Dark / KNOCKOUT

Bo almost loses her “hat” as she tips her head to inspect her feet. She should have gone with the black shoes, she thinks, performing a Dorothy knock to her heels before wrinkling her nose. 

“Crap.”

The people lined up ahead move forward and there’s a confusing atmosphere in the shadows before blinding lights, a muddle of excitement and almost paralysing nerves. Bo dutifully follows the person in front, noting that this form of conga line is dramatically different than the one she was forced into at her cousin’s wedding. 

Bo’s never been under so much instruction before, follow me, sit here, stand up, clap, shake hands. And she’s reminded of this when beckoned forward by a man with worry lines patterned in waves across his forehead. There’s a trickle of sweat running just past his temple, and all it does is remind Bo of the layers of dark fabric currently draped over her feverous body. 

Her name is scratched out a little aggressively from the list pinned to his clipboard and he gives her a serious looking nod to the side. 

“Go.”

Fingers trail down the deep, red velvet curtains separating the audience from the hordes of achievers. She takes a customary deep breath. It’s with apprehensive steps and a nauseating roll to her stomach that Bo’s name is called and she takes to the stage, one glittery heel at a time. 

Please don’t trip. Please don’t fall and embarrass yourself.

Her heart is thundering like a summer storm, she feels the pressure of it through her tight dress and the damp palms she wipes on her robes that skirt the wooden stage. Bo doesn’t dare look out to the audience, just focusing ahead where the chancellor is offering a smile and a hand to shake. 

Bo’s head shoots up at the echoing whistles and overly enthusiastic clapping. Seated on the next level up are two people she recognises and one more person who she distinctly remembers said they couldn’t make it. Bo had been anguished but respectful at the time, telling them not to worry about it. How could she demand attendance from someone she exchanged infrequent texts with and birthday phone calls twice a year. 

Her mum flashes a camera and even with the distance Bo can tell she already has tears tracking her cheeks. Aunt Grace is faring a little better, although the wild clapping has Bo thinking that over displays of emotion are a family trait. They’re both in eye-catching floral dresses, a bright addition to the occasion compared to Bo’s compulsory dark coloured ensemble. 

She gives a small wave, descending the steps from the stage with one hand gripping her degree and the other clinging to the rail. Harry’s grinning as he lowers his hands from his mouth. 

There’s no time to assess his appearance, her heart slamming her ribcage, but Bo can tell just from the fleeting glance she gets that there’s no longer hair tumbling past his shoulders.

She sits through the ceremony for another two subjects, politely clapping with an impatient bobbing of her knee. It’s far too warm in the old venue, and Bo prays that someone will turn on the air conditioning or open a damn window somewhere. The few times she’s glanced up to the circle seats above, she’s caught a watery smile from her mum. Her aunt applauds every graduate with an enthusiasm not seen anywhere else in the audience. Before the ceremony, she’d grabbed Bo’s hand and told her how overwhelmed she was to be amongst a new generation of graduates. 

It’s Harry that seems to know when eyes are upon him, and Bo receives a smile and a cheeky wink. When they’re released, she’s one of the first up and out of her seat, hustling to try and jostle between some of the slower individuals. 

Freshly graduated, Bo tumbles through the back doors in her haste, out of the main venue and into the reception where friends and family are waiting with full glasses from the bar. Weaving through a large group just beyond her, Bo emerges to scan the rest of the room. 

He’s stood chatting to her mum and aunt, dressed in a navy suit with considerably less hair than when she’d seen him last. 

“Harry!”

Turning, he’s quick about taking the glasses off, ready for her when she barrels into him. Her arms tightly wrap his waist as she blurs the lines between them and squeezes. For Bo, the engaging of their bodies doesn’t last nearly as long as she’d like. Harry’s peeling away from her even as her fingers tighten to his jacket. He levers her away slightly by Bo’s shoulders, quite possibly so he can see her face as he laughs. 

“I didn’t think you were able to come,” her voice quivers slightly, making a grab for his hand. 

“I wasn’t going to miss your graduation, Bo.”

He leans in a little and Bo feels almost as though it’s a secret. 

“But you said -“

“Surprise.”

Harry’s grinning at her like a child telling an awful joke. And it will do awful things to her eye makeup if she dwells on the fact that he’s actually here. “Well, it certainly is a surprise to see your new look,” she fondly smiles, reaching up to touch the short length of his hair. 

“Thought I’d change it up a bit. More presentable for such an auspicious occasion.”

“It certainly is different.”

It’s shorter up the sides and longer on top. Funny, she never noticed how cute his ears were. 

“You look very handsome. And these are adorable,” she says, taking the glasses from his pocket, folding out the arms and placing them back on his nose. 

“Really?”

“You’re adorable.”

He sighs.

“That’s not really the look I was going for.” 

“Congratulations on your adorableness.”

“Congratulations on being massively brainy and getting your degree. Although you look like you’ve just graduated from Hogwarts,” he teases, lightly fluttering her robes. 

“Thanks.”

Bo had forgotten about the graduation cap before she tips her head to peer down at her attire. She catches it just as it starts to slip.

“Oh, these are for you.”

Seemingly out of thin air, a bouquet of prettily tied flowers is produced from somewhere behind him and Harry swaps the bunch for the cap in her hand. Bo’s bashful in her appreciation, hiding behind them whilst speaking her thanks. She thinks she’ll have to ask the restaurant to put them in water whilst they eat.

  “Hey Bo!”

They both turn and Bo smiles back at the group of friends from her course. Max and Ali have identical grins as they wave a bottle of fizz at her and beckon. A kiss is pressed to her mum and aunt’s cheeks, kicking off her heels and wriggling from the heavy robe. 

“I’ll be back in a minute.”

Her promise to Harry is accompanied with more of a kiss to his jaw than his cheek on account that he didn’t bend down far enough. Bo’s taken a few steps away from Harry before she thinks better of it and rounds on him again. He’s still smiling.

“You look really well, Harry.”

She nods, suddenly becoming unable to keep from blushing as she shakes her head and retreats towards her friends, leaving him to watch after her. 

***

There’s already family members trying to hustle groups of graduating friends into keepsake photographs. It’s Ali’s younger sister, with her dark plaited hair swinging around her shoulders that ultimately breaks up their little gathering. She beams up at him, two teeth less than in the family picture Ali had up in his room. He makes a show of trying to resist the youngster tugging on his hand.

  “We’ll organise something over the summer, right?” he rushes before being whisked away. “We could all meet in London, or have a weekend at the beach?”

“Sounds great.”

“I’m up for it.”

“You’re up for anything,” Jose elbows Max in the ribs.

He proceeds to play injured as Jose catches something of greater interest. 

“You should go.”

The words are countered with a tilt to her head, nodding past Bo’s shoulder. 

“You trying to get rid of me?” Bo jokes.

“No, I just think your boyfriend wants you back.”

Bo turns to see Harry stood with her mum and aunt. He’s still got her robe draped over his forearm, and it’s a second before he notices her attention, in which his frown transforms to fondness. 

She wriggles her toes on the balding carpet as her stomach does an odd affectionate squirm at the fact Harry’s also holding her heels.

“Oh, he’s not - my boyfriend.”

“Really? Is he single then?”

“Shut up,” Bo hushes, playfully pushing her friend away. 

She keeps on her toes on the meandering route back to him, cautious of pointy heels and polished dress shoes. There’s even a moment Bo resorts to a hop and shuffle rather than taking critical damage to blue polished nails. 

“You should probably put them back on if we’re going outside,” Harry gestures to her shoes.

“I was hoping someone would carry me. They might look pretty, but they’re killing my feet.”

Regardless, she slips into them anyway, taking hold of Harry’s arm to steady herself. 

“I would offer to put you over my shoulder, but I don’t think your mum would like it much.”

Bo would take a fireman’s lift even if it meant a disapproving look from her mother. After today she’d quite happily get shot of the sparkly, monster shoes down the charity shop. 

“You’d carry me?”

“Course.”

“I’m really proud of you. And just to clarify, I would offer to carry you anyway, even if you hadn’t just graduated.”

She places her hand on her heart somewhat dramatically. 

“Thank you for coming.”

***

Posing for pictures, throwing graduation caps and saying her goodbyes drains Bo of the energy she started the day with. Her mum and aunt are waiting for her on the outskirts of the garden and Bo could just about drop to her knees with exhaustion, anything to get the weight off her feet. But before she can join them, Harry approaches, pocketing his phone and standing in front of her. 

“I’m gunna head off now,” he tells her and Bo’s joy takes a nosedive into disappointment. 

“Really? Aren’t you coming to dinner with us?”

She can tell by the sour pinch to his mouth that he didn’t want to make a big thing about it. Probably just wanted to kiss her on the cheek and slip away. Again. 

“You can stay. We’ll ask them to just set another place at the table. I can -“

Bo starts to turn away to her mum because she’ll know what to do. Mum’s always know; like it’s programmed into them the moment they give birth. Bo doesn’t need to vie for her attention though, her mum and aunt are already watching after the couple across the grass. 

Bo catches her eye long enough for her mother to mouth, ‘Let him go.”

It’s Harry’s hand on Bo’s shoulder that gently anchors her and she can feel a phantom twist of emotion in her gut. It hurts. Reminiscent of a juncture in their shared past when he told her he was leaving. But this time she doesn’t cry. Bo holds her nerve and his eye contact. 

“It’s ok, you celebrate with your family.”

She remains tightlipped to refrain from saying something silly. Harry kisses her cheek but Bo can already feel him stepping out and away, creating a distance that prevents her from clutching at him. And she doesn’t understand why. 

“Harry?”

He smiles, still moving to cut their connection.

“It’s ok, I’ll talk to you soon.”

It’s with a heavy heart that she tortures herself further, watching as he politely slips between the remaining friends and relatives and exits the garden through the stone archway. 

On the walk to the restaurant, her mum strides ahead taking a congratulatory phonecall on Bo’s behalf from a relative she’s never even heard of. 

“I wonder if they’ll have a vegan menu?”

Bo’s aunt has slipped an arm through hers as they wander through familiar streets admiring shop windows.

“You’re not even a vegan though.”

“I know, but the whole diet intrigues me.”

Bo shakes her head, laughing as they round another corner. They’re serenaded by a busker whilst they wait outside the restaurant for her mum to finish the call. He’s young, strumming away at chords and singing along to an early Ed Sheeran track that Bo’s having trouble with naming.  

“It’s a shame Harry couldn’t stay,” her aunt comments as they watch.

“Yeah,” Bo hums, because she’s not really in the mood to discuss it. 

“You shouldn’t worry.”

“About what?”

Little Bird, Bo thinks. That’s the song. 

“He said he’s still trying to sort things out. He didn’t feel ready for it yet.”

***

“Meet me at the corner of Angle Rd at 6, wear something sporty. H x”

She scans over the message again, before chucking her phone back on the unmade bed. Her insides do an involuntary sweep as it bounces before settling inches from edge of the mattress. 

“Wear something sporty, what does that even mean?”

Bo confronts the mess in her wardrobe, hands on hips paired with a scrutinising gaze. Hangers are pushed back and forth on her rail as she contemplates if her jeggings constitute anything remotely sporty. She decides they don’t meet the grade.

A glance at the time makes the decision for her, making grabby hands at a pair of patterned leggings and a “Save The Bees” t-shirt she received from Tiff as a birthday present. She’s out the door in less than two minutes.

Bo’s not really one for arriving early to anywhere, but it’s Harry and his cryptic message that has prompted something similar to nerves in her belly. Similar, but it’s definitely not nerves. No.

“I said something sporty.”

She whirls to see Harry approach from the other side of the road. He’s in sport shorts and a t-shirt with a duffle bag slung over his right shoulder. The tautness in his arms blinkers her vision, not the sort of arms attached to a chiseled model with flowing hair on a cheesy romance novel. But more the solid build of an athlete, of someone who actually uses their body as a tool rather than just flaunting it at the gym. 

She refuses to acknowledge the small clench in her lower tummy. 

“This is what I do yoga in,” Bo explains, glancing down at the bright yellow top and leggings. 

“You do yoga?”

“Yeah, me and a girl from work take a class on Wednesday. We end up giggly through most of it, but I think I’ve got the warrior pose down.”

Bo gives a little demonstration in the middle of the path, much to Harry’s amusement.

“How’s work going?”

Bo moves along beside him as he starts to walk back down the road. 

“Alright thanks, hopefully I won’t be there much longer. I have an interview next Friday with an NGO that I’m doing some prep for.”

“Fingers crossed.”

They chat for the remainder of the mystery walk until they near a building that Bo’s vaguely familiar with.

“Are we working out? I thought we were going for a run.”

“Not quite.”

Harry leads the way through the reception where he’s cheerfully greeted by a muscled man behind the desk. Bo waits as Harry digs a card out from his wallet before swiping it in front of a screen. The barriers ahead of them swing open and she’s encouraged through them with a hand to her lower back.  

They’re met with a wall of warmth and excited shrieks as they press through the heavy doors. Children delight in the water of the fun pool and Bo watches toddlers splash around in fountains spurting from the tiled floor. 

“I brought my niece the other week,” Harry says, leaning against the rail beside her.

“Here?” Bo asks. “To the pool of screaming children.”

There’s a mother standing on the side of the water’s edge, beckoning for three children to get out and dry off, to which they duck under the surface with grinning, goggled faces. It’s a reminiscent scene of her own childhood that amuses Bo as she continues to listen. 

“She loves it. Bit clingy to start off with and we stayed in the shallows mostly, but she wanted to go in deeper.”

“How old is she now?”

“Two and a half,” he replies with a soft sort of smile.

There’s adoration and pride blooming as Harry talks about his niece. And Bo knows for certain that the toddler had him wrapped around her finger from the moment he first held her. And the idea of Harry with a baby, how gentle and soft spoken he’d be whilst informing her of how he’d spoil her rotten despite what her mum says. It’s enough to have Bo pining to witness first hand how someone barely past Harry’s knee could turn him to complete mush. 

“It’s bit of a nightmare after getting out of the water though, she wriggled around so much I didn’t bother changing either of us.”

Bo laughs, gripping the rail.

“Just wrapped her in the towel like a burrito and walked out.”

“Are we here to swim, because I didn’t bring anything to change into.”

“Not today. I have something else planned.”

It’s as they bypass the locker rooms and then the training hall that Bo’s curiosity bubbles over with questions.

She’s left unsatisfied with an answer of, “Wait and see.”

Following along closely behind him, Bo’s introduced to a brightly lit room through a set of double doors. 

“Stay here a minute.”

He offloads his bag to the floor by Bo’s feet which she huffs at before nudging it to the wall with her foot. 

It’s difficult not to notice the female chatter in the sweeping room. The majority are ladies, dressed in sporty attire with hair pulled back and smiles on their faces. There’s a bar running around the circumference, walls which are lined with floor to ceiling length mirrors. If Bo didn’t know any better she’d say they were here to dance, the space perfect for observing and participating in routines to music. But she certainly doesn’t think that’s the case as Harry’s now jogging over to the main group, his presence drawing in the smaller clusters formed on the outskirts. 

The space is relatively bare when taking into account it’s located in a gym. The floor is a patchwork of large blue mats laid out to face the space at the far end of the room. 

“Hi, thanks for continuing to come back,” Harry begins which elicits a murmur of laughter. “I’m pleased to see all the slots are filled for this self defence class. And I hope we can achieve a lot whilst we’re here.”

Bo’s eyebrows shoot up in response, still a little unsure as to what the hell is going on. That is until their eyes meet and Harry beckons Bo from the back of the room to where he’s stood in front of a class of about twenty-five.

“This is my –“ Harry pauses. “She’s um –“ 

“Bo,” she intercepts.

She’s never found public speaking to come with ease, and this feels a lot like a presentation she’s massively underprepared for. 

“She’s going to be helping me demonstrate,” Harry explains as Bo absorbs the information for the first time with the rest of the class. “Bo’s a beginner, too. So this will be new for everyone.”

And that’s pretty much it before Bo is thrown into a class she didn’t sign up for. But what stuns her more is how at ease he is whilst advising people on their foot stance and how to position their shoulders. Well, that and Harry’s surprising repertoire of encouraging phrases he dishes out when making the rounds. 

They run through exercises performed in the previous class, actions Bo has to catch up on with a partner as Harry wanders the floor. Once she’s mastered the art of evading a wrist lock, Harry calls her back up to the front again as the women gather. 

Bo stands to the side of Harry.

“What do you think puts Bo at a disadvantage in a physical confrontation between the two of us?”

The question is posed to the group before murmurs hum around the room and people begin to speak up.

“You’re huge,” one of the women at the front comments. 

Harry laughs as Bo scans him from her eye-level and up. He is considerably taller, broader and heavier than the rest of the room’s occupants. 

                                                                                                            “Yeah, I’m bigger than Bo.”

“Stronger,” someone else suggests.

“Unless she’s an athlete, I don’t think she could outrun you.”

The answers begin to lose steam and Bo is left with an unnerving list of attributes that put her in an inferior physical position. And honestly, it doesn’t do much for her confidence. 

The group conversation is still in free flow as Harry gestures for Bo to approach the mat.

“Do you mind doing a demonstration with me?” he asks quietly with his back partially to the class.

“What kind?” 

“If you’re not comfortable, you can say no and I’ll ask one of the trainers - it’s defence against sexual assault.”

Bo’s stomach instantly drops as she thickly swallows.

“Wow, heavy stuff,” she tries and unfortunately fails to make light of it.

“It’s important to -“

“Ok.”

“You sure?” he asks, raising his brows.

“If it will help the people here, then of course.”

His smile is infectious and Bo actually has to prompt him to continue with the class. Giving him a little shove towards the waiting group so she can hide the grin he’s responsible for. 

“Will you lay down for me please?”

She gives him a look before taking his hand and sitting on their own patchwork of blue in the room. Bo regathers her hair in a tie before flicking it out above her head and laying back. 

“Today, we’re going to be learning to defend and evade against a position known for sexual assault.”

As Bo’s regard flicks from face to face, trying to decipher people’s initial reaction, she’s surprised to find that there’s no shock or uneasiness, instead an openness to listen and learn. 

***

Bo’s a little perplexed at the position she finds herself in, only the mat separating her body from the floor and Harry hovering over her like they’re in the privacy of a home and not at the front of a class full of keen, observing eyes. 

He’s on hands and knees, those knees pressing up under her butt as her bent legs widen. But it’s the nature of the subject matter that, despite the positioning, cancels out any romantic stirrings for Bo, and she’s pretty sure Harry isn’t feeling it either. There’s something sort of remote about it all.

“With sexual assault, this is most likely going to be the position a victim would end up in. I know it might feel a bit awkward to start off with,” Harry continues to speak to the class. “But it’s important to remember that in reality, if something does happen, it’s not going to be from a distance. It’ll be close.”

As if to emphasise the point, he leans down onto Bo until their chests are almost touching. And then his body heat is gone as he straightens once again. 

“Don’t think that once you’re on the floor, that’s it. There’s a lot of moves you can perform to get out of the position. And that’s what we’re going to begin learning today.”

Harry’s full attention returns to Bo and along with it, everybody else’s. She’s forced to peer up at his face, ready for his next instruction. But he doesn’t address her as such, instead throwing another question out to the group. 

“What do you think Bo can do to get out of this?”

He’s almost fully on top of her, his forearms place by her head and Bo can feel her cheeks bloom with warmth. 

There’s mutterings of suggestions between people that have paired off before someone calls out from the back. 

“Head-butt you?”

Laughter flutters around the room. 

“Not quite,” Harry admits with a smile. “Try and push me away.”

Simple.

Bo presses up, palms making contact with Harry’s chest and shoving. But it’s with slight alarm that she discovers all three attempts end with Harry buckling her elbows and powering down. And it’s then, with a whisper of breath between them that Harry asks, “How do you feel?”

Bo thickly swallows. 

“Powerless.”

And it’s true because the thought of being so easily trapped is turning Bo’s stomach over. If it was anyone but Harry performing the demonstration there’s a strong possibility that she’d ask to remove herself from the situation to melt back into the gathering of people watching over. But it is Harry, Harry with his short hair, scarred face and easy smile. And she trusts him.

One woman clears her throat and Harry rolls smoothly back into professional instructor.

“This class is about learning to effectively gain control in situations like this.” With her hands pressed to Harry’s shoulders, not his chest, Bo’s told to lock her arms in place. It ensures that despite his efforts, his upper body is prevented from crushing hers. 

“See,” Harry keeps up his running commentary. “With your arms like this, I can’t get anywhere near you. She could take my whole body weight and still hold the position.”

“Try,” one of the women sat down at the front suggests.

It’s never been an audience that Bo imagined she’d ever be in front of, especially in a situation like this. But the more moves they perform together, the more she feels empowered and comfortable in a strange sort of way. 

Harry looks to Bo and she nods.

He’d been holding back in the demonstration before now, careful not to show full brawn. But as Harry surrenders his weight Bo’s joyfully surprised that she can take it and hold. 

“Are you really -“

“Yeah, good job,” he praises.

A second more and his body’s burden is removed and they roll right into the next action in the sequence. 

Harry is patient as they try different moves according to both of their leg positions. In between repeating new moves he just simply slides Bo back to him, aided by the ease of the mat, much to her surprise the first couple of times. He still holds her firm but the more they practise the easier Bo finds it to perform. She’s particularly pleased to perfect, “shrimping out”, a sequence that ends with freeing her legs.

“Bo’s gunna put her feet on my hips to give her leverage for the next move.” She does so, allowing Harry to adjust her placement before falling back into their position.

“Whilst doing this you can remove your palms from my chest and grip my elbows.”

Fingers wrap tight to his elbows as his hair flops over his eyes.

“And then you push, extending your legs.”

She doesn't exert herself because Harry’s going easy.

“An attacker’s natural reaction will be to pull away, and you use this to your full advantage. When this happens, I want you to move your grip down to the wrists and hold.”

Harry’s presence backs up and away from Bo at a casual pace so she can get used to the transforming hold. Hands sliding all the way down his forearms until she does as instructed and catches his wrists.

“Good.”

They’re taking it slowly, step by step with Harry reassuring the group that they’ll repeat the demonstration as many times as needed. He’s a patient tutor, happy to answer any questions put forward by some of the quieter women. It’s as Bo’s grinning stupidly up at him that her chest fills with pride and she thinks that maybe this is what he’s supposed to do; to help people, use his knowledge and experience of fighting and turn it on its head. Because he knows how to use another’s brute force in his favour, how to block attacks, how to escape a hold, deflect a punch and how to tactically overcome threat. Bo’s seen him do it, and now it’s time for him to  teach others. 

“When you get to this stage, it’s time to fight back. This is where I want you to kick the shit out of them.”

The women laugh at his choice of words as Bo’s eyes widen.

“What?” she blurts.

“Groin, solar plexus and chin,” he gestures respectively to each. “The aim is to incapacitate, knock him back and then you run.”

Bo’s grip tightens on his wrists. She doesn’t want to hurt him and she voices this worry whilst Harry takes hold of Bo’s calfs, lifting them so her feet are near his shoulders.

“This is when you have a chance to kick me in the face.”

Bo teasingly tests the strength of his grip which Harry responds to with a raised brow and comical smile. 

“Think of cycling without the bike, that’s the motion you’re looking for.”

She practises her kicks with Harry tilting his head to the side, out of harms way. 

“Then you can roll out from under me and run.”

Once they finish up with their little demo, it’s clear to see some of the women are itching to try out the sequence. They run through the steps once more slowly and then with speed before they disband and try the routine in pairs. Bo watches as Harry weaves through the mats talking to each pair and helping with any placement problems they’re having. 

It’s Bo’s turn to sit back and watch whilst swigging out of her water bottle. Despite the more sinister underlying need for the class, there’s a few eruptions of giggles between friends when getting into positions. And Bo has to admit that she’s had fun.

Forty minutes more and the participants in the class are collecting their belongings from the back of the room. There’s accomplished smiles and fervent chatting upon exit, one woman even asks if there will be any more slots open for future classes, explaining the interest given when she’d told her friends. The proud smile she displays transforms upon a new arrival to her little area at the back. 

“Were you here for the combat class?”

Bo turns to see a guy in shorts and a t-shirt with the sweat drenched neckline. He’s handsome in a boyish kind of way and that makes Bo think he’s probably not as old as the muscled body lets on.

“It’s a defence class,” she replies. 

He nods with a smile.

“I’ve met the instructor.”

“Yeah?”

He hums.

“Yeah, but have you seen his face,” he gestures vaguely to his own left eye and Bo’s tolerance for this meaningless conversation shuts down. Prick. There’s no obligation to entertain such topics, and the fact that this man thought it was an appropriate icebreaker is beyond Bo. 

“I dunno, I think he’s kinda cute,” she playfully cocks her head at Harry.

Harry’s still chatting with a few of the women but he’s definitely noticed her interaction with the man stood to her left. His posture changes, and there’s a moment where Bo thinks he might approach.

“Oh.”

“Mmm, looks like he could look after a woman. And he’s obviously hugely respectful of them for leading a class that empowers them in situations where we’re oppressed and demeaned in some of the worst ways imaginable.”

This guy is nodding but Bo’s not really sure he follows.

“I’m Jake,” he holds out his hand to shake.

She could almost laugh at the blatant urge to change the conversation. 

“Bo.”

An instant before she sees him, Bo knows Harry is with her. She can already feel the heat of him as he stands partially behind her.

“Who’s this?”

Straight to the point and in a tone she hasn’t heard for a long time. Bo would be embarrassed to admit that it sends her body into a turmoil that results in a flushed chest and that hot little clench in her stomach. She pushes back into him almost on instinct.

“Jack.”

“It’s Jake,” the guy corrects, irritably. 

“Oh, sorry,” Bo lightly laughs, fully aware of her mistake. “We were just talking about you.”

“You were?” Harry asks slightly warily.

He steps more to her right side as Bo fights the urge to push away the flopping curls from his face. 

“Yeah, how successful the class is, and how pretty you are.”

Harry blinks down at her as Bo gives him her best smile. 

“I’m gunna go.”

Jake leaves without any acknowledgement from the pair. 

*** Bo helps with putting the mats away in the cupboard at the back. Well, helping in a sense that she lays in a starfish on the mat as Harry drags it across the floor. A hilarity that proceeds upon switching places, judging that Bo can barely move the mat a foot with Harry sprawled across it. 

“Thanks for coming along, I think it really helps to have someone to demonstrate with. I don’t think I could have taken a volunteer for that sort of routine in the first couple of classes.”

They’re making their way out through the length of corridors to the reception. 

“Oh, I’m not sure. I’m pretty certain there would have been a few hands go up if you’d have asked.”

He’s bashful about it, but Bo definitely sees the grin as he turns away to hold the door. 

“So, how did it all happen?”

“When we were together, I remember you talking about it, teaching women defence.”

It’s a conversation Bo remembers having but it was flippant, she hadn’t dreamed he would acted on it.

“I got trained and became certified as an instructor. It’s only one night a week at the moment, but the manager’s told me that they were turning people away who wanted to enrol in the second class. And it’s not just women, it’s only a small turnout at the moment,” Harry frowns, “but we’re hoping to encourage more of the young LGBT community to enrol.”

“Lucky I got my spot then.”

“You’re an exception.”

“I think you mean, exceptional.”

It’s laughter that opens out onto the street. 

“They’re hoping to fit in some more classes during the week.”

“That’s brilliant.”

“Then I wouldn’t have to do gym training in the day, it would just be the defence classes.”

Bo’s delighted to see that he looks proud and he should be. 

 I wake to comfortable warmth, one that has me wanting to lounge in bed all day and procrastinate any worries. With a contented sigh my legs extend, unfurling my sleep heavy limbs before curling up on my side. My fingers catch the top of the duvet before the room comes to me in blinkered vision. I sit up quicker than I should and now I’m fighting an inevitable head rush. It’s not my room and it’s certainly not my bed. Truths from the night before rekindle in my mind and flush my cheeks a heated pink. My legs are bare against the sheets.

It’s a good job Harry isn’t in bed because the way I furiously pat his side of the tumbled mattress would have given anyone a start. It’s empty, apart from me. From the coveted security of my cocoon, I can see the bathroom is vacant and the bedroom door is shut. Alone then. I lean back on my elbows, huffing the stray pieces of hair from my face.

It’s breaking all common sense to abandon the mountain of sheets, and I do so with a shiver and disgruntled moan. My toes curl against the chilled floor before I stand, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and padding across the room. There are pictures decorating the top of his chest of drawers, his sister, his mum, distant friends. It’s good he’s held on to these little memories, I’m pleased. If anything, it shows he’s not completely lost to the new world he’s found himself part of.

I smile. What I’ve not quite found myself familiar with yet, is the abundance of hair Harry’s now sporting. And testament to that is the amount of abandoned hair ties littered around his room. I grab a black one from the side, collecting my hair into a pony tail as I meander around the lived in space.

The curtains remain drawn but do a poor job of keeping morning at bay. I open them, the material heavy with remnants of stale smoke. I’ve not asked him about it yet, but from what I’ve seen of Harry I’m pretty sure he’s not chain smoking his way through the day. Regardless, he should break the habit.

The room reflects the rest of the disorderly flat, an unorganised whirlwind of clutter. The items of clothing that tangle my feet on the floor are collected up and thrown into the washing basket just inside the bathroom door.

When growing up, I was taught to respect peoples’ belongings and that it’s impolite to rummage through possessions that are not your own. But I’ve always been like a magpie to something pretty and shiny.

A chain dangles from the open drawer by the bed, as if neglected in hasten to hide it. My head gives a curious tilt as I make to draw it out of the darkened confines. When its entirety is revealed to me I almost drop it again, as though suddenly it scorches with an onslaught of lost memories. They surface in my mind like bubbles of air in water, a flurry of evocative flashes, all containing Harry. All the occasions we spent together between him gifting and securing it around my neck, to me wearing it for the very last time.

A little paper plane on a silver chain. He kept it.

My heart thumps a little harder against my ribs, swallowing the lump in my throat. He kept it. I sit back onto his bed as if my legs have been knocked out from beneath me. The pendant swings, letting the paper plane sail in a haphazard circle before landing in my palm. And it’s like finding something lost. A small comforting weight that my skin used to warm when it was mine; now it’s cold.

My intrigue in the discovery is sharply cut short by what I can imagine is a closing door and movement in the living area. I drop the necklace and it clatters into the drawer before I shunt it closed.

“Harry?”

My plea is left unanswered and hanging in the silence that follows. I rise from the bed. The slim possibility that it isn’t Harry the other side of the door stops me from daring to call out a second time. The fact that he’s had trouble before now isn’t much of a reassurance, in fact, it has me jumping to the horrendous conclusion that some homicidal maniac has broken in.

I edge towards the guitar propped up in the corner of the room, clutching it tightly by the neck. With silent footfalls I creep towards the door, turning the handle and easing it open.

I can almost feel the blood drain from my face, fear constricting my thought progression as the figure in question scuffs around the kitchen. I assume it’s a man, but with my heart thundering and hands profusely sweating it doesn’t really matter what lies under the layers of clothing.

I raise the guitar as if to strike and it’s only then he turns around, right hand occupied by shopping bags and brows raised in shock.  Head phones are yanked from his ears before he takes his hood down to reveal a hat, tendrils of dark hair curling out from underneath it.

“Christ,” Harry breathes, “you could take someone’s eye out with that.”

My head falls back in relief and I lower the makeshift weapon. Harry’s grinning as he places bags down on the kitchen counter  

“That’s not funny,” I deadpan.

He turns to me, rolling the headphones around his phone.

“It’s a little bit funny.”

I shake my head as he lightly laughs.

“I thought you were a murderer.”

“Well, a murderer that brought you breakfast,” he gestures to the contents he retrieves from the bags.

“Why are you creeping around this early in the morning?”

“I thought you’d still be asleep.”

“Well, I’m very much awake now.”

“I didn’t have anything in the fridge, so I went to the shops,” Harry explains, unloading his bag onto the side. “I didn’t think I’d have to leave a note. You were snoring your brains out when I left.”

“I don’t snore!”

He laughs at my defiance, grin only widening once catching my thunderous look and crossed arms.

“Bo, I’ve slept with you enough times to know that you do.”

My damp mood instantly dissipates and it’s sort of embarrassing how coy I become. I’ve forgotten the intimacy of our past romance. But of course he knows I snore, just like he’s well aware that I’ll kick him in the face if he tickles my feet, that I’d rather be miserably cold than too hot and how I despise the cow lick in my hair. He’s touched my naked skin, pressed his thumbs into the dimples at the bottom of my spine, my voice so raw I could only choke on gulps of parched air.

My mouth dries and I almost lose my balance upon recalling the soft curve of his lower stomach and the cut of his hips. I catch myself on the table.

He’s heard me say his name in anger, in a cry, through tears, in longing, in happiness and pleasure.

Harry isn’t faring much better as he wraps his knuckles on the kitchen counter, the rings on his fingers clinking against the surface. There’s a softness to his muddled expression as he raises his head to look at me.

“I never thought it would be like this, especially with you.”

“Like what?” I ask, propping the guitar against the side.

“You’re a mystery to me now. I think we’ve lost each other.”

“I’m the same person,” I smile, shaking my head.

“No. We’ve both changed,” he lowly admits. “But I think I’d like to find you again - If you’d let me.”

There’s a hopeful craving buried deep into the words but I’m able to dig it out, dust it off. I want to learn him again, this new Harry, amend him in my mind and add all his new quirks and oddities. I’ll praise his transformation and make him feel like nothing is lost; it’s just things that are gained. Or perhaps we should wipe the slate clean and start from the beginning.

“We could do that.”

“Yeah?”

I nod.

“Good,” Harry smiles.

“I’m gunna put some clothes on,” I thumb back to his bedroom.

His eyes shoot down to my bare legs before immediately turning to start on the breakfast. About as subtle as an earthquake, Styles.

“Alright.”

I grab my clothes from the living room floor where I cast them off from the night before. The bedroom door is closed before I’m shedding his t-shirt and clasping my bra. There’s a bit of negotiation, as always, wriggling the jeans up my legs and fastening the button and zip. It’s then that I feel the small protrusion from my back pocket. I delve to pull out the small packet and realisation dawns.  

I decide not to leave anything to chance and head for the bathroom. It’s only ever something I’ve seen in films, so when I empty the packet into the toilet and flush, it feels slightly surreal that this is something that I have to do.

There’s hardly any hesitation as I redress into his t-shirt. When I emerge into the living area, Harry’s put the kettle on and placing individual teabags into mugs. He’s left the food purchases out on the counter so I have a gander through the spreads whilst we wait for the water to boil.

“You look better,” I observe with a smile, hip resting against the worktop.

There’s some colour to his cheeks and it seems to revive the petal pink of his mouth and green of his good eye.

“Think it’s the fresh air.”

We settle around his tiny kitchen table to face each other, partaking in easy conversation and spoonfuls of peanut butter from the jar.

“Is this what you usually have for breakfast?” I ask through a mouthful of toast.

He pushes the soggy cereal around the bowl before relenting and making a grab for my remaining slice of toast.

“No, I’d probably have a banana or something.”

A hum of discontent is given through my pursed lips. I’ve visited a couple of times now, and there’s never been a hint of fruit in the kitchen. The best Harry could produce would be something out of a tin or left over food in the fridge.

“You should eat more.”

“Yes, mum,” he sarcastically grumbles.

“I’m serious, you’ll make yourself ill. Especially with your job, you’re like an athlete. Don’t you need to take in a stupid amount of carbs and protein each day?”

“I’m fine.”

“Harry –“

“I’m not gunna fight anymore, so it’s fine,” he sharply replies.

My timing isn’t something I pride myself on and Harry must know that if his expectant expression is anything to go by. He sucks in a deep sigh, digging his spoon into the jar again.

“What is it?” he inquires as though the task is a tedious one.

“Can I ask you something?”

“You already have.”

I ignore him.

“Were you looking for me?”

“When?”

“At the fight, the night we saw each other again. You came out to the ring as though you were searching for someone.”

He places the spoon on my plate, meeting my eyes seconds later. I wait patiently whilst he gathers his thoughts, but as the moments tick by I’m plagued with more troublesome questions that I dare not ask. Did he know it was me at the bar? If I hadn’t have shied away, would he have taken the girl home? Would he have taken us both?

A phone alarm goes off somewhere in the flat, the noise disrupting the balance of the situation and the moment is lost. I take hold of his wrist and angle it so I can see the time.

“Oh shit, I have to go.”

My long suffering moan overbears the drag of chair legs as I push out from under the table. The phone is on the floor by the sofa, a spot I’d left it in before I partook in an early hour’s game of musical beds. I thumb through the messages exchanged between my mum and I. She’ll be at the shopping centre in a half hour and I’m currently more than forty-five minutes away.

“You do? Now?” Harry asks whilst standing from his seat.

“Yeah,” I huff. “I said I’d meet my mum to shop for my Aunt’s birthday present. If I don’t go with her she’ll end up buying another novelty kitchen item that my Aunt won’t use.”

Harry laughs, his smile punching a dimple into his cheek. I gather my belongings, dressing fully for the trip down to my car.

“I’ll see you again though, right?”

“Of course.”

He leans in for what I presume will be a hug but instead he miscalculates and the corner of my mouth is bestowed with an ungainly kiss. Harry clears his throat and there’s a sheepish look on his face as he pulls away.

“Come here,” I encourage, sweeping him into a tight hug. “I’ll find you again.”

***

 Tiff and I had a date. A date with essays, books and a busy library. I’d met her just inside the door after scanning my access card and spotting her over by the book deposit. With a backpack slung over her shoulder, she was crunching through an apple and busying herself with textbook reading. When I approached, she handed me a banana and we began our hunt for essay material.

It’s busier than I expect as we climb the stairs to the second floor. I haven’t seen any free seats yet, if not we’ll resort to having our little study session on the floor, backs to the radiators under the south windows.

“I spoke to Larissa and she’s giving people bars of chocolate for taking part in her experiment,” Tiff explains with me following her from one aisle to another. “I think that’s a good idea, but it’s not particularly healthy.”

She knows I’ll take part in her project without reward, what with being a good friend and all. But apparently you can’t solely rely on good relationships between other undergraduates for help. There has to be a sweet incentive with hungry university students.

“Well, I think people will be reluctant to take part if all they get in return is a children’s box of raisins.”

“How about chocolate covered raisins?”

I make a disgusted face, crinkling my nose until Tiff laughs. She hoists her back pack higher out of habit.

“Fine, I’ll find something else.”

She sticks her tongue out.

It’s after we’ve collected what we can of Tiff’s psychology books and placed requests for the ones we couldn’t find. I’ve ferreted out my scribbled list of possible articles when she springs on me.

“Who’s Harry?” Tiff casually asks.

I turn so rapidly that we almost clash foreheads. She takes hold of my shoulders to back me up before her hands fall to her sides.

“What?” I blurt.

And I instantly regret it as it’s probably the worst way I could have handled the question. She cocks her head, suddenly very intrigued by my sharp reply and the fear in my eyes.

“James asked me about him, but I don’t know who that is. Apparently you’ve been messaging him, this Harry.”

Tiff’s prompt for more information is given in the form of a strict looking eyebrow raise. It’s something my mum used to do when I acted up as a child.

“He’s just a friend,” I respond, scanning the book spines above our heads. I busy myself, extending on to tiptoes to further my reach. “Gosh, they should provide a ladder or something for the top shelf,” I half-heartedly laugh.

It’s a joke which Tiff raptly ignores in favour of conversational pursuit. She’s like a sodding blood hound; and despite her reassuring me countless times that just because she takes psychology, she can’t actually read my mind. I’m having doubts as we delve further into the subject in question.

“Not from here though, right? You’ve never spoken about a Harry before. Is he from back home?”

The book I’d been determined to retrieve slips from my grip and knocks my head on its descent to the ground. I grumble, rubbing at the sore spot whilst Tiff fusses to assess the damage. She bats my hand away to comb through my hair and check for bumps.

It’s together that we both bend down to pick up the book, her hand accidently touches mine and it’s as if the connection allows her see all the pieces neatly slotting into place. She grabs my wrist.

“Ow,” I complain.

“Shit,” Tiff breathes, mouth falling open. “It’s him, isn’t it? The boy you left behind.”

My eyes widen to an impossible size before I’m hastily gathering up textbooks and my bag. She’s practically stepping on my heels as I escape the aisle, thrilled to have her weird psychic ability be proven truthful.

“I thought he was a long lost love, I had no idea you still spoke to each other,” she delightedly states.

Her hand is placed on her chest, trying to contain her excitement. I hush her, embarrassed by the scene she’s causing. I don’t need the library’s entirety to know my business.

“It’s only recently. It hasn’t been a long standing thing,” I implore in a whisper.

“Have you been seeing him, is that why you visit home a lot?”

She gives me a knowing grin which I refute with a furious shake to my head. There are people gathered around the cluster of computers who are beginning to take interest in our hushed back and forth.

“I wasn’t cheating on James.”

“I didn’t think you were.”

“He’s not been very well and I’m trying to help him.”

“How? Are you treating him kindly with kisses?”

The colour of my cheeks betray me and Tiff is upon my like a hungry lioness. I haul her around the corner of the bookcase before we attract anymore curious glances. The shelves rattle as I stumble over our feet and she does her best to right me.

“Oh my god!” Tiff exclaims, expression dancing in delight.

“Shhhh!” I plead.

“Or is it more than that?” her teasing smile fades, eyes full of concern. “Are you sleeping with him?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Well, tell me then.”

***

Unable to find a study table, Tiff and I secured the next best thing, a couple of cushions from a reading area. We’d then skirted around to a warm spot by the radiators and made ourselves at home. It wasn’t a well-travelled area, so we were free to chat quietly.  

“That’s pretty hot.”

Her words are muffled around the pasta salad she’s eating, spearing another twirl and shoving it in her mouth. She offers me a bite only to receive a shake to my head.  

“It’s not really.”

“He’s like a bare-knuckle fighter, of course that’s hot.”

“Not when you see him slammed into the floor as someone lays into him. I don’t want to see any more black eyes or busted lips.”

“You said he quit?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, what’s he doing now?”

I flip another page, jotting down a few notes and then highlighting them.

“He’s gone to stay with his mum for a bit, and I think his sister’s visiting.”

“That’s good, right? It’s probably the break he needs.”

“Yeah, I just hope he realises that people are more than willing to help him. He doesn’t need to do anything on his own.”

I catch her smile before she lightly knocks into me, laying her head on my shoulder.

“He’s got you, he’ll be fine.”

***

“There’s a boy outside,” Tiff lightly comments.

She’s still knelt up on the window ledge in the kitchen fussing with some cheap paperchains we got from town. I’d handed her a cushion to put under her knees after she’d complained about the awkward position.

“Hmm.”

I turn to her and watch as she adjusts the makeshift banner we’d created out of scrap paper and a pot of glitter. We’re on a budget, but everyone deserves a bit of sparkle on their birthday, even Rob. Tiff and I were delegated cake and decorations, the remaining flatmates had the slightly messier job of arranging alcohol and invites; which turned out to be an easy task once word spread and people agreed to bring their own bottles.

“You know, there’s probably not much point in you putting up a lot of decorations. Rob won’t take much notice once everyone is here and he’s had a few drinks.”

“I’m just trying to lift the celebratory atmosphere.”

“The more you put up, the more we have to take down,” I sing-song.

“You’re bloody miserable.”

I go back to the cake batter we’ve decided to dye different colours. If all goes well it will be a marbled delight of green and blue. Baking isn’t really my forte but with Tiff’s culinary expertise we’re making the most of a free kitchen.

“Do you think he’s waiting for someone?”

“Who?”

“The boy. He keeps looking at his phone.”

“No idea,” I distractedly reply, poking my tongue between my lips in concentration.

“Should I put it in the cake tins now?”

“Yeah. Hang on, I’ll give you a hand.”

She abandons the decorations in favour of rushing over to help deposit the batter. We’re successful apart from a few little dollops that missed the tins. I begin on the loathsome task of washing up before Tiff’s back on her ledge.

“Ohh,” she whimpers. “He’s gone.”

I listen to her entertaining commentary, soaping up plates and leaving them to drain.

“Oh no, no! He’s still there. Gosh, he’s cute,” she exclaims, furiously shifting her head from side to side in order to escape the reflection of the light in the window.

“How can you tell?” I laugh. “We’re on the second floor.”

“Well, he’s got nice hair.”

“It’s dark out.”

“Stop arguing with me and come see if we can hear what he’s saying on the phone.”

She beckons me over with a cheeky smile whilst trying to open the stiff lock on the window.

“That’s called eavesdropping, and it’s rude,” I reprimand, flicking suds of water in her direction.

She gives me a sour looking scowl, baring her teeth like an overgrown feline.  

“Ugh,” she grimaces. “Never mind, he smokes.”

Despite her repulsed tone it’s a mistake to think she’s lost interest, her nose pressing to the window as she makes quite a show of following the movement of the male. It reminds me of the predatory gaze a tabby has whilst watching birds teasingly flit around in the trees, out of reach and behind a pane of glass.

“I think he’s coming into our building.”

“What?”

“The boy,” she animatedly confirms.

It can’t be more than a minute that passes, time that Tiff spends giddily concocting a background story and outrageous personality traits for the boy beyond the glass. Our doorbell rings and Tiff’s eyes flash to mine before she’s barrelling towards the flat’s front door. I scrabble after her to discover her cheek pressed to the wood as she peers through our peephole.

“Rob’s party doesn’t start for another –“ she checks her watch “four and half hours.”

“I’m not here for a party,” he replies, voice muffled through the wooden barrier.

“Can you back it up a bit, I can’t see your face.”

I shove at her for my turn at the peephole like we’re children. Tiff knows I can’t reach so I’m not surprised when she catches me around my middle with her arms and hoists me an inch or two higher as we laugh.

“Oh, well why are you here?”

My hands press either side of magnifier to hold my view steady and it’s then the boy looks up.

“Harry?”

Tiff’s hold on me dissolves and my feet make contact with the floor again. She’s pressed up behind me as I open the door. Dressed in black skinnies ripped at the knee and a dark hooded jacket, Harry shoves his phone into his pocket.

“Hi.”

His mouth lifts into a small smile as his eyes pinball from me and then to Tiff.

“Hey,” I quietly greet. “You’re here. How are you here?”

“Uh, my sister dropped me off.”

“How do you know where I live?”

“Mack.”

I nod as I’m repeatedly nudged in the ribs with Tiff’s pointy elbow. She’s eagerly grinning, angling for an introduction I know she’s probably dying for.

“This is Tiff,” I gesture, but it’s of no real purpose because she’s already wedged in front of me and sticking her hand out to Harry.

He takes it with a laugh, repeating his name once more for her. As if he could be mistaken for anyone else.

“It’s nice to meet you,” she lightly says.

The greeting lasts seconds more than it should because I know she’s looking at the very same eyes that floored me that night in his room. They’re a conversation stopper, a sharp inhale of air and a loss for words.

It’s then I’m thankful for her quick mind and kind heart.

“Firm handshake,” she jovially confirms upon turning to me.

I shake my head at her as she shimmies past me into the flat.

“I’ll check on the cake.”

Left on our own, Harry and I share a few blinks before I remember my manners.

“Do you want to come in?”

“Thanks.”

Our flat smells like microwaveable meals and disinfectant any other day, so the aroma of sweet baking is a welcome change. As I glance into the kitchen, Tiff’s on her hands and knees peering through the grime on the oven window.

I lead Harry down the hall to walk past our identical doors until I reach “D”, my room. My hands are on the wood when I hear my name.

“Bo,” Tiff pokes her head out from the kitchen. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

She wears an easy smile but I know there’s concern under the friendly gesture.

“You can go in,” I look to Harry, shoving at the door with my hip.

There’s a brief flash of postered walls and a desk burdened with the weight of too many books, before Harry slips past the threshold and into my room.

“Thanks.”

In the kitchen, Tiff stands like a mother ready to impart wisdom; although the ring through her nose gives off more rebellious vibes than she’s probably hoping for.  A year my senior and don’t I know it.

“That’s him?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s taller than what I thought. Hot.”

“I’ll pass on your approval,” I say, lazily playing with the whisk we’ve yet to wash up.

“You didn’t tell me about his eyes,” she whispers.

“I didn’t know how to explain. He’s not really comfortable with them, so it didn’t feel right.”

“Ok.”

The easy acceptance surprises me and so does the fact that she doesn’t press me for the details of how and why Harry’s face is scarred.

“What are you going to do?”

“Talk probably. We might go out; I don’t really want to do it here.”

“Take your phone with you.”

“Tiff.”

“Ease my mind,” she urges with a slow smile.

I would have taken it anyway but I nod to keep the peace.

When I enter my room Harry’s busy examining my notice board spotted with paper and pins. It holds everything from my timetable to the list of experimental meals Tiff and I are going to attempt to make.

“Looks like you had fun,” he nods towards the photo tacked up of me and friends from my course on a night out.

“I did, we had to dress up,” I remember fondly.

“What are you, a zombie?”

“How dare you! I’m Dracula’s bride,” I playfully chide him.

“Oh, my apologies.”

It feels a little strange to have Harry in my room, somewhere I thought he would never set foot in. Before he’d been snuggly tucked away in a box I kept separate from the other parts of my life. And I thought that’s where he would stay. But now he’s spilling from the seams, too big, too precious to be kept hidden in a box like a dirty secret. The boundaries I set up are bleeding into each other.

“You wanna go for a walk?”

“Sure.”

He scans the room as he waits for me to put my boots on.

“Where’s James?”

“Not here.”

The reply comes across more aloof that I intent.

“Is it cold out?”

“Yeah, a bit. You’ll need to put a bit more on,” he gestures to my t-shirt and jeans.

The hangers in my wardrobe scrape along the rail and I make a snap decision on a shirt and old coat. I’m busy rolling up the sleeves that drape over my hands whist I search my bedside for a chap stick. I apply a strawberry one, rolling my lips and popping the cap to slip it into my pocket.

“Shit.”

The impolite swear rolls from my tongue when I turn and bump into Harry. My hand draws back from its place on his chest.

“You still wear it,” Harry murmurs, eyes cast down. “Does he know that this is mine?”

It’s a sultry purr, enough to raise goose-bumps on my arms and have me wrestling for the right words. He looks at me through his lashes and heat descends into my belly, a feeling that hotly refuses to be ignored. The sensation is possessive, staking claim, pulling taut at the muscles I’d be embarrassed to admit excites me. Months have passed since I’ve felt anything remotely close to this intimately stimulated and he’s not even touching me.

“It’s just a shirt.”

“My shirt,” he corrects.

“No, because you gave it to me, didn’t you?” I squabble, anything to take the onus off of my bashful blush. “But if you want it back –“

I feign to take it off, but Harry’s hand ceases the unpopping of any more buttons.

“Please.”

I keep the shirt on.

***

There’s a blustery breeze down on the beach which lifts locks of hair from my shoulders and paints my cheeks pink. I take hearty gulps of sea air, the taste salty in my mouth and fresh to my lungs. The amusement lights on the pier shine through the dull weather, gulls screeching above us. Rare family trips to the beach were consistently the highlight of any summer holiday, but it wasn’t until I grew up and moved away to that idyllic landscape, that I discovered it can rain in a place I always thought was sunny.

Harry helps me down the concrete lip to the beach and we amble along the stones before he suggests we sit. There’s hardly anyone braving the weather, much too cold to swim and dangerous with angry, choppy waves.

“You visited your mum?”

“I stayed for a couple of days. Jess stopped by for a bit and practically talked my ear off,” Harry chides, but can’t hide the fondness in his voice. “Her and her fiancé are having a baby in July.”

“No way! I bet they’re excited,” I grin. “Uncle Harry.”

I teasingly knock him with my elbow.

“I’m happy for her, she’s found a good guy so . . .”

“That’s great.”

He selects a pebble, assessing the weight of it before pulling back his arm. It hurtles through the air, catching the white crest of a wave before being claimed by the sea.

“Does he treat you all right?” Harry blurts.

My eyes widen.

“No,” I shake my head dismissively, a gesture which Harry draws a horrific conclusion from. “No-No, I don’t mean – I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“Why not?” he asks with a wounded voice.

“It’s too weird.”

The discussion dips and the waves draw out only to come barrelling in moments later, clawing back the steady incline of smaller stones. The tide must be coming in. I gather my coat a little tighter around me.

“He’s not pressured you at all, has he?”

“Harry,” I snap.

“It’s just – it’s been playing on my mind.”

“James is lovely.”

“So you keep telling me,” he gripes.

“I’m not seeing him anymore, so whatever conversation you’re trying to initiate is pointless, ok?”

“You’re not?”

The spirited lift at the end of his question plays havoc with my emotions and excites my pulse.

“No.”

If Harry’s shocked by the information he refuses to show it, settling into our exchange.

“Are you cold?”

“I’m fine.”

A hesitant arm rests upon my shoulder anyway, encouraging me to lean into his side. I go willingly.

“When? What happened?” he gently prods.

“A couple of days after I got back from yours. We discovered that we’re better friends.”

“That’s good though, right? Stops him from getting his heart broken later.”

“I know what that feels like. I would never do that to anyone else.”

“Bo, we –“

I elbow out of his arms in a petty, childlike manner and gracelessly stand. It stings him that I fend off his concern for my stumble. I don’t want his help.

“You left me,” I fiercely accuse. “You were the one who left me. So you don’t get to tell me how I or anyone else should be feeling.”

He looks at me like I’ve taken a knife to his chest, carving at him until I drive the blade home. The thought makes me sick to my stomach, an ache that weighs heavy on my conscience. I would never wish harm on him.

“You left me,” I mumble.

Still seated amongst the cold pebbles, he fumbles for a packet in his jacket pocket, producing it along with a cheap, blue lighter. I don’t wait for the cigarette butt to kiss his lips.

“I don’t want my clothes to smell, I’ll wait up on the promenade.”

“Ok.”

I watch him from the bench I’m sharing with an elderly lady. His hands shake as he draws more of the heady cloud into his lungs. Harry’s view is of the turbulent waves, and mine is of him. The whisps of smoke are cradled and lifted away into the air where they disappear. It sort of reminds me of Harry, seen but difficult to capture.

I tilt my head up to watch the cloud breaking where it reveals watery sunshine. But too soon it disappears, swallowed again by the nasty looking clouds. It’s going to rain, we should go back to the flat. My eyes scrape the sky, vision falling back to the pebbled beach and I’m surprised to see Harry making solid headway up the stones. They flatten out near the top and he’s practically sprinting to me. I stand from the bench and we unite in the middle of the promenade.

“Are you ok?” I ask, my hand on his arm. “Harry?”

He shakes his head.

“It was you that I was looking for.”

I glance back to the older woman I was sat with moments before. She smiles at me, pushing herself up to continue shuffling along with her trolley dragging behind her.

“What’s wrong?”

Harry’s breath is quick and I remain in a strange state of uncertainty trying to piece fragments of information together. He unzips his coat down, sticking a hand inside to produce a crumpled piece of paper. It’s offered to me. When I unfold it, it’s like I’ve been plunged into the frigid waters beyond the beach.

“When I read it, I felt like you were speaking to me,” Harry explains in frenzy.

“It was to Mack’s girlfriend.”

“Written by your hand. I knew it was you.”

My heart’s beating double time as I stare down at the sign off.

You carry with you the left side of my heart, you possess my bigger half. Keep it safe.

He runs a finger over the line and I’m upset that he’s seen the letter. That he kept it. When I wrote it the sentiment was in the right place, Mack and I needed something solid and promising to piece the writing together. But now they’re harrowing to look at and I’m ashamed to have cheapened the words once exchanged in love.

“That’s why I knew it was you- it had to be you,” he confesses. “I was angry at first.” I stiffen at his truth. “I thought you’d done it to torment me. But Mack calmed me down. He explained that you only went to see him on my match nights. You never wanted me to know that you were there, but I understand.”

“Like an angel,” he whispers. “It sounds silly,” he half-heartedly laughs. “But it made me feel better.”

***

 On the way back we stop at a pizza place near campus to calm the rumbling of my stomach. I feel content and well fed on our leisurely walk back to my accommodation. We don’t take a direct route across the university grounds; instead I lead our meandering pace between buildings to point out where I attend classes. Harry’s presence by my side is confirmed with thoughtful comments, questions and the occasional brush of knuckles against the back of my hand. The delicate touches stoke my yearning to hold his, to feel the roughness of his fingertips as his thumb rubs in playful circles. It’s something I miss.

It’s started to spit with rain once we reach my block, entering into a pebbled courtyard lit by low post lamps. Harry holds the door open for me to pass through and I’m not particularly thrilled to note that we hear the party before we see it. The flat door practically vibrates on its hinges and Harry’s right behind me as I turn the key in the lock.

I’m greeted by sickly sweet aromas of alcopops and the stench of hard liquor on the busy tongues of people we pass. It’s loud, frightfully so and I know the mature students in the flat above ours will have some complaints in the morning.

The kitchen is bustling with tight-knit groups sharing bottles and anecdotes of eventful nights out. I spot Tiff over by the kitchen table pouring a drink just before my eyes dart to a guy rummaging through my designated cupboard. I grit my teeth, shoving against the tide of swaying people but by the time I reach him he’s got my colander on his head.

“That’s mine!” I bite, taking it by the handle and removing it.

I identify him as one of Rob’s silly friends and he grins, shouting my name before crushing me in a hug. It’s with difficulty that Tiff and I pry him from me before he heads over to the fridge, no doubt to find something to terrorise another student with.

“I thought he’d kidnapped you,” Tiff hushes a tipsy laugh into my ear. “You were gone ages.”

With skin a fairer shade of brown, the alcohol induced blooming on her cheeks highlights pretty, amber eyes.

“Nope, still here.”

I make a point of seeking Harry. When I spot him, he’s got hold of Rob’s arm keeping him steady before he brains himself on the kitchen counter. I stifle a laugh behind my hand as Harry pleads with me from across the room for instruction as to what to do with the idiot in his arms.

“Are you coming out with us?” Tiff asks from behind me.

I turn to her, her breath sweetened by the bottle of fruity concoction she cradles to her hip.

“I’m not really feeling it, I think we’re gunna go to bed.”

There’s a juvenile whine in reply and I wouldn’t be surprised if she began to stamp her feet and pout. Instead, I stand listening to her ramble about the antics I unfortunately missed whilst we were out. The fact that someone was sick in the bushes outside really doesn’t impress me that much but I humour her anyway.

“We saved you some cake,” she grins before leaning into me. “Use a condom.”

Tiff’s words are blindingly obvious and if there wasn’t a threat of her toppling over, I would have shoved her gigging arse as far away from me as possible.

“Bo.”

My stomach drops like a rock and when I turn ‘round James is smiling before he takes a long gulp from his beer bottle. His eyes are bright, tickled with amusement at whatever he’s drinking. I’m reminded of his kindness when we discussed the situation little of a week ago. He said he’d rather have me as a friend than nothing at all, a statement which induced tears and sharing a packet of biscuits in front of a film.

“How are you?”

“I’m all right, you?” he nods over the noise.

“I’m goo-“

“He’s a fucking mess,” Harry interrupts without warning.

He comes to stand beside me.

“That’s the birthday boy,” I weakly joke.

Harry’s attention flickers between James and I, perhaps slowly grasping what he’s walked in on. But we’re all present and accounted for now, so I guess we should get this over with.

“This is Harry. Harry, James,” I gesture back and forth with the colander I still seem to be holding.  

There’s a silence amongst our little gathering that’s teeming with blasting music and drunken leers. It’s an experience in itself to watch recognition slide over each of their faces. If it comes to the unimaginable, I’ll stand between them.

“Your Harry?” James asks me.

Well, I suppose he is.

“Yeah.”

“It’s nice to meet you, mate.”

James passes his bottle over to his left hand, holding out his right for Harry to take. There’s no hesitation before Harry grasps the offering, firmly shaking.

“You too.”

It’s a highly civilised affair that filters into small talk about players in the rugby league. I’m left utterly perplexed, if not relieved, to take a backseat and observe them chat. I was ready for a showdown but it seems my white flag is left redundant.

***

“What are you laughing at?”

There’s an amused smile softening his face, dimple forming in his cheek. Looking beyond the obvious uniqueness to his eyes, warmth floods out of them as he fondly regards me wriggling down under the covers.

“How I always seem to fall into bed with you,” I whisper the truth like a secret.

He strips off to his underwear before lifting the duvet and demanding I move over. My shoulder makes contact with the cold wall and I shy way with a hiss through my teeth.

“Your bed is tiny,” Harry complains, wrestling for more room under the covers.

“I think it’s the university’s way of deterring us from sharing them with other people,” I speculate. “My RA probably wouldn’t be too pleased to know you were here.”

“Well, whoever is in charge of bed allocation is an arsehole,” he grumbles.

There’s more undignified squirming as the mattress creaks supporting the extra weight. I roll onto my side to prevent a painful spring in the back.

“Are you finished?” I ask into the cool dark of the room.

Harry gives a grunt before turning onto his side once more, huffing out a breath into my neck.

“It will be a miracle if I get any sleep,” he gripes quietly.

“Well, don’t make it a nightmare for the rest of us in here.”

Our breathing begins to even out to a restful rhythm before I hear Harry’s jaw crack as he yawns. The sound makes me cringe and I complain with an elbow to his side. His response is to make a further nuisance of himself, prodding at my back to provoke a reaction. I grab the fingers in question and it seems to put a stop to the actions because now we’re holding hands in the dark.

“Can I hold you?” he asks quietly.

“Ok.”

Harry doesn’t need direction this time, easily finding his place and slipping an arm over my waist. His hand lightly takes my hip and I’m encouraged to lay into the shape of his body behind me. We fit together as he nudges an ankle between mine.

Rain pelts the window outside, little thundering drops as background noise to complement our racing hearts. I left the window cracked before we climbed into bed and now the curtains are performing a repetitive dance in the draft.

“I missed this. For weeks after I was waking in the middle of night on my own,” he speaks the words like they’re a secret, whispers into my neck. “A stupid part of me thought you’d just gone to the toilet or to the kitchen to get a drink. It was like my heart breaking all over again to realise that you weren’t even there.”

I clutch his hand to my chest, locking our fingers together.

“I’m here now.”

***

Harry’s POV

“Bo! Bo!”

I crack my right eye open. My back is killing me and I’ve got a mouthful of hair that I’m not entirely sure who it belongs to. The incessant knocking continues as I ease my arm out from under her. She stirs but not enough to wake, sighing out through her nose before taking a pillow to clutch to her chest. It’s with a gentle smile and heavy heart that I place a kiss to her forehead and remove myself from bed.

The jeans I discarded the night before lie on the floor and I zipper them up as I walk to the strip of light penetrating from under the door. The surroundings are unfamiliar to me, so there’s a bit of undignified fumbling in the dark as I ground myself in the new environment. It’s easy to touch; it helps me to create a fuller picture in my mind, less of a strain on my good eye. The bolt easily slides and I blindly feel down the wood to the handle and swing the door wide.

There’s a guy stood in front of me, looking just as displeased to see me as I do him. His hair is a mess, plaid pyjama bottoms twisted around his waist and a novelty jumper on back-to-front. His face is vaguely familiar.

“Oh, wait –“ he frowns, turning to peer down the long corridor to his left.

He glances from what I assume to be his open door to me.

“Can I help you?” I ask numbly, my voice thirsting from sleep.

“This is Bo’s room.”

I hum my confirmation, growing bored of the conversation and ready to climb back into bed.

“Yeah, what do you want?”

“Milk,” he simply replies.

“What?”

A soft touch to my naked lower back has me watch as Bo rounds my body to stand by my side. She leans into me and I’m happy to be her support with her wayward hair tickling at my skin. An arm scoops my back for delicate fingertips to press into my hip. And I absorb the feeling of her, soak her in, imprint her touch in my mind.

The guy’s eyes blow wide.

“As long as you replace it, it’s fine,” she groggily says.

“Were you two-“ he trails off, suggestively lifting his eyebrows.

“Sleeping? Yeah. Now bugger off. I wanna go back to bed,” Bo whines, taking my hand to pull me away from the door and further into the room.

I don’t take much convincing.

“You never let James sleep the night,” he states, catching the closing door with his foot and peering inside after us.

“Well, clearly this is not James, is it?” she lifts my hand with hers to gesture at me.

Her clipped tone sets a smile on my face and I rather like it when she gets snarky. It puts a hellish fire behind her words and attitude in her step.

“Mornin’, Harry. Bo,” Tiff respectively nods at us with a yawn from beside the male before dragging herself along to the kitchen.

He follows hotly on her heels, asking her a barrage of questions as to our sleeping arrangements.

***

“So, what happened to your eye?”

My posture pulls tight, the silence stretching until I turn to face the kitchen table. Rob is tilting his head to one side, attempting to get a better look at Harry’s damaged eye. Tiff leans back in one of the cushioned chairs around the coffee table, nail polish forgotten.

“I was unlucky in a fight.”

Most people wouldn’t have the nerve, or the courage to question Harry further. But Rob’s an idiot who spends the majority of time with his foot in his mouth, so of course he would ask.

“A fight? Like a –“ he raises his fists to pummel the air. “Like a real fight?”

“Yeah.”

I can almost see the excitable intrigue rising from within Rob, another assault of questions ready to spill and ultimately offend.

“Eat your toast,” I scold him, shoving the burnt bread into his mouth.

Harry watches me return to the bowl of cereal, collecting a clean spoon from the drawer and milk from the fridge. I chow down on my breakfast after placing his tea on the table. He thanks me with a smile.

Tiff’s toes are drying so her walk over to the rest of us is more of a waddle. She rolls up her left sleeve as she moves, baring her forearm to the group. I’ve seen the scar before, a thick jagged line running down the length to almost touch her wrist.

“I fell from a tree swing when I was seven, branch went into my arm.”

Harry places his mug down, carefully taking hold of Tiff’s hand and elbow to angle the healed wound so he can examine the damage.

“It’s a good one,” he concludes, nodding his head.

“Well, at least you get to look like a sexy pirate,” she wittily replies.

Harry’s face splits into a grin, head thrown back and he’s laughing.

***

The storm from yesterday has passed, leaving in its wake muddy puddles to dodge and a clear sky. Harry and I wait under the nearest bus stop shelter on the corner of the road. Cars motor past on the black tarmac that almost glitters with the wet. As I freely observe the late Sunday morning my consideration strays until I’m peering up at Harry. He doesn’t flinch when my fingers gently trail his face.

I silently wonder what he sees. Is everything a little duller, or has his loss of vision amplified colours and shapes? He empowers his senses through touch, a new quirk I’ve noticed with seemingly oblivious brushes that skim over me and objects around him. My hand cautiously cups over Harry’s left eye and with the scar hidden he appears not to have changed in the time we’ve spent apart. He gives me a soft smile like he understands what thoughts are occupying my mind. I’m keenly observed with a bright iris and sharp pupil.

I remove the hindrance and place it to the opposite side. The slightly milky left eye works overtime, desperately searching for anything he can make out. It flicks around and I can feel his lashes tickle against the palm of my hand. Harry knows I would never put him in harm’s way, but the sudden loss of sight is too much. The movement of his chest has picked up in panic by the time he takes my hand away by the wrist.

“Why did you leave me?” I ask, voice wavering slightly.

He looks down between us, taking my fingers to play with.

“I thought you’d be better off without me. You seem to have it all sorted out now,” he smiles but I know it pains him.

All in all, I am pretty well put together. But that doesn’t mean all the pieces of my puzzle have found their place. There may never be a final picture, but that’s the fun of the game. I might have even found my second player.

A silver car pulls up to the curb and I force a smile as Mack leans over the centre console to wave. Harry doesn’t have a bag so instead I burden him with a heavy kiss to his mouth. It’s a torrent of mounting emotions, everything I can possibly wish to cram into a simple touch. As I pull away I hope it’s something he carries with him all the way home. I’ll commit it to memory until I see him again.

“Don’t disappear,” I tell him.

I sat with him whilst he ate, a little disappointed to see he’d left half the sandwich untouched, but at least it was something. The colour has returned to his cheeks and I’m not sure if it’s because he’s feeling better, or the fact that I can’t control my doting over him. I glance at my phone whilst Harry takes the plate to the sink. It’s 1:24am and I’m starting to feel tiredness heavy in my limbs. There’s a text from James and one from Tiff; I leave both of them unanswered.

“You can take the bed.”

“Don’t be silly, you need to sleep properly,” I tell him with a shake to my head.

“I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

Without another word Harry disappears into his bedroom. I give him privacy to change and rearrange to cushions on the sofa as best I can. I’m surprised his jaw hasn’t unhinged with the excessive yawning; he’s so tried it probably won’t make a difference where he sleeps. A cleared throat has me turn.

“Do you –“ he nods through the doorway.

I give him a soft smile, following after him into his bedroom. The duvet cover has been straightened out, clothes scooped up from the floor and the window has been opened to freshen the stagnant smell of smoke. Harry stands off to the side as if he’s waiting for my approval. The ease of which we once functioned together has hardened and now everything seems a little forced. It will have to be rebuilt and I’m not sure I have the strength for it.

“Do you want something to wear?”

It’s only then that I notice his change of attire, no longer in jeans but soft joggers that sit on hips. Harry fidgets with the neck of his t-shirt because I can tell he’s uncomfortable. I’ve seen him at his lowest point. I held him through it.

“No, it’s ok. I’ll just – I’ll sleep in this.”

He stands at his guard post by the door, watching as I climb over his bed. The sheets are a dark, steely grey, crinkled and soft.

“You can get in, I don’t mind.”

The offer is kind but my thoughts are anything but. I’m unwilling to open myself up to those sort of condemning emotions. I don’t want to warm myself in his bed only for him to shut the light of and leave. Even if Harry stayed with me, I can’t stand the thought of sleeping amongst the same sheets he’s laid himself bare for other women. It’s not a path a wish to travel down and the longer I take to reply, the more it settles in Harry’s mind as to the mechanics and wanderings of mine.

“It’s ok,” I decline.

I fold my jacket up and place it under my head, curling my legs into my body. It’s enough to make me feel almost insignificant upon the large mattress. We exchange a few short blinks and an even couple of breaths before Harry sinks to the floor. I watch as his head lolls back against the wall.

“You shouldn’t still be fighting.”

My opinion raises his head, the length of his hair curling around his ears.

“I can’t see, it doesn’t make me a cripple,” Harry lightly frowns.

I ignore the bitten undercurrent, shifting slightly to lay in comfort. A hairband would be much appreciated but I come up short after checking my wrists.

“Do they know? Does Mack know that you’re bli-“

“What do you think draws in the crowds on fight nights?” he smugly asks. “Half blind in one eye and can still kick someone’s arse to the curb. People like an underdog.”

His little explanation is left without comment, because I know it’s unlikely he wants to hear that the club’s clientele aren’t particularly bothered, as long as he wins them money to fuel their binges. They don’t care about him.

“Are you at university?”

He runs a thumb across his knuckles as I sit up. I wasn’t aware I would be the centre of our question and answer session so it’s odd when he gazes at me for a reply.

“Yeah, it’s down on the coast. Sussex.”

Harry nods in comprehension, pulling his knees up. The small light on the bedside is dim, throwing off peculiar shadows onto the walls. Eyes shine with the lamp’s attention, the damaged one of the two looking softer, less of a reminder for him to carry.

“You taking English?”

“No, Development and International Relations.” Harry’s face twists in repulsion, it’s comical to watch. “It’s not as tricky as it sounds.”

“Do you like it there?”

It’s a simple question, could be considered as small talk but I know what he’s really asking; are you happy?

“It’s fun, I’ve made friends. It’s somewhere different.”

We continue to informally chat with the brunt of conversation leaning towards my life, the new life I’ve crafted for myself. It’s with genuine interest and slight disgust that Harry listens to ramblings of essay assignments and the trials of sharing a thin wall with the boy who vastly enjoys nights out, and his fondness for continuing the fun back in his room. I don’t tell him of James, or how we’ve been seeing each other for nearly two months. It’s not something I feel either of us would be glad for me to share.

It’s heading towards 2:15am and Harry’s fighting the tempting clutches of sleep. By 2:17am we’ve parted, separated by a door in a tiny flat.

It’s not particularly cold, but I can’t sleep. It feels like the first night of halls - a new mattress and unfamiliar room. There’s only so much shuffling I can do before I admit that I don’t like the suggestion of lingering smoke, or the fact that this isn’t Harry’s room, it’s just somewhere he sleeps, or tries to. Joints click as I roll my shoulders in an attempt to relieve a hunched body. Even with just my steady breath to fill the room, I can still hear the labour of Harry’s from earlier this evening. It’s silly, but I want to check on him.

The door is obediently silent as I open it, navigating an alien space which I’m yet to mentally plot the whereabouts of furniture. Images flicker wordlessly upon the TV screen, the mute pictures a comfort to someone who wishes not to sleep in the dark.

“Are you leaving?” Harry croaks.

Once sprawled lengthways on the sofa, Harry now sits slouched and rubbing at his eyes.

“No, I just couldn’t sleep,” I admit.

“Same.”

I take the seat next to him without permission and sit for a moment with our breathing as background noise. There’s movement out in the corridor beyond Harry’s front door but the hum passes by quickly and we’re left to exist together.

He yawns.

“Come on,” I encourage.

Placing a cushion in my lap I make it clear that he can lay his head down. He always appreciated kind touches, so I pet his hair to calm the thoughts preventing him from sleep. It’s with a drowsy glaze that he looks up to me and my thumb tenderly traces the scar that mars his face.

“You’re like an angel,” Harry murmurs heavy with sleep. “Have you come to save me?”

He’s burdened with the promise of sheltered rest as I pull the blanket higher and settle with his question. Tears prickle the corners of my vision as I realise that’s all I want to do. I want to take him away from here, liberate him from the life he feels trapped in, love him.

My stomach clenches, that horrible feeling of frightful shock you can’t seem to quell. He’s looking to me for some sort of reaction and all I can convince him of is a rabbit caught in headlights. Of all the silly things to think, I’m wondering if it’s impolite to stare. He must be used to it, it’s not an imperfection or embarrassing tattoo you can hide under clothes or a pass off with a jovial anecdote. It’s one of the most valuable senses, helps ground you in the situation and environment around you. I can’t imagine how lost he’s become.

“Do you – “ I quietly begin before re-evaluating. “Do you have anything for me to mop up the water?”

My hands become partially shielded behind my back because I can’t keep them from quivering. I’m unsure if he’s disappointed with my initiate reaction, but his brow grows heavy before mumbling about something in the kitchen. I take off after him, carefully watching his movements to try and determine how extensive the disability is. The short walk is a poor indicator because this is his home, he’s mentally mapped out the interior and could probably navigate it with his eyes closed anyway.

It’s completely normal as he riffles through nearly empty cupboards, apart from the obvious fact that he’s blind. Fuck. I clear my throat of nerves and Harry twists his head as if I was calling for his attention. Maybe it’s like looking through frosted glass, or perhaps his left eye is shrouded with dark silhouettes. If he closes his right, what will he see? I don’t get to enquire because he’s returned to his search of kitchen roll. Any other time I would have moaned at him for the dirty mugs left scattered by the sink. It’s a little chaotic shrine of used cereal bowls, food encrusted saucepans and a horde of utensils.

 “How?”

Armed with a roll of kitchen towels, Harry looks like a child being asked about the mantelpiece ornament that’s been bluetacked back together. It’s probably not the best approach, but there’s no point in beating around the bush. He has to have known I’d ask.

“What?” He replies.

There’s a skittish nature to the way he holds himself, almost as if he’s unaccustomed to someone being so direct. Or maybe it’s because I don’t waver in maintaining eye contact. It’s still him, despite how cold and shut down he’s become.

“How did it happen?”

With a face void of emotion he replies, “with a knife.”

The revelation causes a small choked off laugh on my part. It’s humourless, like I can’t begin to get my head around how lacking he is in conversational interest. He used to make me smile.

“I could have guessed that.” The thought of a blade slicing his face pulls at the tension in my voice. “Why then? What happened, Harry?”

He grabs a plastic bag before moving back to the bedroom. The water has run rivers out from the initial point of impact, making the clean up on the wooden floor more wide spread. It’s as Harry crouches to assess the damage that he speaks again.

“I said things I probably shouldn’t have.”

I’m careful not to put a foot wrong whilst walking around to sit on the side of his unmade bed. As he soaks up the water I’m deciding if I want to know details, or if it’s best to not delve too deep into something I shouldn’t become invested in.

“To who?” I stress.

“They give you –“ Harry pauses, looking warily to me before continuing to pick up shards of glass. “It was new,” he says quietly. “You get the first couple of pills free to latch you onto it, make sure you come back for more.”

My hands tighten in the bed sheets as I listen.

“Drugs?”

I shift uncomfortably on the bed, trying to suppress thoughts of, “my Harry wouldn’t be so foolish, that’s not who he is”. But of course he’s not my Harry, not anymore; and now the boy knelt on the floor at my feet is even more of a stranger to me.

“He said it was legal, not sure how well tested it was though. But it took everything out of here,” he taps in forehead. “Gets rid of it for a while. It made me feel happy again.”

I want to cry, scream at him but I don’t because the idea of Harry being so utterly lost that he could only find happiness from something dangerous, temporary and artificial leaves me feeling broken. I want to bundle him up in my arms and shout at him all at the same time.

“I couldn’t afford it and I didn’t find out until later that the distributor I used manages one of my main competitors. I was a dual income loss so it was bit of a bonus for him I guess,” he gestures half-heartedly at his face.

The damaged left eye glints, following the path of the right but not really seeing. My lips purse, eyes water and the lump in my throat threatens to choke me.

 “And he left you?”

“They. It was two of them,” Harry corrects me calmly.

“You were on your own?” I ask with a tremble.

He looks up from the task in hand upon hearing my voice break. I don’t wish to become an ugly mess of disastrous tears but Harry recognises the signs and we both know I’m going to cry.

“Don’t get upset, Bo,” he almost sighs. “It’s already happened, can’t do much about it now.”

His reassurance is piss poor, like he can’t be bothered or more than likely he’s let go of any human response to comfort. Regardless of his lack of concern, I can’t seem to shake the image of him crumpled to the floor in some dirty alley. He’s alone, frightened and hurting.

 “Did you go to the police?”

More water is mopped up until the paper is soggy. It’s thrown into the plastic bag.

“No, they came to visit me in hospital. I didn’t allow them to pursue it though.”

My teeth grit in frustration and I stow the need to grab him by the shoulders and shake.

“Why not? You knew your attackers?” I ask in disbelief. “Those people left you permanently scarred. You’re blind, Harry.”

The fury in my words is returned with a fogged, steely stare. He stands and so do I. We’re matched in passionate words, but far from equal in height.

“Don’t you think I know that?” he bites back with venom.

“Then why didn’t you press charges?”

My body slumps with disappointment. It’s a hopelessness of nearing defeat. What’s the use in arguing with him? He seems to deflate, puffing out the aggravation that has his muscles tense.

“Because I know they thought I deserved it,” Harry admits softly, head bowed in shame. “The way they were looking at me made me feel worthless, like it was a waste of their time.”

“That’s their job, Harry. They’re supposed to help you.”

My reasoning is brushed aside.

“There wasn’t much point anyway. It would be like adding fuel to an inferno. I know who it was but you don’t play games with those sort of people, Bo.”

I look to his face, dark circles under his eyes, cheekbones more prominent and no hope of even a hint of a coveted smile. I miss him.

“I wish I was there.”

He folds his arms across his chest, defensive and less than pleased with my wish. I would never have let him get to that stage.

“No you don’t.”

“Are you still on it?”

“No, I got help.”

“Were you injured anywhere else?”

“No, just my eye.”

Our short quick fire round finishes with me sadly nodding before crouching to complete the unfinished clean up. Harry mirrors my position, assessing my stature for a moment whilst burdening himself with a frown that seems to be a permanent fixture on his face.

“Leave it, Bo,” he firmly speaks.

The kindness he once had in his voice has been cut away and replaced with foul bitterness. It’s a stale reminiscence of past memories and a short temper. Fuck him. I carry on with the delicate task of picking up the small slices of glass that he’s unintentionally missed. It’s not his fault.

“Bo,” Harry scolds once again.

My patience explodes.

“How could you be so fucking stupid?!” I shout.

The sudden volume alarms him, falling back on his haunches with startled eyes. He stutters a response before we’re both left in a forced silence. I wrestle with controlling my breathing, so worked up it’s difficult to multitask and get up from the floor.

“I have to go.”

I’m shaking my head and screwing my eyes closed to hold back the bombardment of emotions I can’t deal with. This isn’t fair. My desire to shed all thoughts and feelings gained this evening is denied as Harry trails after me into the living room.

“You don’t have to leave,” he desperately offers.

Harry’s eyes flicker around the room as if searching for something to prevent me from departing. It’s heart wrenching because it wasn’t long ago that all he’d have to do was flash a smile and I’d go sprinting back to him. But now he’s not enough for me to stay; and he knows that.

“Please,” he swallows hurriedly. “Just-Just stay for a bit longer.”

His hands are shaking, bottom lip bitten with the anxiousness of a child. If he were to hold a teddy bear, you would think he was a toddler on the verge of tears before bedtime.

“No.”

I turn away from him to the sofa, fighting the pillows for my jacket. It suddenly feels overwhelmingly stuffy in the pokey flat and I want to get out. I need to get away from him because he’s dragging me down to a place I’m desperately trying to claw out of.

“You’ve only just got here.”

He runs a sweaty hand through the hair taken back with the scarf. It had escaped my attention before, but now I can see Harry’s nails are bitten nearly down to the quick. He’s the embodiment of a nervous wreck and I’m an awful person for abandoning him.

“I don’t want to stay.”

The words burn my throat as I speak them.

“I can walk you down.”

“I don’t need you –“

I was going to tell him that his offer was unnecessary but the sentence is left unfinished and hanging between us. If my heart wasn’t already shattered it would have fractured with the devastated look he gives me. The minuscule thread of a connection we share has been cut, with each of us left holding a tattered end. His eyes water with imminent release, chest beginning to heave.

“Please,” Harry wheezes.

I almost fall backwards into the corridor. The door slams shut and it’s finally just me. But the guilt and responsibility I felt whilst inside remain at the clutches of my throat. It clings to my skin like sweat on a sticky summer’s day. I’ve marched halfway down the corridor before reason has me screech to a halt.

“Shit.”

It would please me greatly to just walk away, escape from the nightmare this evening has become; but my own stupidity has had me leave my bag slung over his sofa. I would have left it there if the items inside weren’t vital for me to travel home. It’s pride and reluctance that have me feeling sour about walking the short distance and re-entering the flat. A gentle press is all that’s needed for me to gain entry.

“I left my – Harry?”

He’s on the floor, thirsty for air to fill his lungs and despite his long, sporadic inhales he doesn’t seem to be making any headway. I call his name again, but his posture still curves his spine. His fingers splay out on the carpet, chin almost touching his chest and I think he’s going to be sick.

My knees throb with a dull pain as they hit the floor. I take his face in both my hands so he knows he’s not alone. He uncurls slightly and I’m greeted with eyes blown wide. The shortness to his breath unnerves me.

“I – Bo, I can’t –“

Hold him. With panic tight in my gut I think to the people that know Harry best, when he was a little boy, when the threat of his father’s presence got too much. Hold him.

The unique set of eyes lose focus as I slip into Harry’s peripheral,  and he feels lost to me when I position myself behind him. My hands soothe the unnatural arching of his back as I prepare to move him. Harry’s still crowded in of himself until I softly speak his name. He sits up slightly, head tilting back, body seeking another like a flower to the sun. I take the opportunity to wedge my forearms under his armpits. When his sister used to hold him, I imagine he was small, easy to cuddle and nothing like the man he is now. The weight of him is more than I can cope with, even with the urgency of the situation I can’t haul him back. I cry in frustration, heels anchoring into the floor and it’s seconds later that Harry exerts his already strained breathe to press back into me. With my heart jackrabbiting in between his shoulder blades, I lean against the sofa to support our forced embrace. He sits within the “v” of my outstretched legs.

“It’s ok,” I speak in hurried reassurance. “You’re gunna be ok. Try and breathe with me.”

I purposefully exaggerate the movement of my chest so he can feel the motion beneath him. But he isn’t listening. His body shakes as I cross my arms around his front. Harry’s sobs are deprived of emotion because instinct has commandeered, hammering out any other thoughts other than those of human survival and the pursuit of oxygen.

“Shhh.”

Asthma attacks have a similar effect. I remember watching as my cousin fell to the floor with grass-stained knees and a wheezing chest. My aunt had shoved an inhaler in her mouth but I have no medicine for Harry. There’s no magic pill or puff of an inhaler that can take away the attack he’s experiencing.

Harry’s head rests back on my shoulder as I relieve his hair of constricting bandana. His chest fights against the firm press of my right arm whilst my left hand runs trails through his hair. He’d always found it of comfort before, a sure way of guaranteeing his relaxation to help him sleep. But it seems he’s far beyond that now. I jolt in surprise as an overly hot palm clutches at the material on my thigh, the other yanking at the neck of his top until I offer him my hand to hold. The bond we create lies over his chest in a tangle of haphazard limbs, sweaty palms and bruising impressions of fingertips.

I’ve got you, baby.

The longest four minutes of my life span out and the astounding display of Harry’s chest and lungs gradually slows to someone partaking in a brisk walk. I feel like I’ve run a marathon with a pack of wolves on my tail in the blistering heat of summer. My exhaustion is evident so I have no idea what Harry is experiencing. I gently rock him as his pulse slows beneath my critical observation. He’s treated to kind whispered promises of his ensured safety and how I’ll hold him for as long as he needs me to.

I’m convinced I’ve ushered him to sleep until he murmurs my name.

“I’ll stay, just please don’t do that again.”

The car practically rocks as I slam the door, hurling my bag to the passenger seat whilst unsuccessfully prodding at the ignition with my keys. He’s shouting and the roar unnerves me. I’d be useless as a getaway driver.

“Bo!”

The engines splutters, complaining as I jerkily shove the gear stick into first. My belt prevents me from shooting through the roof in fright as a palm claps to the driver’s window. It’s enough of a shock to have me press the universal lock on the doors. I don’t bother indicating out of the space because the street is quiet at this time of night and I have no desire to hang around. The hand smacks against the window again with more urgency this time. As I pull away the glass is streaked with hopeful fingertips, smudges that blemish any promises made.

I fail to shift into second gear because my brain has apparently disconnected from my feet and the mechanics of the car groan under my misguided pressure. The vehicle jolts and I’m left panting for breath in a stationary car. My hands come up to instinctively cover my face, using the philosophy of “if I can’t see it, it’s not there”. I haven’t quite mustered up to crying, so I sit here sobbing parched of tears.

The hand-break is yanked on and I cautiously swivel my head to check my blind spot. He’s not there. It’s not until I’ve unbuckled my belt and carefully vacate the car that I see him. Harry’s sat on the curb just out of range from the street lamp’s halo of light. Crowded in of himself, knees to his chest and head tilted down. All folded up, you’d never know the extent of his size.

It’s with a heavy heart I walk to him, sitting down to his right; just far enough away for us to look like strangers if anyone should pass us by. Harry’s head rises as if he can feel the air my body has displaced. He doesn’t look at me. The space between us is slowly being filled with all the things I can’t say. I’m afraid that any movement or vocal interaction will have Harry curl back up into his hedgehog position. We can’t sit here all night.

“I’m sorry,” I breathe.

The buzz of the world has fallen silent as if we’re the summit of existence. And it slowly kills me as Harry drags out the distance between spoken words. Please say something.

“For what?” he asks, as if there’s million things I could possibly be apologising for. There probably is.

“It was wrong of me to run. I shouldn’t have.”

He gently nods and I’m not sure whether it’s in confirmation that’s he’s heard me or if he agrees it was wrong of me to flee. I’m just happy for any sort of response as I delegate all concentration into observing the movement of his jaw, taking his lower lip to nibble between his teeth. A side profile is the best I’m offered.

“Are you –“ I begin, but my question is cut short.

“Why are you here?”

Even though the enquiry is addressed to the pavement, my crumbling exterior takes the brunt of it.

“I’m not really sure,” I admit.

Morbid curiosity I think, a lack of discipline and not possessing the strength to say, “enough, that’s enough”. I should never have returned.

“Bo, this isn’t the best of places during the day.”

Momentarily I glance down the road to see a few giggling women trip up the curb, handbags swing from their forearms, ignorant to the two us. They continue out of sight. Truth be told, I’m a little put out that that’s all he’s concerned with. I’m sat beside him and all he can think of to say is that I shouldn’t be here in the dark. Screw him.

“I’ve been before,” I reply offhandedly, rubbing the sweat from my palms to my jeans.

“I know,” Harry grits.

His disgruntled tone turns my head and I’m surprised to see him unfurl from vulnerability. I’m not fooled into thinking he’s opening up, despite his body language displaying confidence and certainty within the situation. Straighten up, look big, take charge. Bullshit. It’s a front that he seems to have perfected.

“I didn’t do it to upset you.”

“No, you came to have a good gawp like everybody else, right? Was it worth it?”

He’s almost gathered the courage to look at me, but bails out before making any progress. There’s an edge to his words that jaggedly rips through whatever courteous veil shrouds the situation.

“What are you talking about? I just –“

“What?” he interrupts once again.

“I wanted to see that you were all right.”

“Well, fuck,” Harry bites. “Does it look like I’m all right?”

Sarcasm embeds itself within his rhetorical question and I’m doing my best to keep up with this new attitude he’s sporting. It’s a whirlwind of curt responses and snide remarks that further convince me this certainly isn’t the boy I’ve reminisced about. Harry’s back is to me as he stands and strides away.

“You’re being unfair. Stop being a dick and talk to me.”

I follow after him, seeking out his hand as it swings back and whilst words fly between us. My fingers barely have hold of his and the spark I expect to feel has been extinguished long before this moment. There’s not much left to salvage.

“No, you – don’t be cruel,” Harry fumbles over words through distaste as I attempt to pivot him around. I imagine a deep frown of disapproval as he rips his hand away from mine. “You don’t get to do that,” he almost spits.

It’s horrifically painful to think he can’t actually look at me. His hands wedge deep into his pockets, a defence against me.

“When you leave me here,” he shakes his head. “Bo, I won’t be able to…just please - just don’t touch me.”

We’re backpedalling so fast it’s a challenge to overcome. He doesn’t wait for any sort of acceptance before continuing to part from me. Pretty soon there’s a whole road’s width between us. I stand in isolation staring at my hands as if they hold the answer as to why Harry couldn’t bear me touching him with them. But they’re just hands, lines marked into the palms like tributaries in a river. They won’t hurt him.

I think about leaving him there. Not giving him any more of my futile time. I pray for rain, drench him.

Despite my wishes of carelessness, I find myself gravitating to him once again. I don’t make the mistake of reaching out to him, my body couldn’t take another onslaught of enemy fire. I’m greeted by the back of him.

“Where’s your car?” I ask quietly as not to startle him. “I’ll take you to it.”

“I don’t have one.”

“I’ll take you home then,” I press further. “Or I can drop you off at someone else’s, I –“

“Home.” Harry replies solemnly. 

“Ok.”

It feels a little strange to have him steadily follow after me, especially after the exchange we’ve just had. It’s all terribly familiar as he passes me my bag from the passenger seat and buckles in. Harry folds his hands into his lap as I pull away from the curb a little more gracefully than my previous attempt. I don’t want to drown his existence out with the sound of the radio so it remains off. He picks at the fray of jeans where it’s ripped at the knee and I have to stem the part of me that wants to motherly scold him.

“Where are we going?”

His voice pries away at the silence rhythmically interspersed with the car’s indicator tick. We’re turning right at a junction. It doesn’t matter much that we’ve paused as there’s no-one behind us to press their horn.

“I’m going to take you home, to your flat.”

Jittery fingers continuously rotate the silver band on his index and then on his middle.

“I don’t live there anymore.”

I flick the indicator off.

“Where do you live?”

***

I climb from the car to be greeted by the menacing sight of three large blocks of flats. The moon peeks through the gap between the first and second, almost relieved when it’s granted shelter to hide behind the passing cloud. Friendly and approachable are two words absent from the list of descriptors I would use to advertise property here.

Harry’s lingering by the car, head cast down in toil of what comes next. I take the pressure from him.

“I’ll come in if you want me to.”

“Yeah,” he says without pause.

I’m shoving my keys back into my bag as he strides across the road with me trailing him. A few paces in front and he realises I’m lagging behind, forgotten that he used to be considerate of my shorter legs and fall in step beside me.

The entrance door to block number two is held open and I thank Harry as he allows me through first. It smells a little damp in the lobby and I account it to the mismatch patches of colour upon the ceiling in the corner. There’s no buzz-in so individuals can walk in and out freely.

“I’ll just be a minute,” Harry softly states. “Rent needs paying.”

He’s gone through a heavy fire door and I’m left to amble around the lobby on my own. A light on the flaky wall flickers, a glassy click every few seconds to accompany music blaring obnoxiously from a boy racer car outside. We’d passed them on the way in but I hadn’t taken much notice, instead choosing to stick close to Harry and pray for anonymity. I have the urge to validate the security of my car; they’re probably stealing parts of the engine by now or messing with the brakes.

The entrance door we used surges open and I’m surprised the handle hasn’t become a permanent fixture in the wall vulnerable to its swing range. My assessment concludes two males and one female. Their conversation aborts when they eye me.

 “You live here?” the woman with scraped back hair asks.

I’m not quite sure what the right answer should be because my mind summons the same image of me being preyed upon regardless of a “yes” or “no”. A brief decision is hastily reached.

 “No.”

One of the men steps forward, shorter than the woman and with a shock a honey coloured hair. Despite his jeans being belted, they still hang low on his stocky frame.

“You lost then?”

“No,” I repeat.

The uncomfortable feeling digging away at my stomach intensifies as a sly smile is unified between them. In a conscious effort to become less of a target I’ve shifted conveniently over to the door leading further into the building.

“My friend went off this way, I’m gunna see if I can find him.”

My forearms press to the wood in a misplaced sense of hygiene inappropriate for the current circumstance. It’s the least of my worries now that one of them has followed. I can tell because I’m yet to hear the door close behind me.

“And which floor is your friend on?”

I peer down one of the corridors stemming off from the main route and then down the one opposite. It’s a fucking maze.

“I don’t know, he didn’t say.”

My reply is sharp as I turn to face them once again. The woman and one of the men are present in the hall with me; the other is hanging from the doorframe with a knowing grin. The way amusement slips from his mouth is almost comical and I’m the last to understand why as the three of them pale.

“She doesn’t want what you’re selling,” Harry’s voice echoes.

The woman is caught in headlights as the men retreat back. I can feel Harry stood behind me, along with an odd sense of superiority at having people cower away. “It’s twenty-eight, it’s twenty-eight,” is background mumbles to the sudden chill in the atmosphere. She draws her head down in submission, following after the others who have abandoned her.

I watch the door after they’ve gone and only twist around upon hearing Harry step away. It seems I spend most of my time conversing with the back of him.

“What were they selling?”

I receive a humoured hum as we continue to play a low spirited version of follow the leader. The doors to the lift ping open just as Harry takes another door which I presume leads to the stairs. I don’t know how high we’re going up, but even the graffiti scratched interior of the lift beats climbing the stairs.

“Aren’t we taking the lift?” I call through the gradually diminishing gap of the closing door.

I can see the back of Harry through the tiny window as he pauses on the first step.His head turns slightly to address me and I’m not of commendable fitness to stop the dented lift doors from uniting.

“I wouldn’t,” he replies. “There are kids on level six that like to jam it. There’s no guarantee we’d make it to three alive.”

I’m certainly not spending my night trapped in a metal box hanging over probable death just to give some children a few giggles. Jogging after Harry I find him to have proceeded up the first bend of staircase. It’s a grotty ascent to level three.

“The people downstairs, when they saw you they said twenty-eight. What does that mean?”

We pass the same washed-out green doors whilst travelling the length of the deserted corridor. Noise from TV sets can be heard from some flats, others are deathly silent.

“Er, I live at number twenty-eight,” Harry tentatively concludes.

We stop outside an identical door and Harry roots around in his pocket for keys. It’s only as the corridor lights time out and the passageway progressively darkens that he allows us in. And my first thought is that this isn’t his home. The front entrance enters straight into the living room. It’s cramped. I presume the only natural source of light the room receives is from the window at the back, which happens to be the kitchen. Although with the grime masking the glass it’s probably not of any benefit.

Harry stands to the side of the sofa, head marginally bowed and he looks out of place in his own home.

“It looks nice, Harry,” I offer kindly.

“You don’t have to be polite,” he weakly laughs. “My mum and sister won’t even visit me here, and I don’t want them to. I know it’s a shit hole.”

I’m at a loss for words so instead busy myself with looking around. The telly is much smaller, there’s no trace of any games console and the lamp on the side needs a new bulb. It’s as my eyes wander over the leaflet stuffed sofa that my snooping comes to a heady halt on the baseball bat propped up on the arm.

“I got broken into a while ago,” he tries to explain. “Haven’t been back since.”

“Shit,” is my immediate response.

Harry’s boots are toed off before he ambles to the kitchen. As if attached by a string, I make my way over. I watch him lean up to retrieve a tall glass from the cupboard.

“Do you want a drink?”

I approach from his right. My hand faintly brushes his side upon stepping closer and he reacts in a way I’m unaccustomed. Just like before, Harry creates distance to centre himself. White knuckles grip the glass and I’m a little worried as to pressure it can successfully sustain.

“I’m fine,” I answer.

The kitchen tap is levered on, water swirling around the plughole as Harry waits for it to cool. He’s crumbling, I can see it happening. Hand trembles and increased rate of breath. He grips the counter top to steady himself.

“It’s ok,” I tell him. “I’ll bring it to you.”

The glass is placed upon the worktop, a move to avoid accidental touch.

“I’m gunna go lie down,” Harry nods at himself.

“All right.”

I track his wavering walk until he disappears through to the bedroom. My jacket and bag are slung onto the sofa before I return to the kitchen. I think of getting him something to eat but my exploration of his fridge condemns Harry to a left over Chinese food and out of date milk. I would throw it away but I don’t want to interfere and I can’t help but think that he hasn’t been looking after himself. Just the water then.

There’s a smoky aroma that clings to the space as I enter the bedroom. The bed is vacant and I discover Harry fiddling with objects strewn across the top of his drawers. I’m fairly sure my advance is anything but frightful, however the alarm Harry moves with creates bit of a mess. He rounds so quickly from fright that the glass is knocked from my hand, smashing to the floor in an eruption of shards and water.

 “Bo, Bo, I’m sorry,” he desperately tells me. “I didn’t – I didn’t see you.”

It’s in a fluster that I’m blessed with a clear view to his face and it nearly knocks me flat. When I reach for him Harry understands the mistake he’s made. I take hold of his chin before he has a chance to stop me.

“Don’t,” he lightly protests. “Bo, stop.”

My other hand cups the side of his face. Harry freezes as my thumb skims the scar, the connection taking me back to earlier with the persistent woman and how we’d approached Harry. “It doesn’t bother me,” she’d said, and the statement hadn’t made sense until now. His eyes are closed and there’s no mistaking the healed wound cutting almost diagonally through his eyebrow and across his left lid. It’s not a smooth line, the top is somewhat jagged and it makes my stomach plummet.

“Open them.”

Harry no longer fears my touch, it’s just stubbornness now.

“Open them,” I demand.

My hands fall like dead weight, body backing away. I’m unable to despise my response because the rest of me is going into shock.

“Yeah, I tend to get that reaction,” he bitterly states.

The pupil has been damaged, no longer perfectly aligned and leaking slightly into the iris, which is an angry combination of dark green and blue. The whole eye is lightly clouded in a milky white and it feels like the bottom has dropped out of my world.

“I don’t…”

Harry’s still, allowing me to process what’s in front of me.

“Partially sighted.”

He weakly smiles.

I shake my head and try to catch the breath that’s escaped my lungs.

“I don’t understand," I plead.

His vision flickers down before mustering the courage to fully engage me for the first time. 

Despite lack of better judgement, I’m back again. Having upheld commitments on Friday and Saturday with James and Tiff, I’d bargained Sunday to return home. Tiff had whinged saying my mum was going to get sick of me. But it’s not really my mum that I’ve come to see.

My knee can’t seem to stop hopping, bouncing in excitement and apprehension. It’s an odd combination to feel, the butterflies in my stomach just as confused as me. Their wings beat against my insides as the back door opens and Harry strides out. He’s on a mission, unperturbed by the distasteful taunts shouted from liquor swilled mouths.

“Freak!”

He’s different tonight, more alert, more aware of his surroundings. I sit back down, watching him through the fleeting gaps between people ahead of me. There’s no show of entering the ring and the announcer flusters through the introduction Harry didn’t give him any time to deliver. The black hood is taken down and Harry’s interest in the crowd is abnormally high. He never usually sees beyond his opponent, but tonight he’s not even given a passing glance. There’s a hot clench in my stomach, similar to the feeling of the moments before you’re found when playing hide and seek.

Harry does another skim of faces as the announcer removes himself from the ringed fight. He stops occasionally, scrutinising people, pressing himself to the ropes in order to extend his range and confirm identity. He’s searching for someone.

Regretfully I can’t clearly see his face; if I could, I would hope that it would give me an indication as to who captures his thoughts. I sit shrouded in my own as the fight begins, cheers interspersed with ugly words of torment. He shouldn’t have to listen to that. The situation is like that of a quarantined animal, people poking and shouting with cruel intent in attempt to get a rise, hear the animal roar. Harry’s not going to bite this time.

The ink covering his left arm is smudged and stretched as he uses it to block attacks and counter them with his own. Not only does he have to defend against fists, elbows and ramming shoulders, Harry’s also acutely aware of jabs from knees. He ducks out of a right hook, challenging the aggression with a sharp kick to the man’s thigh.

I’m still astounded by the combination of hits, the abandonment of any rules, no guidelines. All that remains is the objective to take your opponent down, in any way possible apparently. Harry can hold his own, skilled in this new form of fighting that involves almost no protective gear despite the unequivocal need for it. Each hit stokes the audience, thirsty to see if the champion can provide them with another spectacular knockout.

Harry knocks the brawl to the floor after sweeping his right leg ‘round and catching the other fighter in the back of his knees. He collapses forward, slamming his chin into the solid ring floor before squirming to turn on his back. I feel for him, his body language reflecting his understanding of the position. Forearms shoot up to protect his face as Harry repeatedly swings at him. His hair is taken back with a bandana, less of a distraction when it’s up off his face. But it doesn’t seem to help with other interferences. Both Harry and I, along with others, are drawn to the ruckus over by the bar. There’s already volunteers to bring order to a scuffle the involved should be ashamed of. Delusions of grandeur are displayed as one man takes it upon himself to claim pathetic victory over the drunk he’s shoved to the floor. I shake my head with disapproval as he makes a sceptical of himself.

Back in the ring, Harry’s been shoved aside with the challenger already taking the power position up on his feet. Harry’s on his knees and I can’t quite come to terms with just how fast the tables can turn. No mercy is given and I visibly recoil as the fighter prepares to boot Harry in the shoulder he’s already cradling in pain. The assault is interrupted at the last possible moment by Harry’s right arm. I slip from my seat with my heart pounding in my ears and frantically claw through the people in front. Four seconds, five? I’m not sure, but it is just a few mere seconds. Harry’s the only one standing.

Nasty words are thrown at him yet again, people disappointed with the outcome of the match and the loss of bets. He seems to take no notice, stooping through the ropes and jumping down. The baffled announcer is left in the ring with a bloody fighter and without a winner’s arm to raise in victory. My eyes trail after Harry as he clutches his shoulder and creates a forced path to the back door.

***

He’s hunched over himself at the bar. There’s a radius clear around him of sober people, the drunks don’t seem to care. Harry’s been thrown off his usual routine of, fight, win, leave. He’d escaped a monstrous beating in the ring tonight and when he exited through the back door to the staff corridor that should have been the last I’d seen of him. It was a little perplexing to see him skulk back into the bar and secure a place amongst the swaying groups. It was mostly shock that had me promptly park my behind to the chair again, that and the unquenchable want to indulge in any time I could have in his presence.

His dress sense hasn’t changed much, although he’s definitely acquired a tendency to favour anything black, washed out and ripped. There’s hardly any colour to his wardrobe and I can’t help but feel disheartened for some reason. Customary skinny jeans are worn; black to match the top under the checked shirt. I can tell his shoulder is still causing him a bit of trouble, choosing to rest his forearm in his lap.

Mack’s late, I haven’t seen him all evening so I’d grabbed a table and a drink to sit on my own. Many people had left after the last fight of the evening, the temperament of the bar cooling until it was unrecognisable as a battling arena. It wasn’t long before I was approached to share the table. I don’t mind the company, it’s nice to hear snippets of chat and tipsy laughing.

“Do you like him?”

I turn to the girl sat beside me. Her eyeliner is purposefully smudged and there’s a small silver hoop piercing her lip. She suits the scruffy bob her hair has been cut into.

“Who?” I ask, even though it’s pretty clear who she’s referring to.

Apparently I’ve been less than discrete in my admiring. I hadn’t intended it to be more than a few greedy glances and I hadn’t imagined anyone would be taking notice of me.

“Harry.”

I shake my head in embarrassment of being caught. It’s odd to hear his first name, most seem to refer to him by last, as if ‘Harry’ is too personal.

“Do you dye your hair?”

It’s a sharp turn in the conversation that I hadn’t expected we would take. Her index rubs thoughtfully over her mouth as she busies herself with ponderings over my nature colour.

“Yeah.”

“Shame,” her fingers flick the ends tucked behind my ear. “I heard he likes little brunettes,” she teases with a smile. Although I presume her intentions to be friendly, I’m still burdened with slightly sinister objectives. “You should go and talk to him.”

“It’s better to be left.”

I don’t think it would be the wisest of things to do, especially as he’s just barked at one man for trying to spark up conversation. He’s not into small talk, even if it is between him and one of his “fans”.

“I’ll come with you.”

My hand is taken, and she drags me from my seat and along behind her to the bar. I’ve barely managed to sling my bag over my shoulder and there’s no time to grab my coat. It’s left with the group whose faces I certainly won’t recognise individually under Hollister style lighting. I feel like a child throwing a tantrum, objecting any further would have me digging my heels into the floor and screeching. I can see where she’s leading us, a free space to Harry’s right. It’s big enough as to not cause too much disruption to our pushing in and she makes the executive decision on which side I’m placed. Her body is a barrier between Harry and I. She tips her head at me, a little nod and I have no idea what she wants me to do. There’s no time to ask because she’s already pivoted away, still clutching my hand. My body feels boneless. 

 “Do you want a drink, handsome?” she asks, voice dripping in sultry allure.

It’s quite possibly the worst opening line I’ve ever heard; so awful I momentarily lapse in what’s playing out before me and I’m forced to quell the eye-roll. Instead, a stab of fury pierces through whatever apprehension I feel bumbling around in my stomach. My mind is full on sprinting to keep up until the nameless girl cocks her hip and I realise it’s not rage, it’s jealously. I don’t want her coming on to him and in some juvenile part of my brain I’ve labelled Harry as mine. Just for me. Keep your hands off him.

 “I’ve got one,” he gruffly replies.

From my obstructed view I see him gesture to the tumbler of amber liquid pressing to his temple. The thawing ice tinkers against the glass and I’m sordidly pleased with his shrugging off.

“I can get you another.”

I hear the glass meet the bar top none too gently. It’s painfully clear he wants to be left alone but she’s going to hound him, goad him with unwanted offers. Let’s see you roar.

“No,” he retorts bluntly.

I pull on the hold she has, but the bony little fingers have more strength than I’m willing to admit. Yank anymore and we’ll both end up on the floor and I’m not really enthused by the idea of being jeered at by drunks.

“Well, maybe you could buy me one.”

Bitch.

Harry’s head sharply turns and my body reflexively jolts the other way. I pray that he doesn’t cotton on to the pounding reverberating in my chest. It’s the music, it’s the music, I repeat in mantra. The girl’s hand has constricted like a python, suddenly very aware of any mistake made, or perhaps it’s because his attention is now fully on her. They don’t speak while I play at waiting on service, casually scanning the bar and pretending the fingers wrapping around mine aren’t painfully tight. But the façade falls through as I catch her movement in my peripheral. Her hand gently cups Harry’s face and I’m stunned.  I expect him to shout or push her away, but he doesn’t. I wish he would.

His eyes are closed as I cautiously take a peek, face shadowed from inadequate lighting. There’s a pink crescent moon shape curving his left eye socket and I assume it’s a lingering consequence of dodging a full fist to the face. I’ve seen minor injuries like that before, nothing to worry about as it will be gone in a couple of days. What really nips at my interest is the more definite looking scar.

“It doesn’t bother me,” she faintly speaks, snapping me out of my almost daydream of a stare.

There are any number of things she could be referring to but the way in which he leans into her gentle affection has me utterly floored. I don’t understand. Her offerings were refused, Harry was perfectly clear on where he stood and now he’s almost defenceless against her advances.

Her hand falls from his face, drifting down his chest to rest alarming on his upper thigh. It’s uncomfortable to be here, to see her touch him so intimately. Harry doesn’t move, but I’m safe to freely observe because his consideration only goes as far as her. I don’t stray above his shoulders because I have no desire to see the small suggestive smile he used to give me. My lips pinch together in spite, and regardless of her successful catch, she still hangs onto me like her life depends on it. She’s almost in Harry’s lap and I feel like punching her in the gut and running.

What the hell is she playing at?

I watch with a distasteful scowl as she leans further into him, and he doesn’t refuse her. His eyes remain closed, enjoying her attention. The bar continues to provide a heady atmosphere, people now pressed too close for my liking.

“You can have both of us,” she murmurs sensually into his ear.

And I’m lost. A slow burn builds from my toes, incinerating anything in its path to create a hot mess of panicked butterflies in my stomach. It’s something I’ve never felt with James, and probably never will because he’s not Harry. James doesn’t excite me in the way I feel now, he won’t have me panting in mercy or begging for the simplest of touches. And I feel guilty for still stowing these emotions for a boy that I should have forgotten.

Please don’t. Not like this.

“You can fuck us both.”

I see her step back slightly with the aid of Harry’s arm but I don’t turn. His watchful eyes should be familiar as I blindly become aware of his assessment of me. He’s given a reluctant side profile, my face cloaked by a box bought, dark gold. The girl reaches her free hand to try and push the hair away from my face but I don’t let her. I can almost hear her snarl as I moodily recoil from her touch.

It’s as if my reaction sparks at Harry’s sudden turn. She’s shoved from her prided place wedged between his legs, releasing my hand in surprise. Her weak attempt to take his arm is stunted immediately.

“I’m not here for your sick entertainment,” Harry spits. The girl is so taken aback she bumps into me in her bid to escape. The depth of his voice dictates just how low his tolerance has become.

“No, no, I wasn’t…” she frantically defends in vain.

“I’m not gunna fuck you or your friend, so just do yourself a favour.”

Harry unwittingly knocks into the stool he once sat on, now up on his feet. He jostles into wide-eyed onlookers, his injured shoulder forgotten and replaced with vexation.

“Come on,” I say with quiet urgency, taking her wrist and towing her away.

I grab my coat on the way as we pass the table we once sat at and I don’t stop until we’ve exited out into the night.

“What the hell was that?” I demand, dropping her hand.

There’s people outside smoking and they’ve suddenly taken an interest in the two girls stood shouting. I make an effort to try and calm down.

“Well, he wasn’t going to take just me home was he?” she bitterly replies. “Needed a pretty little thing to sweeten the deal. Just his type.” She reaches again to flick my hair behind my ear and I force the hand back to her side. Her laugh is one of mocking irritation. “You ruined it.”

“I’m sure it’s not the end of the world.”

“Should’ve just sucked him off in the toilets, would have been less hassle.”

She barges into my shoulder upon her huffing departure and I can’t recall ever having a conversation like it. I don’t realise until she’s gone just how tightly I’ve screwed my fists.

***

I’ve had to walk around the back of the club. There’d been no parking spaces out the front when I’d arrived so the car is a little further than I’d like to journey, but I have no choice. Rubbish litters the pavement and one of the street lamps casts an eerie flickering light.

There’s three guys making a slightly tipsy performance of play fighting. I don’t count them as a danger as one of them has just fallen over his own feet. They’re laughing as I manoeuvre around them.

“Hey!” one of them calls.

I continue placing one foot in front of the other, slightly faster than I was before. My car is just across the road, if I sprint I can be inside with the doors locked in under ten seconds.

“Hey.”

My body falters in concealed alarm as the man rounds to my front and grins at me.

“What do you think? I could take him, right?”

His speech swims in a distinct slur, the pungent stench of liquor polluting the air between us. There’s an ominous stain dribbled down the front of his top, a hiccup accompanied by a cruise ship sway.

“Who?” I ask, fingers discovering the whereabouts of my keys.

He doesn’t notice.

“Styles.”

I could almost bark out a patronising laugh. Expectation in his glassy eyes command me to agree with him and it’s as he raises his brows that I’m overcome with recognition. The guy from the bar, the delusional one who’d proclaimed himself winner of some infantile playground fight whilst Harry was in the ring.

“You’d hardly be worth his time,” I honestly reply.

I hadn’t intended to be so blunt and by the flush of his cheeks and his friends’ laughter, he’s embarrassed that I was.

“It was a clean knockout,” he challenges.

The smart thing to do would be to agree and walk away, but apparently I’m unable to do that even in a situation like this.

“No,” I shake my head in fierce objection. “You just pushed over a drunk. You picked the easiest target in there, he wasn’t going to put up a fight and you know it.”

I want to sellotape my mouth shut before anything else spurts out that I’ve not had a chance to think about. His friends have come closer and I have to gulp down my fear as I fiddle in my bag, slotting a key between each finger on my right hand. The man’s unfocussed vision glides unnervingly up and down my figure. It’s time to leave.

“I wouldn’t say he was the easiest.”

The path to the car is blocked. I think about using the keys, slashing across his face and making a run for it.

“How about you? Am I worth your time?” he grits out.

“Please move,” I say, willing it to sound more authoritative than it probably does.

The metal is hot in my hand, take a step closer and I’ll use it.

“Oi!”

Four of us drag our eyes over to the fire escape at the back of the club. I’m no damsel and I’m not even sure if this new Harry is into playing the hero, but I don’t think his timing could have been more spot on. The air is filled with a fresh tension which hopefully puts me out of the firing line.

“Oh look, the man himself,” the guy snidely smiles at me. “We’ve got one of your groupies here, mate.”

I’m shoved a little in Harry’s direction. He’s close, boots crunching the lose sprinkles of tarmac. He steps around me, placing himself between me and the tormentors. I stop myself from bustling up beside him and stay partially sheltered behind him.

“Why don’t you and your mates just fuck off, yeah? She’s done nothing wrong.”

Harry’s still got his hands shoved in his jean pockets like this whole thing is a strain on his time. I imagine the short ends of the bandana tickle at his neck, although he shows no sign of discomfort from where I’m standing.

“She hurt my feelings,” the man fakes wounded.

I hear Harry snigger, casually wandering forward to address him personally.

“I find that hard to believe with a skull as thick as yours.”

It’s as if intimidation comes with just a simple glance. The men are backing off all too easily. They make a performance of leaving, kicking at the empty cans on the floor to have them rebound off the wall.

“Freak!”

The shouts echo down the road but Harry is oblivious to them. I peer at the floor as he shifts his weight and strolls back. The unsure hand glides inches above my shoulder before thinking better of it and letting it fall to his side once more.

 “Are you all right?” he asks.

“Fine,” I gulp. “Thanks.”

If he recognises me from the bar he doesn’t mention it, and I’m glad because my hands are already starting to sweat and I can practically hear the drumming in my chest. I hadn’t planned on a face-to-face encounter like this; well, it’s hardly much of an interaction as I haven’t given him the decency of looking up at his face. He probably thinks of me as rude and ungrateful.  

 “Do you need me to walk you anywhere?”

I softly smile, still evading full face visuals with my hair. It’s the first indication I’ve received of his past self still present in this different form. Not all of him has been lost.

“My car is just..” I trail off, gesturing towards the grey vehicle. “It’s ok, thank you,” and I leave him there.

The brief walk that I’d been prepared to sprint a short time before is strangely calm. That is until I momentarily peek over my shoulder and then immediately regret it. Harry’s still stood there. He’s overseen me walk away and cross the road. Why is he still stood there? It’s not a relaxed kind of lingering, it’s purposeful. He’s remained there for a reason.

I fuss with my keys, cursing myself as I ineptly drop them and then hastily scoop them up. My hands are shaking.

He’s going to let me get into my car. I’ll drive away and won’t even be tempted to look at him in my rear view. Please let me get into my car.

“When does he fight?” I pryingly enquire.

I’ve accepted a drink, non-alcoholic, what with the long drive back home. Mack’s giving me odd looks as I return my devotion to him after scanning the room for the third time. It’s precautionary. I know Harry’s gone; an abrupt exit with a stunned crowd and an unconscious competitor was pretty conclusive. But I still keep my wits about me.

“Huh?” he strains over the noise.

“Harry, when does he normally fight?”

“Most weekends, occasionally during the week,” Mack almost shouts in reply. “Come through to the back, it’s quieter.”

I shuffle along behind him, dodging people who can’t seem to keep their drink steady. I feel oddly privileged to follow Mack through the door label, “PRIVATE”. It was used as an entrance and exit for the fighters a little while before and yet again I’m overcome with a sense that I’m trespassing. A short walk down the corridor leads us to an office at the back. It’s not overly big, but the space is used well, desk, computer, filing cabinet, and a not so well hidden safe.

“Look, if you want to meet him, I can arrange something, Bo.”

My head turns so quickly I think I’ve jarred my neck. I rub at the nape trying to ease the discomfort. Mack’s sat at the desk, riffling through paperwork in order to retrieve his phone which has just pinged with a text.

“With Harry?” I ask, my eyebrows shooting up.

He doesn’t look up, instead rummages in the furniture’s drawers.

“Yeah, I mean, it might be a bit difficult,” he pauses with a grimace. “He’s not really a people person.  But even I know that he must have something going for him. Since he’s been here, the amount of women turning up on his fight nights have increased.”

 “No, that’s ok,” I shake my head.

“Sure? I can tell him you’re a fan. I know the - urr..” he gestures in the general area of his face, leaving me puzzled before continuing. “It’s a bit intimidating, but he’s alright.”

“No, thanks.”

I can tell he’s about to nose further into my fascination with one of his fighters, so I quickly change the subject.

“What’s that?”

Of the paper collection on his desk, the one I pick up is handwritten. Words and occasionally whole sentences have been scribbled out. By the crumpled appearance, it’s obvious this single sheet has been given more attention than the others. It’s taken from me before I can decipher the recipient. 

“A letter,” Mack curtly replies.

“Who are you writing to?”

A heavy sigh exhales as he slouches back in his computer chair and I pull out the seat opposite him.

“My girlfriend.”

It’s spoken with a little unease.

“Is it a love letter?” I ask, smiling more than I probably should.

He shakes his head with a flush colouring his cheeks. It’s kind of cute.

“She’s been reading these God-awful books where the characters confess their love for each other through the written word.”

His nose turns up as though the sentence spoken disgusts him. Romance is often as foreign to some people as a different language, so I don’t make any snide remarks.

“It’s not like I don’t talk to her on the phone every day. She wants me to write down my feelings and send them to her.”

“I think it’s sweet.”

A feeling of joy bubbles up, happy to hear that love exists outside of my perilous experiences. He taps away at his phone as I sit quietly and observe. There’s a couple of framed pictures, a pin board littered with calendar dates and a small potted plant that could do with a water.

“Of course you do,” he rolls his eyes.

I’m fully acquainted with sarcasm, living with the likes of Tiff. His putdown won’t dampen my spirits.

“Where is she?”

“Studying up in Manchester.”

His eyes drift over to the phone he’s recently found and I know the constant buzzing is messages from her by the smile he wears.

“I could help you if you want.”

Mack’s torn away from the screen, latching instead onto our conversation, which apparently has taken an interesting turn.

“What do you mean?”

I shift forward to the edge of the seat, repositioning the pathetic cushion used to combat the heavy wood of the chair.

“With the composition. If you’re struggling, I could give you a woman’s perspective.”

“You’d do that?” he asks, slightly amazed.

“Sure, if you let me sit in on the fights.”

I hope it’s casual enough to not raise suspicion, but I’m not sure if the silence we’re currently swimming in is him contemplating the offer, or if he’s trying to work out if I’m bit of a crazy groupie. I give him a soft smile which I hope doesn’t come off as odd.

“Alright.”

“Brilliant,” I grin, leaning over the paper peppered desk to shake his hand. “Just please don’t tell him.”

“About what?”

“About me.”

***

Apparently I’m not competent enough to take command of the trolley, so I’m stuck walking alongside like a child as Tiff points out items on the shelf. We’d brought Rob on our food shopping expedition after discovering he’d eaten pot noddle for breakfast and lunch. He’d scowled as we’d tried to explain that the “food” had about as much nutrition as water sodden cardboard.

“You’re going home again?”

I place tins of sweetcorn amongst our swelling food supply.

“Yeah.”

The trolley screeches to a halt, an old lady tutting behind before steering around us. Tiff’s brown eyes are swarming me with disappointment, brows furrowing as she continues to push forward.

“Why? We were meant to go to the cinema. You remember? I have that voucher for Saturday night, I can’t use it any other day.”

“Shit. I’m really sorry,” I shake my head with genuine regret.

“Ugh,” Tiff grumbles, throwing a box of cereal into our shared trolley. “Oh God, I’ll have to take Rob instead.”

“Take me where?” Rob pops up, mouth full of grapes and arms full of rubbish microwave meals. “Are we going on a date, Tiff?”

He suggestively nudges her with his shoulder, eyebrows dancing around in a supposedly flirty way.

“You wish,” she bites back, helping unload the items from his clutches.

“You’re supposed to pay before you start eating the shopping,” I point out, taking the nearly empty bag of fruit and placing it on top.

I’m not surprised that they ignore my scolding in favour of racing down the frozen aisle to see what’s on offer. We’ll divide it between us if the food goes towards a main meal. But if it’s ice-cream, it’s none negotiable, there will be no sharing, just stomach aches after eating a full tub to ourselves.

“Well, Bo was supposed to come with me to the flicks, but now she can’t, so I’m taking you.”

“Brilliant! What are we seeing?”

***

“Well, what do you want to tell her?”

The point of my pen digs deeper into the page and I’ve resorted to doodling in the margin. I’m working on a full meadow of flowers, complete with bumble bees and butterflies. We’ve been sitting on Mack’s side of the desk for near forty minutes, still deliberating as to how his heartfelt letter should begin. I imagine that somewhere around now, Rob is hassling Tiff to share her popcorn, and they’ve already argued over who gets the middle armrest.

“I want her to know that I miss her.”

“Well, that’s a start,” I say, ripping off my mindless illustrations and starting a new page. “What do you miss?”

“Everything.”

I force back the urge to coo at him, because I know it will put him off and we won’t be any further forward. To combat the pins and needles tingling in my right foot, I shift it out from under my left thigh and rearrange myself again. Mack’s been up and down like a yo-yo during our time together, and I’m coming to realise his attention span is probably the hindering factor in his inability to complete the letter. Wide brimmed glasses are propped on the end of his nose and I can’t help but liken him to James and their mutual distaste at having to wear them. James keeps them safely tucked away in his bag, only recovering them when it’s absolutely necessary to see the TV. The fact that his lashes are long enough to brush the inside of the lenses always fascinates me.

I pen a star into the margin of the lined paper, readying myself for the flurry of bullet point ideas I hope will follow. It’s probably a bit optimistic as Mack has taken to riffling through a diary of appointments in his lap.

“Mack!” a shout echoes from outside.

His head instantly snaps up, eyes boomeranging from me to the door.

“It’s Harry.”

His voice is low, enough to warn me, but not to draw attention to the fact that he has company in the office. I release the chewed up end of the pen from my teeth, hearing it clatter to the desk and roll to the floor. I’ve no idea where it lands because I’m consumed with the need to hide.

“He’s early,” I hiss.

The easy tread of footsteps outside in the corridor sound like thunder to my ears, heart in my mouth and I’m crawling to the impossibly small space between the filing cabinet and safe. My hands feel dirty and my denim covered knees are probably filthy with dust from the neglected floor. It’s not the best hiding place by any means, but it serves a desperate purpose as I squeeze and wriggle back to relative safety. I knock my head on the worktop that runs above the safe, but the curse is bitten down in favour of keeping my whereabouts unknown. From where I’m wedged in I can see Mack’s legs from knee down as he gathers the paper we’d been working on before slamming the evidence into a drawer. My stomach feels as though it’s fallen out of my arse and I silently reprimand myself for the packet of bourbons I’d shared with James on Thursday night. I can hardly breathe and I don’t want to now that the office door has been opened.

“Harry,” Mack greets a little uneasy, probably the fact that he’s allowing a stowaway to take refuge amongst his furniture.

I gulp down the bile rising in my throat.

“I’m gunna need my money,” Harry gruffly demands.

I press back further into my dark spot. There’s probably spiders lurking in here with me but there’s no way I’m going to be ousted out by creepy crawlies. I’m more uncomfortable with the thought of being out there.

“You already have it,” Mack replies, casually leaning back against his desk.

“Not for last night.”

I still can’t see him, he’s not walked any further into the room and I feel even more childish for concealing myself; hiding from my unaddressed issues instead of confronting them. This was a stupid idea. My flustered self didn’t really weigh up other options, there was no time. And now that I’m sat, wedged into a space not meant for a person approaching their twentieth birthday, I can’t help but plague myself with the question, would it really have been that bad if he’d have seen me?

I can’t come out now though, I’ll look like a crazy person for hiding.

A breathless squeak is supressed by the palm of my hand as Mack crouches down almost in front of me. For a horrific couple of seconds, I’m fraught with the worry that he’s going to rat me out. But he doesn’t. Eyes communicate words unspoken and he continues, attending to the number combination on the safe.

Notes are stuffed into a white envelope and he unfolds from his squat, kicking the door closed with his foot. It’s a short break from fear of blown cover.  

“Did you have a woman in here?” Harry asks.

My mouth dries and I have to supress the need to hack my guts up. I dabble in the unsavoury idea that he can smell me, like a predator with its prey. But we’re not playing cat and mouse, despite the fact that I’m holed up and out of sight.

“No,” Mack replies a little too quickly.

“Is this yours then?”

I duck my head down as far as I’m able, peering out at what is being discussed. My tube of lip balm is pinched between Harry’s thumb and index, looking stupidly small held in one of his bear paws. It makes me feel more vulnerable to discovery knowing that he’s holding something of mine that I’d used only ten minutes prior.

He’s too tall for me to see his face; my only view is of his lower body and half of his torso. Dressed all in black, I imagine him to come and go as he pleases during the hours after dusk, sinking back into the dark.

“Didn’t think it was your colour,” Harry jokes.

There’s no well-versed guidelines as to how I should be feeling; no blueprint to reassure that me being oddly comforted by the familiarity of his oversized feet is weird. That part is Harry. It’s the bitten tone that has me swaying between guarded and calm. He’s a concoction of what I once knew and something unnervingly different. Skinny jeans and long legs, Harry. The stern posture and unthinking clenched fist belong to someone I’ve never met before.

“Maybe it’s one of the girls behind the bar, a few of them were in here earlier for their wages.”

Even if I didn’t know the truth, I wouldn’t be convinced enough to believe Mack’s lie. He’s atrocious at acting, a five year old would have performed better.

“Look, it’s not my place to judge.”

“I’m not cheating on my girlfriend,” Mack states with solid conviction.

Now that I can believe.

The money changes hands and I’m more than thankful for the help Mack offers to free me. Harry’s gone and it’s probably time I left, too.

“What was all that about?”

I collect my bag and jacket from the drawer Mack stuffed them in before our ambush. A tiny stick of lip balm could be explained, anything else would have raised the red flag and then shoved it in Harry’s face.

“I told you, I don’t want him to know.”

“He probably wouldn’t have seen you anyway,” he says with irritation.

I wrestle my jacket on as Mack pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You not staying for the fight then?”

“No, but I’ll see you soon.”

I was late. Thankfully it was only by a few minutes so I could slip into the back without most of the class noticing. Discussion on the set reading and enquiries about the essay due next week filled the session’s allotted time. I glance back and forth the clock for the last fifteen minutes, keen to escape the stuffy room and assignment questions that make my stomach churn. I haven’t started it, and the fact that some people are on their second draft weighs heavy on me and most of the other unwashed students.

I’m out and tripping over poorly placed legs to whom the owners decide the corridor floor is a marvellous place to wait for their semin ar to start. I shouldn’t really complain as I’m the first one to slump down the wall and furiously read the assigned articles that should have been completed days before.

I’m just about to take the stairs down to the ground floor when a familiar laugh echoes in the dead-end where the vending machines are crowded by hungry students. He’s wearing the same navy bobble hat I’ve seen him in for the past week.

“James.”

The flush to his cheeks makes me smile because it means he was late in getting up too and the chocolate bar he’s midway unwrapping is his breakfast. Sandy hair is unkempt and escaping from his headwear, a “fashionable accessory”, rather than something he rushed to wear whilst jogging for class.

“Did you enjoy your run this morning?” I ask on approach.

My tone is mocking, but I’m in no position to doll out verbal gibes.

“It was more of a sprint,” he cheekily grins.

“Is your class now?” I ask

“In a few minutes, I got Kit to save me a seat though. I’m not sitting at the front again.”

He squashes me in a hug, making a point of munching his chocolate in my ear range. Regardless of the ponderings Tiff has placed in my mind, I’m happy to see him. I am. He’s sort of dorky, in a weird I-don’t-care-if-it’s-not-in-season-any-more-I-want-to-wear-my-Christmas-jumper kind of way. There’s an oddly shaped blemish just above the corner of his right eyebrow; a consequence of him succumbing to gravity when he was seven and falling from a tree. I’d gained this information whilst helping him collect dropped stationary up off the library floor. James’s words had run along with his mouth, filling any potential awkward silence before being shushed by irritated people nosing through books. He’s not what I’m used to, there’s no issues to work through, there’s no horrendous skeletons hiding in the closet; and that should come as a comfort to me. But there’s just something yet to click into place.

“Oh, while I’ve got you with me,” James continues, still locking us together. “Do you wanna go out on Saturday?”

He laughs as I squirm away, using his ticklish sides as leverage.

“I’m sorry, I can’t. I’m going home for the weekend. The manager of the music shop I used to work for phoned me the other day. He said they were desperately in need of someone.”

“That’s not your problem though,” he moans, pulling his hat down further.

“He’s a friend.”

One of James’s mates is beckoning him to hurry up from an open seminar door. The tutor isn’t there yet, but I guess he has about two minutes.

“When will you be back?”

The chocolate bar is finishes and I can feel him slyly slipping the empty wrapper into my back pocket.

“Either Sunday night or Monday morning.”

He heavily sighs, leaning against the wall and puckering his lips.

“What’s wrong?”

“My flatmates are out, thought we could spend the evening at mine.”

The glum expression he wears tells me he’s sincere in disappointment.

I kiss his cheek.

“You know I’m not –“

“Yeah, I know. I wasn’t..” he struggles for words. “I wasn’t thinking anything other than playing a few board games and possibly snogging for a bit.”

“Sure,” I laugh, lightly shoving at his shoulder.

It amuses him as I continue towards the stairs, joining other students and dodging the impatient ones. I feel him follow behind me, apologising for obstructing the route to other users.

“I promise,” James grins after catching up. “But I mean, if you want to play strip scrabble, then I won’t complain.”

I flick the bobble on his hat as he laughs. His tutor passes by on the stairs unnoticed by James, and I fight to keep from giggling. He’s more interested in lightly tugging on my pony tail.

“It’s that your lecturer?” I nod in the direction of the woman almost at the top of the stair well.

“Shit.”

He’s off like a rocket, speeding passed the lady I’d called to his attention. As I descend to the ground floor, I can hear him bellow, “I’m not late! I’m not late!”

***

It’s Friday afternoon and the train journey this morning gave me a much needed opportunity to look over my highlighted readings. I’d frantically gathered papers together before departing from the carriage and waiting for my mum to pick me up outside the station.

I expect to just bundle into the passenger side, but my mum vacates the vehicle before I reach it. She smothers me in a hug that’s been vastly overdue, kissing my forehead and repeatedly telling me how much she’s missed me. I wriggle free and usher her towards the car before the embarrassing tears can begin.

I worry about her a lot, now that she’s on her own. However, I find that the distance makes visits more enjoyable, soaking up the few days a month we have together; there’s no time for the silly arguments that used to ensue when I was permanently at home. It’s nice to have a quiet weekend with my mum before returning to deadlines and presentations.

Yet, this weekend may be more work based than I’d previously thought. With only two other people working the shop floor, I’m stuck up front with pricing and occasionally dealing with tricky customers. My eyes shoot up from my current task of applying sale stickers, to find a man navigating the aisles whilst rummaging through the bag slung over his shoulder.

My attention deviates for a matter of two seconds, but it’s more than enough time for the man to unload the contents of the backpack.

“Hey! We don’t want these here!” I disapprovingly yell after the guy who has just dumped a pile of fliers on the cash desk.

I roll my eyes as he scampers out the door, cleverly avoiding any instance where I might impolitely hand them back to him. A couple of the printed advertisements have fluttered to the floor, carried by the breeze slipping through the open shop door. I sigh before walking around the desk to retrieve them.

Any other time I would have binned them. It’s a rare occurrence for trashy hand-outs to hold my attention. But these ones do. I unfold from bending down, placing the rogue papers with the rest of the pile. The black and white print is cheaper to produce in bulk, and I assume that’s why the colour is drained from the background image of two male fighters; both frozen in position, one about to take a right hook to the face. To the left hand-side a list of surnames are stamped neatly in a column, two per row with a “vs.” wedged between them.

It’s not until I scan the second to last pairing that my hands begin to prickle with sweat.

 “Styles vs. Simmons”

I double check and the letters scorch my mind as I read over it again. My body runs on autopilot as I take off in a sprint towards the door. He’s ready to swing his leg over the motorbike just as I call out.

“Wait!”

It’s with my heart thumping that I stand before the guy who sneakily left the duplicates of the flier I’m accidently crumpling in my hand. He’s not overly tall, with scruffy hair scraped back in an elastic band and a harsh looking beard.

“Look, you can chuck them away if you want, it…” he begins but soon wavers off as I shake my head.

“Is this Harry?”

The piece of paper is held between us, the man squinting as if he’s having trouble reading the bold lettering. When all I receive is a crinkled forehead my index prods at what I’m referring to. He takes the hand-out from me, indulging me in a quick glance.

 “Is his first name, Harry?” I confirm the question with a more encouraging tone.

“Look Love, I don’t know their first names, I just advertise..”

“Is he fighting tonight?” I rudely cut him off the second time in a matter of minutes.

“No.” He shakes his head with a condescending smirk. “What makes you so interested?”

I’m not playing this game with him, not giving him the satisfaction. The way he’s now casually leaning against the side of his bike, assures me of his desire to have me hanging on his every word.

I’m not a fool, and I repeat that to myself as I turn to walk away.

 “He’ll be fighting tomorrow,” he calls out. “You should come along and see if it’s the Styles you’re looking for. I’ll even buy you a drink,” he winks.

“Thanks, but I’m perfectly capable of buying my own drinks.

I watch in amusement as he dramatically clutches at his chest.

“Way to shoot me down, Beautiful.”

The undesired pet name hardens my exterior, taking quick strides back towards the shop.

***

“Mum, I’m going out,” I inform her, collecting my jacket from the rack.

She’s sat with a friend from work on the sofa. Another bottle of wine has magically appeared, the contents drained by half. A trashy rom-com plays unnoticed on the TV as they chat mindlessly about the new doctor on shift the previous evening.

“Where are you going?”

She smiles, cheeks pink with the alcohol and I know she’s very much settled for the night. There’s more than a good possibility the tin of chocolates hidden in the kitchen will come out after I’ve left. It’s my mum that will stuff the empty wrappers back in the container instead of putting them in the bin. And it’s also more than likely that she’ll deny the nuisance behaviour.

“I’m going to see a match.”

My coat is on, collecting the car keys from the side table. I push back the length of my fringe and collect the braid I’ve just plaited to sweep over my shoulder.

“A football match?”

I rush to the door before answering her question, using lateness as an excuse and calling my goodbyes, falling out the front door a few seconds later.

***

I give the folded flier another fretful glance, clutching the paper tighter. Night had descended upon my journey a little after I’d left the house. It was further than I’d thought, a good forty minute drive.  I’d parked the car across road, gathering my valour to exit the vehicle and walk to the opposite pavement.

It’s a pretty rundown area, police sirens on continuous loop in the background. The building looks unassuming from the outside; all on ground level, flashing signs hammered to the external wall advertising free pool. It’s not somewhere my friends and I would frequent as the company lingering around three parked up motorcycles look like they could eat me for breakfast. I’m on my own and out of my depth.

Nevertheless, I proceed to make headway and bravely walk straight towards the solid looking bouncer on the door. I’m jeered at by the line of people waiting to give an admission fee, a line I’ve ignored, which possibly wasn’t the best idea.

“Excuse me.”

My politeness holds no concern to him as he stamps another woman’s hand. I stand taller in hope that he’ll commend me for remaining persistent.

“Are you sure you’re in the right place, love?”

I briefly scan the queue and it only confirms just how out of place I must look to him. My plan was to ask him about the ‘Styles’ on the list of names I’m still in possession of. But it’s clear I’m going to have to use a different approach.

“Is this legal?”

My question definitely catches his attention, the safety of his job and the future of the establishment could be in jeopardy for all he knows. I have no intention of reporting the place, but he’s not going to take that chance. I have to suppress the grin forming as he quietly converses with another man on the inside of the door, holding up the line and gesturing rather rudely to me.

“Go in,” he cuttingly instructs.

“Don’t I need to pay?” I ask sweetly.

“It’s fine,” he almost spits. “Mack will take you inside.”

I offer him a cheerful “thank you”, to which he snarls and allows me passed. A man in ripped jeans and plaid shirt greets me, smiling unconvincingly, the nerves bubbling to the surface.

“I have all the paperwork,” he says, moving with me as I walk. “This business is completely legit.”

“Sure,” I smile.

“I mean, there’s a couple of bets placed on the matches, but that’s nothing to do with us.”

I have no doubt that what they do here is something they’d rather not have the police sniffing at. They’ve taken a risk with advertising, but by the amount of people waiting outside to get in, it’s a risk that’s paid off.

“Would you like a drink? On the house. I can get you a good spot to watch, right down the front,” he rambles at me, nodding his head in encouragement.

I’d rejected Mack’s offer of a drink, and somewhat difficultly convinced him that a stool at the back would suit me just fine. He’d ceased in his attempts of buttering me up, becoming aware that I wasn’t really interested in the perks. “Just let me sit in on a match or two”, I’d asked, a request he was more than willing to grant me in hopes that I’d keep my mouth shut about the illegality of club’s business.  

Mack takes up residence on the seat beside me, the atmosphere a little stifling as more people continue to crowd in. There’s a makeshift ring in the centre of the vast floor, raised slightly and roped off. It seems a little armature to me, having witnessed other boxing matches in proper regulation rings. This place doesn’t compare, but I’m pretty sure people aren’t here for refined entertainment; and most of them won’t know the difference by the way alcohol is being necked back.

The lighting makes the place look even dirtier, gloomy in corners where light bulbs have failed to be replaced. I stretch back, hanging my coat over the back of my high stool and turning around before Mack excitedly grins, leaning in.

“The next match is about to start,” he voices over the noise.

His next words are carried away with the vigorous cheering. It doesn’t seem to matter though, because Mack has jumped up beside me, his shouted support accompanied by a fist pump that I have to laugh at. It’s not until I’m up and peering over people’s heads that the scene settles. Harry’s here. Well, at least I think he’s here, and I feel almost ashamed that he’s ignorant to my presence. I’m prying into his life, ripping the veil away and meddling in something that I’m clearly not supposed to be a part of. I shouldn’t be here.

My reasoning forces me to begin collecting my things in order to slip away unnoticed. It’s with my heart in my mouth, and fingers gripping my coat that the back door by the bar opens. The action of rising upon my toes is easy and apparently automatic. My mind is in a frenzy of conflicting thoughts, but it appears my body knows exactly what it wants. And it’s disappointment that overcomes my being as an unfamiliar man steps out first.

I draw away from the idea of a quick escape, instead watching as excitement washes the room, pumping the fighter up to spring on his feet. He’s clapped on the back by thirsty onlookers, moving towards the dilapidated ring to be introduced properly. Simmons.

He rolls his broad shoulders, stretching out the defined muscles in his back. Clad only in a pair of shorts, bare foot and grinning, he’s the prime example of over eager youngster. Bets are continuously being placed right up until the announcer gestures for quiet over the mic.

 “Be upstanding for our reigning, undefeated champion…Styles!”

I capture breath, willing my composure not to disintegrate before I even get a chance to confirm the identity of the “champion”. Seconds tick and I try to remind myself that it might not be him, don’t build this up, don’t push it.

My pulse thunders in anticipation, vision not straying from the back door.

Harry.

It’s him. The seat catches me as I duck down, terrified of being spotted, but he hasn’t charged his way through the crowd at me so I deem it safe to have another peek above heads in front. He’s parted the ropes and climbed into the ring. It doesn’t surprise me to find Harry’s not taken in by the roar of the audience, unlike his competitor, who had socked up the applause. Instead, he plays with a smug smile, the expression visible to me even under the questionable lighting and distance between us.

Mack’s still whooping beside me and it’s clear to see some of the female spectators give Harry more than a quick glance over as he drops his hood and unzips the black clothing. The material falls over his wide shoulders and skirts down his arms. I’m unconcerned about where he chooses to discard it because there’s more pressing matters widening my eyes.

I was primed to see him, that thought had kept me awake most of the previous night. But I was completely unprepared for the harsh, black print of tattoos hugging down the entire expanse of his left arm. I swallow back my disbelief, tracing my eyes over the intimate script on his cut hip. I’m too far away to identify singular tattoos, they all lace together into an abrasive combination. He doesn’t look like my Harry any more.

My scrutiny is cut short as the beginning of the fight is counted down and his opponent launches at Harry. I’ve been in this position before, worried sick and forced to watch as two men battle it out for victory. The volume of the crowd ceases to let up as Harry blocks a fist before retaliating with a swing of his own.

I frown, puzzlement setting in as I track the movement of blurry arms. There’s no gloves, and I swiftly come to the conclusion that this is far from the strictness of boxing as Harry’s knee juts up and impacts the man’s ribs. The only support given is the black strapping wrapped around his knuckles.

“This isn’t boxing!” I yell at Mack.

The thumping of my heart seems to keep time with the blows Harry’s fists produce.

 “It’s a dirty fight, there aren’t any rules. It makes for better entertainment.”

He beams in exhilaration, gesturing to the audience who are thriving on the beat down they’ve most likely betted on. I know Harry’s well accustomed to fighting without gloves, he’s just as lethal, if not more, without them. The knowledge doesn’t stop me from wincing as Harry takes a sharp kick to his right hip.

“You rooting for Styles? Don’t worry, he knows he has to make it last,” Mack nods in reassurance. “Entertainment. And maybe there’s some extra money in it for him.”

He’s laughing as attention turns back to where Harry’s dodged another left hook. He’s just as fast, just as well versed and comfortable in this setting as he’d been when watching him box. It’s the power and ferocity behind every well timed move that makes him look almost animalistic now. Harry, but with a sprinkle more recklessness.

His challenger is left wheezing in the ring as Harry suddenly moves away and towards the side. I fret for a horrifying moment that he’s seen me, fear draining as he climbs down and shoves a path through the front row. Mack’s presence has vanished until I spot him desperately trying to reach Harry and a man who I presume has shouted something particularly unkind to the fighter. Whatever it was, he won’t repeat it now that Harry is stood looming over him in threat.

“Say it again and see what happens!” Harry goads in a roar.  

The crowd is becoming restless with the undesired intermission, eager to get back to the fight, but none of them are brave enough to jostle Harry back to the ring. I’m struggling for a good view, using the chair to support my endeavour as anxious perspiration beads my forehead. It’s none of my business, I know that, I’m not going to interfere. The pint glass once held by the man is roughly knocked to the floor, its contents spilling over people standing too close.

“Styles, leave it.”

He ignores Mack’s warning, pressing the man further into the corner. There’s no physical contact, just complete intimidation.

“You need to shut the fuck up,” Harry spits.

Cowardice overcomes the defenceless male, unable to hold Harry’s eye contact.

“Don’t hit a punter, Styles. It’s bad for business.”

The bare foot fighter inches back, allowing Mack to step between and place his hands on Harry’s shoulders. He’s encouraged further away, much to my relief, and now the huge room trades its bellowing support for almost complete silence.

“Turn around and finish the fight.”

Harry cantankerously bats Mack’s hands away. I’m not close enough to see his face properly, but people more than willingly part for him to journey back to the ring, so I presume it’s more than just a scowl.

Back between the ropes, my hand clamps over my mouth, hiding my frightful inhale of sympathy for the other young fighter. He’s clutching his abdomen and staring at Harry in horror as he chillingly approaches. The entire room can predict what’s coming next, and with a sickening crack of Harry’s fist to the poor boy’s face, I know he’s not the Harry I left behind.