One Word | H.S.

Chapter Thirty

A new era, so-to-speak.

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Drive.

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I think Harry's kink is aimlessly wandering around.

My body has yet to move from my position, a wild Pretty Boy pacing through the empty streets as I stare to him with squinted eyes.

After our lips lost their virginity to the other, he essentially took off in a determined sprint. Not entirely, but he retreated rather quickly.

Kind-of a weird runner.

To express such protruding emotion, yet laced with such a delicate exchange, I could never even find the words to do so. 

Escaping to a distant world of color, though only coated by one single hue, vaguely describes the colony of butterflies that migrated to my stomach.

They are still very much present, but I can't help but feel as though they will turn to rabid hornets in a matter of seconds.

Peacefulness, a fluidity of emotions.

Desiring serenity is one thing. Eager to have the rapid heartbeats and bellowing thoughts deplete is something most desire. Certainly myself, yet one can never truly be peaceful.

Once you find the simplicity within life, within your own brain, that same tranquility is erupted by the sheer thought of it fleeting as soon as it arrived.

Serenity; Never truly obtainable as one always expects destruction.

My eyes stay hooked on dearest Pretty Boy, his hair flying as a result of the windy evening. Yet, the strands still manage to look more presentable than mine ever could.

I lean forward ever-so slightly, my arms crossed over my chest, "Are you on drugs?" I shout to him, his head whipping to mine as he gives me a 'thumbs up'.

Clearly, he was hardly listening to my question, his gesture proving so. Or, the Caterpillar aided him with his personal hookah, Harry's mind a dizzy kaleidoscope as the smoke clouds rationality.

The second one, most definitely.

"Only a single drag," The Caterpillar peers to Pretty boy, the curious man inching closer as his eyes stay locked on the device, "Clouding your judgement, never another option. Is there?"

My legs fight to move, Harry walking towards Asgard as I shake my head, "Harold!" I cup my hands around my mouth, his head whipping back as he waves his hand to silence me. "Shut up Red!" He yells, my eyes shooting wide as he walks into his apartment.

Truly a wonderful relationship, Harry and I's. To think that we have managed all this way, tread such broken terrain, only to lead to this moment right here.

I'm personally a huge fan of getting kissed then being left in the road afterwards. The consistent debate of whether the other party will stick around, a hint of relief surfacing when they choose to leave.

Romance, beautifully developed throughout the centuries.

I'm aware that Harry will most likely return, a bottle of whiskey in hand accompanied by distant words, but the sunken part of my being hopes he doesn't.

Indeed, melancholic. However, it's not the absence of Harry I desire, but rather the acknowledgement of something so foreign.

A kiss. The sucking of our faces. The 'tip-toe by the tulips' of our mouths. Not quite sure how I'll even be able to talk about it.