in which harry is impossible to describe.
Harry was almost always an early riser.
Always up with the sun to work out, or get into the studio early, to make her breakfast, to make phone calls.
Sometimes, sheād wake up just a short while after him and wander downstairs to find him at the coffee table, golden light shining through the steam rising from his hot coffee, his knees curled up to his chest in a chair facing one of their great glass windows, pen between his teeth, battered leather notebook leaning against his thighs, curls sticking up in all the wrong places. She could watch him like that for days, pressed up against the wall silently as so not to disturb him. An artist at work. A boy with an idea so good, he had to get out of bed just to put it on paper, to record his flowing lyrics and mesmerizing rhymes by the light of the only just rising sun, his face still puffy with sleep, features still peaceful and soft, pen scribbling over the empty space in front of him, fingers tapping out a still unheard beat on his leg.
But sometimes, there were very rare days. Days where he let himself relax, no alarm, no phone calls, no writing. Days where he let himself forget the schedules and throw off his natural (albeit alien) circadian rhythm to let himself stay in the warmth of their shared space. She loved waking up in the weight of his embrace, or with her cheek pressed to his heart, and knowing they had more time to drift together, to let the calls go to voicemail and force the guitars collect even just a thin layer of dust.
And there were rarer days still. Days where she found her eyes drifting open and his still laid shut, squares of gold falling on his cheeks through the open spots in the blinds, lighting up the shades of caramel and cocoa that littered the loose curls on his head, laying down gently over his forehead as he nuzzled into the pillow he had his arms tucked around.
It was always so hard to resist the urge to reach out and trace all the curves of his face, to run her fingertips over those cheekbones, that nose, that cupidās bow, that jawline.
He was her boyfriendā she knew him, inside and out, knew his weaknesses and strengths, his flaws, however numbered they may be. But sometimes, watching him take slow breaths, berry red lips just slightly parted, spread out on his belly, it felt impossible to believe he was anything but art. Carved by Michelangelo himself, belonging in the Louvre alongside David and Venus. An angel, maybe, sculpted by some higher being, brought to her accidentally, since thereās no way she could ever deserve someone like this.
But then heād stir with a little sigh and the little crease between his brows would appear and his eyelids would flutter and sheād be reminded of just what a person he wasā one with the biggest heart sheād ever seen, the more love and kindness running through his veins than anyone she knew.
(An angel, then. Nothing manmade could ever be quite so beautiful, inside and out.)
(Yes, he was human, the most human human, but sometimes, she was still convinced he might bleed ichor.)
This morning was no different. Their legs tangled together underneath the heavy down comforter, her eyes tracing over the curves and lines of his face. She wanted to kiss him, to press her lips over every exposed inch of skin she could find, to just crawl on top of him and wrap her limbs around him and envelope him. She would be the glass to his Mona Lisa, the protection for the priceless work of art he was.
She really didnāt know how much time passedā a couple minutes? A couple hours? It didnāt matter, not reallyā neither of them had plans other than this, to lounge and enjoy each otherās company. She really could stay like this forever, just watching him breathe, but it never lasted too long.
His eyes slowly opened, long eyelashes fluttering, sleepy green eyes landing upon her face, the corner of his pink lips lifting into a nearly invisible smile.
(He always did that, smiled at her when he woke up, like she was the only thing he wanted to see. Like she could ever deserve to be something he admired.)
He sleepily pushed himself up onto his arms and shifted over to her side of the bed before flopping down onto her shoulder, pressing light kisses (the word being used lightlyā he was hardly skimming his lips over her skin, lazily just slightly pursing them with no aim at all) to the skin beneath. āMorninā, gorgeous.ā
(It was such a conflict whenever he did this, the hardly-awake, mumbled compliments. There werenāt words to express how much she loved him, how much she adored his adoration, and yet the very implication that she could be considered anything beyond average next to a creature like him was laughable.)Ā
She ran her fingers through his messy hair, smiling at the contented sigh that left his mouth. āMorning.ā
His arms came up to wrap around her as best he could with the bed in the way. āYou starinā again?ā
It was mumbled into the skin of her neck, but she still heard just fine, rolling her eyes. āIt sounds creepy when you put it that way. Youāre just very nice to look at.ā
(And he was. Oh, he was. Carved from the finest marble, sculpted by what must have been the best hands money could buy.)
He moved to hold himself up on his arms, looking her at her with a smirk painted across his face. āEnjoying the view?ā
You werenāt supposed to touch art, but she wasnāt a big fan of following rulesā she reached up to put her hands on his cheeks, pulling him down to press their lips together.
(A reminder that he was in fact real, the warmth of his lips on hers. There was something so organic in the way he loved, something that no piece of canvas or limestone could ever achieve.)
Their contact was broken, but it was very easy for him to find himself with his legs over her hips, arms still holding himself up over her. āWere you?ā
Her fingers traced over the muscles in his tattooed arm as she looked up at him. āWas I what?ā
(Enjoying it? She was absolutely savoring it, committing it to memory, the image of him relaxed and peaceful in the still of the quiet morning. He wasnāt a piece of art, no, but he was something betterā still priceless and beautiful, but with a beating heart and air in his lungs and warm skin that she could touch and a smile just for her. He was a person and he loved her, and that was worth more than anything to be found in any museum.)
āYou could say that.ā
tangentwithtanner
turnnoffyourmind
gummygunk
snowghoul
germansingergirl
2087
stormborns
