a look at harry's bones
i am SO sorry that i haven't updated for such a long time! i've received a lot of messages, both on tumblr, twitter, and here on LJ that are asking about the progress of ocean sequence and i can answer definitively that no, this sequence is not yet over. there are still 2 parts to it and i am currently slowly but steadily writing the 4th sequence, which will be the ocean from harry's view.
i didn't want to post a snippet until i was already under way and had a secure plan of what it is i am going to write but i'm proud to say that i'm finally settling on a direction and have got the bare bones of this part sketched so i present to you a look into harry's cosmos. this next part's theme off of frank ocean's infamous channel orange will be 'not just money' and will be appropriately titled:
it’s sunday.
and london is blushing in the presence of spring rain. the peonies are in full bloom this season so harry picks up a bouquet of them in fluctuating high colors and a bag of chocolate croissants before cabbing across town to have tea with gemma.
there is a world of difference between gemma-then and gemma-now. gemma-then had ocean salted curls, gemma-now has shoreline waves. gemma-then moved in jerky, agitated fits like a roaring storm, gemma-now is as whimsically restless as the changing tides.
gemma, both then and now, has always reminded harry of the sea, something that is melded and cannot be broken, and while gemma is not broken, she has most certainly been melded.
it makes harry very sad to see her like this, even if he knows she’s happy.
“i’m happy.” she reassures him as she’s putting on the kettle then flounces over to the sink to fill a vase with water. her short little kimono, printed with satin magnolias, sways on her hips as she plucks a peony to tuck in her hair and when she turns to smile at harry, she looks happy.
of course, harry does not doubt this. gemma would not lie to him.
“you’re happy.” he echoes instead, eyes lazily following her strong tigress silhouette. he tilts his head, musing aloud, “why would you want that?”
“everybody wants to be happy.” her laugh is fond and loud and rueful. she sets down a cuppa in front of him, porcelain with vines of roses, and curls her long legs into the wicker chair next to him. then she looks to him with very gentle eyes, “are you happy, harry?”
gemma’s hands are kind of scarred and raw but feminine and feel warm on his moonbeam wrist - harry thinks of wrists and he thinks of zayn running up mount olympus on his hands for the boy of his dreams and he wonders how there could be so much tragedy in goodness.
but those are thoughts of another life.
“i don’t care for happiness, gem.” because harry’s known from a young age that if two people love each other there can be no happy end to it - stains of lavender ink on his fingertips from a petite mariposa can attest to that.
“what do you care for?”
harry blinks because he doesn’t know how to voice - the name burns bright in his mouth - what’s between the words and molecules that encompasses all of louis’s light and darkness. he’s not even sure if he wants to put a voice to it; he doesn’t think he wants anyone to know. he lets his sentence meander off without much of an end or a purpose but gemma doesn’t press because she is accustomed to his wandering speech. it’s a long time later before he can remember to finish, “the truth.”
and the truth is that it’s going to be him and louis for the rest of forever.
“i am frightened for you, harry.” she shakes her head, “for when you realize that the truth will not set you free.”
and the truth about gemma is that she had once sang forever to a titan named simon, hoping to drag him into the deep as is the way the ocean makes her claim, and maybe simon would’ve let her if he were mortal. but he isn’t and he can’t be with all the power that he possesses (simon’s wife is someone that- some words come back to harry verbatim - keeps him in check, makes him shine).
but gemma’s just a siren; formed from the sea and built to be loved, and the sea knows not of responsibility or sacrifice, nor do you expect the sea to. she is a moody but forgiving creature and she revolves quietly around simon like a pacific isle.
“i know that i am in chains, gemma.” harry agrees while he stares at their unknowingly interlinked fingers for a long while. he traces his eyes over their minute scars and mis-slotted bones and different phases of lunar skin. they are carved from the same stone, but not shaped by the same element - gemma by the moon tide and harry by solar flare. “but don’t touch my chains.”
gemma only sighs in the way she does when she thinks of all the iron inside harry’s lungs. her voice is grounded and soft like tortoise sand on a green beach and her irises are sparkling, “be soft, harry. people are not built to be as strong as you.”
“they aren’t.” harry remembers regrettably. but he knows from even early childhood that bodies are battlefields from the moment they’re born until they die, marked by fear and courage and betrayal, and he adds: “but maybe they ought to be.”
“people are built for happiness.” gemma repeats and her voice reminds him of gemma-then, like she could break the ocean in half - colossus - “even louis.”
suddenly, harry is reminded of how all the loveliest, wildest people he’s ever known have tamed their hearts in order to fit into the ribs of another. he thinks of gemma-now who faithfully wears a ring for a never-to-happen engagement. and zayn’s delicate wrists, clipped to his side by inked promises. and he wonders if he is the same -
a cage, seeking a bird.
“and maybe you only think you don’t want happiness, little brother.” gemma presses a kiss into the misshapen slope of his knuckles because gemma knows all the places in harry that’s been broken and burned, “maybe it’s because you’ve never truly been happy.”
i didn't want to post a snippet until i was already under way and had a secure plan of what it is i am going to write but i'm proud to say that i'm finally settling on a direction and have got the bare bones of this part sketched so i present to you a look into harry's cosmos. this next part's theme off of frank ocean's infamous channel orange will be 'not just money' and will be appropriately titled:
it’s sunday.
and london is blushing in the presence of spring rain. the peonies are in full bloom this season so harry picks up a bouquet of them in fluctuating high colors and a bag of chocolate croissants before cabbing across town to have tea with gemma.
there is a world of difference between gemma-then and gemma-now. gemma-then had ocean salted curls, gemma-now has shoreline waves. gemma-then moved in jerky, agitated fits like a roaring storm, gemma-now is as whimsically restless as the changing tides.
gemma, both then and now, has always reminded harry of the sea, something that is melded and cannot be broken, and while gemma is not broken, she has most certainly been melded.
it makes harry very sad to see her like this, even if he knows she’s happy.
“i’m happy.” she reassures him as she’s putting on the kettle then flounces over to the sink to fill a vase with water. her short little kimono, printed with satin magnolias, sways on her hips as she plucks a peony to tuck in her hair and when she turns to smile at harry, she looks happy.
of course, harry does not doubt this. gemma would not lie to him.
“you’re happy.” he echoes instead, eyes lazily following her strong tigress silhouette. he tilts his head, musing aloud, “why would you want that?”
“everybody wants to be happy.” her laugh is fond and loud and rueful. she sets down a cuppa in front of him, porcelain with vines of roses, and curls her long legs into the wicker chair next to him. then she looks to him with very gentle eyes, “are you happy, harry?”
gemma’s hands are kind of scarred and raw but feminine and feel warm on his moonbeam wrist - harry thinks of wrists and he thinks of zayn running up mount olympus on his hands for the boy of his dreams and he wonders how there could be so much tragedy in goodness.
but those are thoughts of another life.
“i don’t care for happiness, gem.” because harry’s known from a young age that if two people love each other there can be no happy end to it - stains of lavender ink on his fingertips from a petite mariposa can attest to that.
“what do you care for?”
harry blinks because he doesn’t know how to voice - the name burns bright in his mouth - what’s between the words and molecules that encompasses all of louis’s light and darkness. he’s not even sure if he wants to put a voice to it; he doesn’t think he wants anyone to know. he lets his sentence meander off without much of an end or a purpose but gemma doesn’t press because she is accustomed to his wandering speech. it’s a long time later before he can remember to finish, “the truth.”
and the truth is that it’s going to be him and louis for the rest of forever.
“i am frightened for you, harry.” she shakes her head, “for when you realize that the truth will not set you free.”
and the truth about gemma is that she had once sang forever to a titan named simon, hoping to drag him into the deep as is the way the ocean makes her claim, and maybe simon would’ve let her if he were mortal. but he isn’t and he can’t be with all the power that he possesses (simon’s wife is someone that- some words come back to harry verbatim - keeps him in check, makes him shine).
but gemma’s just a siren; formed from the sea and built to be loved, and the sea knows not of responsibility or sacrifice, nor do you expect the sea to. she is a moody but forgiving creature and she revolves quietly around simon like a pacific isle.
“i know that i am in chains, gemma.” harry agrees while he stares at their unknowingly interlinked fingers for a long while. he traces his eyes over their minute scars and mis-slotted bones and different phases of lunar skin. they are carved from the same stone, but not shaped by the same element - gemma by the moon tide and harry by solar flare. “but don’t touch my chains.”
gemma only sighs in the way she does when she thinks of all the iron inside harry’s lungs. her voice is grounded and soft like tortoise sand on a green beach and her irises are sparkling, “be soft, harry. people are not built to be as strong as you.”
“they aren’t.” harry remembers regrettably. but he knows from even early childhood that bodies are battlefields from the moment they’re born until they die, marked by fear and courage and betrayal, and he adds: “but maybe they ought to be.”
“people are built for happiness.” gemma repeats and her voice reminds him of gemma-then, like she could break the ocean in half - colossus - “even louis.”
suddenly, harry is reminded of how all the loveliest, wildest people he’s ever known have tamed their hearts in order to fit into the ribs of another. he thinks of gemma-now who faithfully wears a ring for a never-to-happen engagement. and zayn’s delicate wrists, clipped to his side by inked promises. and he wonders if he is the same -
a cage, seeking a bird.
“and maybe you only think you don’t want happiness, little brother.” gemma presses a kiss into the misshapen slope of his knuckles because gemma knows all the places in harry that’s been broken and burned, “maybe it’s because you’ve never truly been happy.”