all roads lead to home - sneak peak
obvi i got inspired by todayâs picsâŚâŚâŚ.hereâs a sneak peak of a rome!harry oneshot that justâŚhappened :)
Rome is hot, Harry thinks.
His shoes hit the cobblestone paths as he runs, constant strikes as he follows his route through the streets of the Italian city. Morning brings a certain calmness to the otherwise tourist-filled area. The shops arenât quite open, the roads not quite full of cars. The city wakes up slowly on Fridays, it seems.
He keeps moving, exhaling measured breaths as the sun beats down on his exposed shoulders. Heâs thankful for the shorts and tank heâd decided to pack at the last minute, knowing how sweltering the heat could get in late July. His skin shimmers with a newly set tan, sweat dampening the hair on his arms and staining them darker than normal.
Rome is hot, Harry thinks as he rounds up to the small road that branches off a main one, toward the house heâs called home for the last few weeks. Itâll be home for the rest of the summer; an extended holiday away from the hustle and bustle of his London neighborhood, away from the chaos and noise of Los Angeles. He rubs a hand across his forehead to get rid of the sweat thatâs about to drip into his eyes, his sunglasses threatening to slip down his nose. His head feels hot underneath his hat. As he slows down and approaches the stairs that lead up to the front gate, he relishes the burning he feels in his hamstrings. A long runâa good run, he muses, already craving a cool shower.
The house is still quiet when he steps inside. There isnât any noise from the kitchen, no clattering of utensils or kettle whistling. He hums to himself, kicking off his running shoes and padding down the hall, peeking through the open doors to the main living room. Empty.
Lifting the hem of his tank to wipe at his face, Harry keeps walking. He reaches the stairs and takes them two at a time, wincing at the way his quads pull. Heâll have to stretch later, he thinks. The patio on the second floor is empty, doors still shut and curtains drawn. He keeps going, rounds the corner to the end of the hall where the door to the master is still open a fraction, exactly how heâd left it when he went for his run.
He taps his fingers on the door lightly. âHello?â
Pushing the door open, Harry peers around it. The bed is empty, sheets and eggshell white comforter pushed to the side. He doesnât quite know what to make of it, but he steps into the room to investigate. The bathroom is empty, but it looks like the shower has been used. Thereâs a wet towel hanging from the hook on the door.Â
Turning around, Harry starts for the bedroom patio doors. The curtains are drawn on these, too, but he pulls them aside and gazes out. His shoulders instantly drop, tension disappearing.
Rome is hot, Harry thinks, as his eyes trail over endless miles of skin wrapped in burgundy silk, tied off with a bow like a gift he doesnât deserve. Rome is hot, Harry thinks as he opens the door and steps outside, watching as you turn around and give him a sleepy-soft grin, the one you know he loves because itâs only for him, only in moments like these when the world comes to a standstill but the trees still shift in the wind. Rome is hot, Harry thinks, when you reach out with one arm and beckon him to the balcony, whispering his name so softly that it nearly dissipates into thin air as it tries to bridge the gap between you.
Rome is hot, and Harry is on fire.
