1DFF CHALLENGES

It’s a small memory, nothing too serious to warrant a constant rethinking, but that night he falls asleep and dreams of it —dreams of it with so much vividness that when he wakes up, startling back into consciousness in the bedroom he shares with his girlfriend Amara, he can still see the hooded dark eyes looking up at him, can see his own shaky hand pushing back those locks before leaning in.

It takes a while for the dream to fade, and it’s Amara, always Amara, that Harry registers first; Amara’s spooning him, arms around Harry, and Harry can feel her even breathing tickling the back of his neck. It’s calming somehow, and if he really focuses for a moment, he will be able to hear Amara’s heartbeat. And he waits for the rest of the dream to leave like that, except it doesn’t, instead it shows him the same scenario as before but this time Amara hugs him from behind, her eyes closed and she’s begging him to stop pining for the guy before them.

◇

“Did you have a bad dream last night?”

This is Amara’s uniqueness, her ability to notice things even when it should be impossible for her, and then start a conversation that will make Harry almost trip over the mat outside their bath. Lucky for them, Harry’s able to stop the fall with a hand against the wall before instantly turning to Amara, already dressed and styling her hair.

“Well, not really—it was just a dream?”

Their morning routine is one of his favourite things. Amara would jostle Harry awake and next there would be a flurry of sheets and mumbles and toilets flushing, but it feels as if today’s conversation doesn’t fit anywhere and there is a sudden stillness when he perches himself on top of a kitchen island stool, taking in every detail of the kitchen —their kitchen—and marvelling at the fact that something so simple and wonderful like his mornings with Amara could be his.

It’s been enough months, but his eyes still catch on her ring.

It’s been more than enough months, where he hasn’t felt any different than to see it there, and know exactly what promises it bears for their future, suddenly what used to be a nice feeling in Harry’s chest—ballooning in his lungs at seven in the morning, the way it feels when he gets to the high notes in Sign of the times where the music swells and he gets to unleash his vocal chords’ full potential like an eagle spreads its wings ready to fly and just feel, just be. Now feels like he has a boa squeezing all the air out of him along with his life, that’s what being with Amara after dreaming about his old lover last night feels like. Pressure, none of his emotions in control, all of them cold.

The sunlight pouring into the kitchen, the breeze ruffling his curls. It doesn’t seem real, but it feels, more than anything, like acting in a movie.

But it is real, and that is the part where Harry stumbles on—on the fact that all of this is true, within reach, whether the ring is there or not—the fact that he has been sharing his life with Amara is real.

Little things like this—like Amara’s hand brushing Harry’s hair back, like Amara’s hand tracing her fingers on his neck until it tickles—those things take Harry’s breath away when they happen. They’re shocking reminders of how real all of this is, and how deeply and intensely he feels about her, and sometimes when he’s reminded of the things he does have, all he can do is stare.

He’s doing it now, but Amara, always is staring back with equal fondness.

“Just a dream as in a bad one or a good one?” she inquires.

“I did dream, but it wasn’t bad…”

Amara blinks. “Oh? Was it a naughty—”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Not that, either. Just a memory, that’s all.”

“A pleasant one?”

“I guess…”

The coffee maker beeps then, and Harry flounders—I guess what?

The longer he sits there, the faster the dream seems to be growing fainter, only the edges of the memory softening how it had felt to dream something from so long ago. It’s not that Harry doesn’t want to get married next year at the end of June, but it just seems to fade in comparison to the memory of how years ago, he would get a kiss every morning along with a mug of tea instead of coffee.

There must be a story somewhere, Amara knows, about people her fiancé had not let go entirely. Or maybe he had and it was just a memory. She doesn’t want to feel like he’s keeping the truth from her, so without asking more questions, she leaves for work and leaves a quick peck on his cheek.

Reality completely falls on Harry’s shoulders the moment Amara’s out the door and he’s finally able to accept that last night his heart found his way to his throat, at the sight of whom he used to share his mornings with, all those years ago.

Harry sighs completely defeated, when it comes to Manjiro, love has really always been the most fitting word.

◇

Weddings aren’t supposed to be this easy.

It’s never, ever, by any means, a one-man or two-man affair; they’re both lucky to have a supportive circle of people more than happy to butt heads with everyone else about every single detail. But the exhaustive planning and petty arguments about the wedding’s coordination never come.

At first Amara thought that because Harry was someone that has spent his career finding the balance, good compromise, between what could only be called a perfectly choreographed schedule and heart, it was an easy task. There were people to call, suits and dresses to fit, neckties to ask Harry about. There were invitations and RSVPs and confirmation e-mails to be read and responded to.

Amara was honestly longing for it, the planning, the waiting, the itch that none of them couldn’t seem to scratch away, the urgency for it all to be over. It never came.

Mostly, if she’s honest, it’s just frustrating that Harry was able to take all that work and do it; it’s rare in life for her to feel uncertain in certainty, for her to second-guess every little flawless action Harry did for the wedding. Amara feels that no matter which angle she examines all this from, no matter how many times she changes her mind on the flowers and the cake, he will find a way to do it splendidly. It makes her blood boil, because she knows that something is wrong but she can’t know exactly what it is, not when Harry looks so certain about anything.

But she's completely wrong about his certainty.

“Harry?”

Harry blinks, thinks for a second that he’s imagined that voice. But when he turns to look over his shoulder, blinking a few more times just to be sure that his eyes are not deceiving him, to a very grown up Manjiro standing in the doorway of his favourite bakery.

“What brings you to this side of town?”

“I—” Harry hums, putting his wallet back in his pocket. “Just getting some fresh baked goodies for tomorrow’s breakfast. And thinking.”

“I see,” Manjiro says softly, he opens the door and motions his head to the street, an invitation. One that Harry has yet to refuse. "Is it about your wedding?”

“How do you know about that?” Harry retorts, but all he gets is Manjiro’s playful eye roll that takes him back to that summer when he was nineteen and so madly in love, so he lets it go. “Kind of?” He admits.

“Having second thoughts?” The shorter man fails to disguise the teasing from his tone.

“Yes and no.” Harry says, even as Manjiro smiles, chuckles a little as he pulls Harry to cross the street. “But I think she’s having second thoughts as well. About me.”

“Oh I don’t blame her for that.” Manjiro tilts his head up in a way that allows him to look at Harry from under his lashes, like he’s searching for something. It takes Harry back to the first time they kissed, so he looks away a bit flushed.

Sometimes, too, Manjiro felt flushed upon doing things he reserved for Harry and Harry alone. The first time he cooked dinner for someone that was not Harry was a disaster, that person saw him in tears before taking the first bite. After breaking up with Harry, he swore that the spark from his heart was gone, at times it felt like something unlatched from his chest and he couldn’t breathe properly. And no place in this world could ever be Harry-free, he knew after seeing his gorgeous face on a Shanghai banner announcing him as a part of a famous lingerie fashion show. Once Manjiro came to terms with him being the only one to blame for the situation he was in, he was finally able to move on. Little by little, harder than anything he’s ever done before, but able to do it at last.

Which is why upon hearing Harry’s doubts about his upcoming marriage, did not give him any wrong ideas.

“Is it the song for the first dance?” Manjiro says, as they find themselves in Bushy Park. “Is that what’s worrying you?”

Harry shakes his head in denial, marvelling on how easy it is to discuss this with him. “Not the song choice, no.”

“Then?”

“Mikey,” Harry lets the old nickname slip away. He allows himself the hesitation, even if he doesn’t quite feel like he crossed any boundaries as he would have another time. “It just bothers me, how easy it is.”

Manjiro hums, blinking wide and confused and pretty and affectionate.

“We agree on everything, then she decides to change everything about it and I agree. Then she changes it again and I agree and sort it out.” Harry says, slowly. It isn’t something that bothers him, it’s the fact that it doesn’t bother him, what he thinks is off. “And I didn’t even care.”

“Ah.”

It’s Manjiro’s thoughtful ah, his cute giggle that follows it, one of the few things he still reserved for Harry, always just reserved for the things they seem to understand about each other without voicing, the things they seem to understand through touch and eye contact and smiles.

It’s overwhelming to know someone like that. Harry has had all sort of physical intimacy with other people before, but the way Manjiro seems to get what Harry’s thinking, even if not precisely nor completely, but enough to just latch onto that thought process and know that they fit together smoothly in this, to be so knowable and vulnerable and yet not to be engaged to that person. It’s a thing Harry gets mad about, it bothers him, more than the stupid napkin colour matching the table cloth, this is important because it sets his heart on fire and makes him fall in love again.

“Then I suppose you shouldn’t have a complicated wedding,” Manjiro says, twirling like a ballerina around Harry without warning. It startles another disbelieving laugh out of the latter, and the corners of Manjiro’s mouth tug up as well. “Have a small one, or have many, one every year until you’ve forgotten about the ones you didn’t care enough about, because you will have more of those moments to remember.”

“But this one will matter to her,” Harry says quietly. “The date is set to be on the night that we—that we—”

“Fell in love?” Manjiro finishes for him. “You know how I feel about love and all that nonsense. But I’m sure it certainly wasn’t the only time you fell in love with each other, nor the last.”

I did too, you know, Manjiro wants to say. I fell in love with you every morning. I fell in love when you woke up in the middle of the night and left the hallway lights on. I fell in love when you respected my decision to leave. I fell in love over and over and over again.

“Even now, you can still find things about her to fall all over again,” Manjiro continues, as softly as Harry had spoken earlier, clearly not meant to be spoken out loud. “Like this.”

This could mean anything. Could mean the second thoughts, could mean the rays of the moonlight, could mean the quiet of this park that Manjiro seems to be familiar with. Harry doesn’t know how to fall in love again with Amara, not when someone he thought he’d never see again is walking by his side, completely unfazed by their meeting.

Harry would like to call it fate, a happy coincidence written in the stars. But it seems that his Mikey hasn’t changed enough to believe in all that nonsense. Just before he got sad and gloomy, the thought of Amara flashed, she would be the one to call this type of situation a sign of the universe. Amara would even mock him a bit more and say it's a sign of the times, innit? And just like that Harry smiles.

“Thank you,” Harry murmurs after they reach the end of Hampton Court road. “I’ll take a cab from here.”

Manjiro’s quiet for a while.

“Thank you, Harry-kun,” he returns eventually. “Matane.”

It’s a reminder that Manjiro doesn’t like to say goodbye, not to Harry at least. He had thought about this, and it was a decision he made.

Separate lives chosen, love fallen into and out of.

“I love you.” Forever sentimental Harry can’t help but say, because he didn’t have a chance before, because he was waiting for the perfect moment, and because he was old enough now to bare his soul to the one that he loved before anyone else.

Harry blinks. Manjiro blinks.

And then they’re both smiling, and then there’s that sweet smile with his eyes closed that Mikey has saved all these years for this moment, and all Harry can think is that if he had to wish on a star now, if he had to wish for anything, anything at all, it will be this summer night, this pair of dark eyes staring right back at me, this, this.

Manjiro looks at Harry. He thinks; I love you.

◇

It’s a starry night, at the end of June in Holmes Chapel when their dream wedding happens.

A sky that Harry has grown up under, a sky that seems to stretch out above them as Harry repeats vows he’d already said in his head, agreed to fulfill promises he knew he wanted for their future, will want over and over for the rest of his days. A sky that has watched him fall in love with a gentle but cruel beautiful boy in the past, a sky that will watch how he falls in love over and over again with a strong and merciful woman.

A part of him does feel nineteen again, looking up, surrounded by new friends this time, by family, watching him get married.

Watching stars is far more infinite than the time he’ll ever spend thinking about the missing people tonight. Watching stars so ancient that could very well be the same ones he’d wished on when he was a broken hearted twenty-two year old. And stars so ancient that they’re also probably not at all the same. A lot of possibilities, a lot of things lost, but that’s fine with Harry. He has moved on.

Getting married in the hometown he loved this much, to the woman that has made him feel what it’s like to love and be loved so earnestly and so constantly and so real. This is all the certainty he needs.

Being with Manjiro and Amara feels like those evenings of star-gazing, if Harry really thought about it, that stillness, hand outstretched towards the stars. That feeling of being privy to that infinity, to something far larger than him. The only difference is that while Mikey made him feel small, Amara doesn’t, not like that. He feels secure, feels grounded, like he could close his eyes and it wouldn’t matter how far the stars are.

Pure contentment, sitting right at home in his chest every time he looks at her.