but never say never. I've struggled to find time and energy to tie this up for a few weeks now – sorry about the delay. Enjoy x

The short time you'd been in London had, poetically, been the best of times and the worst of times. For the first day after you left, Harry kept finding proverbial footprints of your presence — the tube of toothpaste you'd left on his counter, the knife that wasn't in the spot he would've put it, some of your hair on his jumpers to go with the smell of your shampoo that seemed to be part of the fibers of the yarn at the collars. When he first got back from the airport, he'd held his favorite one in his hands and stared it down, weighing the decision of whether to throw it, his sheets, and the rest of the traitors that reminded him you weren't there in the washing machine before sighing heavily and tucking it away undisturbed.

It was at least a week before the smell rubbed out of the collar, and no longer than one month and eleven days until he was sitting in his kitchen, phone pressed to his ear and a lump for an Adam's apple, listening to the ringing and calculating what time it was for you. You should be done with work, so—

"Hello?"

"Hey." Harry cleared his throat. "You busy?"

"Just got in." Your keys clattered in the background. "What's up? Good day?"

Yeah, but that wasn't why he was calling. "Know I should've checked with you first, but turnabout's fair play."

You were silent and he swallowed before continuing, "Booked a flight today. Was wondering if you'd mind if...."

Silence. For as long as it lasted, he wondered if he'd fucked up.

"When?"

Harry's shoulders sagged and he exhaled. "A month," he said. "I was thinking maybe two weeks. Stowaway in your flat, f'you'll have me. Can always kick me out."

You laughed and he wound the hand that wasn't holding the phone into a fist. "So, you'll let me?" Harry's face screwed up, bracing himself for your answer.

"What am I going to say?" you asked. "'No'?"

If the month between when you'd left and when he'd made the call had been long, the month until he flew out of Heathrow and landed in Philadelphia to avoid the city airports was even longer. His leg shook the whole drive to Manhattan, and by the time he got out, bags over his shoulder and under his eyes, he was so exhausted he could be knocked over with hardly a huff or a puff.

Stil, though, when you embraced him, he managed to stay still long enough to squeeze you close, nose buried in the scent of the shampoo that had long since faded from his jumpers.

"You must be tired," you mumbled against his neck and he nodded wordlessly but didn't make a move to let go of you. You stepped back first and pulled the strap of his bag from his shoulder. "Do you want to shower before dinner?"

"Might be nice." It would be, and it was sorely needed, but he wrapped his hands around your forearms again. "C'mere...."

One kiss. Just one to say hello and to make him feel like his two months of penance for a crime he couldn't name were over.

"Go," you said into the kiss. "Before the food gets here and cold."

"What food?"

"I ordered." You pushed his chest. "Go!"

He always had to crouch awkwardly under your shower to wet the top of his head, and it always took him longer to wash up and rinse off with all the extra maneuvering he had to do, but after the flight, he couldn't care less, and when he got out, he rolled his neck while drying his hair with the towel. Sweats, bare feet, and a hoodie to bear the frigid temperature of your air conditioned studio was the uniform for the night, and he tapped the light off before shuffling out and sniffing.