conteri
[January, 2019]
Louis’ lips taste like love.
The above statement should be enough to bring forth a bucket full of deep plum coloured anxious thoughts and another chlorine blue pool filled with all the reasons why she shouldn’t be kissing her.
Harry pays no mind to either of those things and continues kissing her, licks into her mouth and whimpers, the sound dissolving like the snow melting in her hair, the powdery tastes of their lipsticks lingers on the smoothness of her alcohol stained teeth.
Her scalp feels a little wet, a little cold, the melted ice water soaking into the strands.
Louis groans in reply to her soft noise, her left hand trailing down, knuckles brushing her bare tummy, the buttons of her shirt already undone, waking up the swarm of sleeping butterflies, turning her insides into a fluttery mess.
They pull apart, lungs on fire, lips spit slick, faces dotted with red, skin splotchy, veins thrumming with desire.
Harry still feels the ghost of Louis’ lips on hers, red, slick, so needy. She wants to kiss her more and more and more. It is a side of her no one gets to see and Harry will cherish it until her last breath.
“Lou,” she slowly breathes, chest still heaving, gaze fixed on her best friend, her soul mate, and her partner, her own flushed cheeks, subtle rosiness spread out all over the expanse of her summer skin, sheen of sweat glittering.
Her eyes are the brightest blue. They are the brightest fucking blue and there are flecks of green in them, and Harry being the sapppy motherfucker she is, thinks it is a part of her mixed with Louis’, a fragment of their souls already joined inspite of whatever fate they may choose for each other.
“H.” Louis presses her temple to her cheek, a little sweaty, a little warm, her name falling from her kissed lips in a pained plea.
Waxy light pours through the flimsy apple green curtains. It is soft as November fog and Louis’ skin right under the bend of her left knee. She has a rough patch on the other from scratching at a scab, nothing softens it.
She knows too much and too little and there is an internal clock wrapped around her lungs and heart, squeezing tighter and tighter, crushing her gently.
For a bit they just lie there, wrapped up in each other, limbs tangled and rib cages expanding in sync, the sinking realisation of what has happened hanging over them like a grey cloud.
Her bed will smell of them for the next two days and fuck if the thought doesn’t feel like a punch in the gut.
They agreed to stop seeing each other. They were going to spare each other the heartbreak.
That’s bullshit. Louis was sparing her the heartbreak. Louis already made up her mind — she is willing to give up her colours to be with her in every way possible.
“We shouldn’t be doing this. It’ll only make everything more difficult,” she pathetically says, voice cracking on the last word, her cowardice shining through.
Harry was never brave, she wasn’t born brave like Louis. She was selfish and more pessimistic than realistic and needed to feel too much. She cannot adjust and get used to things like her soulmate.
Her mouth still tastes like lemon and liquor and lipstick and Louis.
She feels her heart bruise like an overripe nectarine, sweet, sticky, tender.
Louis’ face slips into her neck, dewy puffs of hot air warming her up. “I know, Harry. I really do.”
In the bleak moonlight her mark glows. It’s a golden lily imprinted on the lines of her weathered palm, the glow dying every time she closes her palm, skin folding.
Harry has a tiger on her thigh, a reply to the flower.
Tiger. Lily. Lily. Tiger.
Tiger Lily.
She had a good laugh about it.
Initially it was kind of funny how Louis and her marks made a pun — it was so her, so them.
The humour quickly watered down, and as days grew darker, leaves going from green to red to brown to disappearing under piles of snow, the implication of the marks wasn’t funny anymore.
Things like these hold their humour only when they are nothing more than ink and design on skin.
But the ink, the lines, the colour, the outline — they are not simple pieces of art they wanted, they will never be and the humour kind of dies on its own.
The chains of time are cruel.
Sixteen days.
Sixteen more days until the answer is forced out of her, a decision that could either end up as the biggest regret or. There is no or.
Either choice ends with a regret. It is a matter of which one she will pick. Lesser evils like.
“Go to sleep, H. We can talk about this in the morning.”
Louis nudges the side of her face, eye lashes tickling her cheekbone, body growing heavier, sleep curling around them, lulling them into a sense of false security, reality suspended in their dreams and Harry is thankful to have dreams.
Harry can have all she wants when she dreams.
Louis’ heart beats over her sternum, just above her tummy. It awfully resembles the rhythm of the question rocking around in her skull.
Morning will bring another round of poorly masked fears but this moment is theirs.
She allows her eyes to flutter shut, the brown of her ceiling fan being the last colour she sees before falling into a fuzzy dream.
Sixteen days more.
mirum
[November, 2003]
She is nine and Rowan is twelve, almost thirteen, she hears his whiny voice in her head say, when she finds her Pax.
She is nine and making snowballs that may or may not be to fill up her brother’s abandoned beanie, face all red and bright as strawberries in the summertime, chubby fingers hidden by dark brown gloves.
It is for the first time that she sees snowflakes. Until then they did exist but she never knew what they were like.
She tries to catch one in her palm but fails.
One falls on her nose, melting and leaving behind a drop of cold water. She wipes it off with a scrunch. She feels the weight of something extra on her head, small but still heavy enough to make the presence known.
She is vigorously shaking her head, trying to lodge off whatever has been stuck in her hair when a squeak and a zap of silver flash captures her attention.
A shriek erupts from her, surely startling Rowan who was busy making his ugly snowman, eyes wide as a cookie, staring at the winged creature glowing in the kind of white, kind of murky snow.
Rowan crouches along with her, he is shivering beside her — her brother has always been a scaredy cat — but again it might be the cold, she doesn’t really know because he is not her first concern.
Her first concern is to learn about whatever the creature is. A child’s curiosity does trump over anything and everything.
She touches the smooth, gleaming side of its body. Wide blue eyes snap open, wings stretching out, still no wider than the width of her thigh, it shakes, bubbly giggles pouring out, squealing.
“Stop, Harriet, it tickles!” The voice that comes out of the winged creature is more on the gruff side, still soft and sweet nonetheless.
She freezes, shock overtaking her. It knew her name and it was enough to send her into a little frenzy. “Who are you?”
“Well, I’m your assigned Pax and my name’s Nixie,” the fairy— well, Nixie— replies, voice oddly hoarse, floating up in the air, wings the colour of fairy floss.
She didn’t understand the importance of having a Pax — it is not like anyone had ever told her about them.
“Riet, I’m going home,” Rowan mumbles beside her, words shaky, already tugging on his beanie and running towards their house, leaving her with her Pax.
She turns to Nixie. “You’re so small but I am too, so ‘s okay! Nix, do you want to play in the snow with me?”
“Whatever you want to do, Harry,” Nixie says, rapidly growing in size, going from the length of her hand to the size of her lower body.
“Nix, are you a boy?” She wonders, shaping up the sad looking snowman left behind.
Nix joins her in shaping it up, glitter mixing with the snow, pink, green, yellow. “I guess I’m a boy. I don’t have the sweet voice the other Paxes have.”
Harry in all of her glory gives him a smile, a few gaps from missing teeth, dimples indenting her milky cheeks, a heart melting vision. “I think your voice is sweet, Nix.”
“Thank you, Harriet.”
She is nine and she has a Pax and they are shaping up a misshapen snowman and everything is precious as the snowflakes melting on her face and the overhead white skies.
Nixie does not follow her home. “I will meet you in three years, Harriet,” he says, waving his fingers in a goodbye, a trail of glitter mixing with the late November air as he disappears.
Rowan makes a huge fuss about it over dinner, pudgy cheeks flushing red with anger at not being taken seriously, he huffs and puffs, getting on their mother’s nerves.
Her mum snaps at him to just eat his supper and that is the end of the discussion. He aims his glare at his food but keeps to himself.
She never asks Harriet if there was truth to Rowan’s story.
She doesn’t tell. Nixie becomes someone that exists in only her memory and Rowan’s — every speck of sparkling glitter reminding her of him, filling her up with a sense of giddiness.
It is truly a wonderful time of the year.
donum
[January, 2019]
Louis’ tattooed arm is around her waist, fingers spread out on the expanse of her tummy.
The sun is yet to rise but knowing the winters of Guerra it is no surprise. It very well could be one in the afternoon and they would be none the wiser.
She is still in last night’s clothes, her mouth tastes foul, and there is a headache building up in the back of her skull. Their bodies are warm and the crook of her elbow is tacky with sweat. She doesn’t even want to think about the sharp tang of underboob sweat.
Cold and snow do nothing to keep her cool inside the house. Altum had insulated it last spring along with Louis’ Cessabit, Ferius, assisting her.
They had spent hours coating every inch of the house with their magic, solely because Louis kept complaining about the walls soaking the heat from the sun.
Sharp raps of knuckles against the wood echoes in the otherwise silent room, pulling her out of her reverie.
Louis grumbles, hitching her leg up higher, closer, warmer.
The knocks turn more harried. Begrudgingly she unwraps herself from her sleeping form, face wrinkling at the stickiness between her thighs — fuck the sweat.
Nixie’s hand is raised, ready to knock again. His face turns a bright shade of purple. “Harriet, have I caught you at the wrong time?”
She rolls her eyes at his faux politeness. “As if you don’t always. I need a shower, a good, greasier than my hair breakfast and probably a week of sleep.”
“Poor Harriet. All worn out from partying and fucking,” he mocks, wings half spread out, golden veins running through the length, mesmerising against the pale blue of them.
“No fucking at all,” she denies, ushering him away from the bedroom.
She takes a look at her face. She looks worse than she thought.
Figures.
Nixie keeps complaining about something Glacie — Louis’ Pax — had done, wings fully unfolded, standing in all of his five foot glory, exaggerated hand gestures thrown in, a trail of shine following, nose red as a cherry.
Harry flicks her dripping hands at him. They resemble dew on blades of grass.
“Harriet, you are more annoying than Glacie.”
“It’s all in the name of love, Nix,” a new voice butts in.
Louis wriggles through the space between the door and Nixie, all messy hair and sleep swollen face.
“Lou! Good morning,” Nixie greets, far more cheerful than he is around Harry.
She’s kind of salty but she secretly loves their friendship.
“You’re both so annoying,” Harry gripes, the toothbrush slurring the words, foam dripping down the corner of her mouth. She grimaces, wiping it off and washing her hands.
“You’re disgusting, love,” Louis yawns, but shuts her mouth halfway, nose wrinkling as she gets a whiff of her own stale breath.
She hip checks Harry and grabs her own toothbrush. It’s orange and a little transparent.
Harry spits in the sink. “Why does Glacie never bug you?”
“I made my decision long ago, love. I’m waiting for your word.”
Her shoulders tense as soon as the words are out.
The air surrounding them stands still. Harry splashes water onto her face, trying to wash off the bitterness that is rapidly spreading on her tongue, each swallow more nasty than the last.
In the back of her mind she is mentally striking off the days, the sixteen now down to fifteen, the deadline bright and tight around her neck like a noose.
Each day slipping away from her is another day she spends with Louis but it is also her needing to make her decision.
“Lou—”
Louis cuts her off, toothbrush held in hand, foam on her lips, hair a bird’s nest. “No, H. I’m — I don’t want you to pressure into anything. Especially something as big as this, yeah? It’s easy for me to choose.”
“Is it though?” Her voice is small, eyes wide, feeling soft sunlight filtering through, the walls emanating a warm glow.
Louis meets her eyes in the mirror, Nixie had shrunk to a smaller size, giving them privacy.
Louis splashes water on her face and pats it dry with Harry’s towel.
She wants this for the rest of her life.
“It is and that’s okay Harry. You have to make decisions for yourself. You’re allowed to be selfish. You are the one who will live with them.”
Greedy is what I am.
She wraps herself around Louis instead, heart heavy, feeling shittier than ever, so in love that she has trouble breathing.
God, she understands why the universe paired them together. They fit so well, she is everything Harry could ever ask or want or need and more.
It doesn’t mean she has to accept the fall that comes with it or like it.
She is neither ready for that kind of commitment nor ready to throw this — this beautiful, beautiful love they have— away
Not yet.
She doesn’t need to, at least not for another fifteen days. They must be enough.
praeteritum
[ February, 2006]
Nixie, as per his promise reappears for her twelfth birthday, out of the blue and in the middle of their dining room.
This time a little taller, his wings more darker, the colour of egg shells and cream.
“Nix!” She cheers, barrelling into him much to the horror of his mother and Rowan.
Rowan looks like he would be anywhere else but there, his already pale face even paler, sickly complexion taking over.
“Riet, what are you doing?” His mum yells, frantic and probably scared out of her skull but Harry keeps hugging Nixie, watching the glitter travel through his wings.
He pats her back and tries to untangle himself, flapping at her lightly, a little silver dusted across her cheeks, it smells like vanilla and birthday cake.
“Hello, Harriet,” he greets, voice deeper but just as kind.
He turns to his poor mum and Rowan and extends a flashing hand. “I’m Harriet’s Pax, Nixie.”
Harry looks at them with wide, jade green eyes, concern taking over at their ashen faces. “Mum, are you okay?”
“You’re — you’re Harriet’s Pax?” His mum slowly asks, stressing every word, as if to confirm she is not dreaming up or hasn’t been hearing things.
Nixie smiles and a clear liquid drips down his mouth, crystallising immediately, twinkling under the overhead lights. “Apologies for that, this is not really my season but yes I am.”
She swallows and looks at Harry. “And you knew about him?”
Harry tentatively nods, wringing her hands together, nervous that she’s done something wrong. “I did. I met him when I was nine.”
She turns to Rowan. “You didn’t make it up then.”
He seems ready to faint as he agrees weakly. “I did not!”
“What’s going on?” Harry finally breaks the silence, watching Nixie uncomfortably shift, slight sheen of sweat covering him, wings darkening into a butter yellow.
“I need to sit down,” she mutters, dragging out her favourite chair and sitting down heavily, worn out.
Rowan uncomfortably settles down on the far end of the couch. His hazel eyes skittering all over, never meeting hers.
“Riet, dear, do you know why you have a Pax?” She tentatively asks, chewing the inside of her cheek, hands clammy and fisting the hem of her orange sweater.
“No, not really. Don’t even know what a Pax is,” she slowly mumbles, cheeks flaring red in embarrassment.
She didn’t like not knowing things and for that exact reason she had tried to look up the definition of Pax in her dictionary, looked through the big, dusty first editions but didn’t find a definition beyond winter fairies.
Judging by Nixie’s comment of spring not being his season, there might have been some truth to the vague description. February is not winter.
Nixie makes a distraught noise and ushers her to sit. “Oh, Harriet. I should have probably introduced myself better. If your mother deems it safe, may I?”
They both watch her mum nod, more overwhelmed by his presence than the idea of what his presence entails.
Nixie’s wings are now a murky brown. They don’t suit him very well, she tells him as much.
He laughs, glitter floats in the air. “You are charming. Very, very charming, young Harry.”
She offers a grin, dimples digging into milky cheeks, a canine missing.
“Pax are essentially winter fairies and are rarer than Cessabit — the warmer counterpart of us — because we are assigned only to people who have a mate. A soul mate.”
Winter. Cessabit. Soul mate.
Her mum coughs, Rowan hands her a glass of water, the silence hangs thick around them. She could cut it with a knife.
“That isn’t so bad, is it? I just have a soul mate, so what?”
Nixie’s eyes are more grey than blue without all the snow around.
For the first time since he’s appeared, he truly looks uncomfortable. “Not really but there is one casualty.”
“What is it?”
“You will never see things in colours again.”
“I have questions,” she finally manages to say, feeling light headed and incomplete. Question after question crash against her rib cage, all settling around her organs, fitting wherever they can.
“Your Cessabit will be here soon. I now take leave.”
Isn’t that just lovely. With that bomb dropped on her, Nixie disappears, leaving behind a small glitter covered box.
She opens it, fingers shining, nose tingling.
It is an outline of a flower. A lily, if she had to take a rough guess, she’s seen plenty of them growing in her nan’s garden, some orange, some white.
A little something about your mate. Hope it helps you. Happy birthday, Harriet. – Nixie
Nothing will never be the same again. She will never be the same again.
An assigned pair of fairies and her entire world tilts on its axis.
foederis
[August, 2013]
Rowan is twenty two and he is moving to a whole another state, five thousand and something miles away from their little place.
Harry and he were never particularly close but that does nothing to ease the slight ache that is building up in her chest. She will miss hearing his voice in the morning, right as she is taking the third sip of her tea, poured in his mug, their faces already sour, ready to repeat the same argument.
She will miss him and she has no idea how to say it without sounding weird.
Pushing these thoughts to the back of her mind, she hops off the barstool and goes searching for her brother, her steps determined, giving herself a pep talk, crossing her fingers and hoping it won’t come out weird.
They’ve never been close but she is used to having him around, he is familiar and comforting and she is selfish. She doesn’t want to give up the little bit of comfort he brings.
The club is crowded, packed with bodies shrouded in dark lights, red, blue, violet — sweat and perfume mixing with the pungent smell of spirits, a little cloudy with all the smoke.
She bumps into a few stray elbows and receives a few rudely shoved into her sides. Her ribs hurt, she should probably go back home and wake up early to hug Rowan goodbye.
She is half turned around when a body rams into her fucking tits, goddamn she hates being a girl, by another girl. At least she seems like one. She is mentally chastising herself for assuming the aforementioned person’s gender but her mind belatedly realises that the person still has their face smushed into her tits.
“Um, d’you reckon you could, like you know, straighten up?” She cringes at her own words. Way to go Harriet, way to go.
The person immediately backs away into a spot of red light illuminating a sliver of their face, a lone crystal blue eye. “I’m so sorry, fuck, I didn’t look where I was going and maybe, shit, I think I might be pissed? Fuck, sorry. I’m Louis.”
“Harry,” she introduces herself, lips tugging into a smile.
“‘S not a girl’s name. Are you one?”
Shell shocked and already half in love with Louis, she nods. “Yeah, you?”
“For the time being, yes. Can’t vouch for my future self,” she quips, her smile sharp but also soft.
“Well, Louis, it’s been a pleasure meeting you —” she cuts herself off laughing.
Louis joins in. “Please don’t lie to spare my feelings. It wasn’t the most glamorous first impression, was it?”
Her snort is unglamorous. “Nope, could be worse I guess.”
“How could it be possibly worse, Harry?”
“You could’ve been my brother,” she wags her eyebrows, coaxing another laugh out of her.
“Talk about awkward,” she says, biting her lip, body relaxed, head tilted to the right, collarbones jutting out and beautiful.
A stray whisper of Rowan’s name floats through her head and she is rudely pulled back into reality. She needs to find Rowan.
“On that note, I do need to find my brother but, erm, can I have your number?”
Louis grins, she falls in love a little more. “Sure, let me put it in yours.”
Her breath hitches as light pours over Louis’ open and waiting palm.
She has a lily on her palm, a bright one, uncannily resembling the one Nix had left behind for her as a clue.
“That’s a nice tattoo,” she faintly says, hoping that it is nothing but a tattoo, handing over her phone.
“Oh, um, it’s not really a tattoo.” She shrugs, nonchalant and easy, totally unaware of Harry’s inner turmoil, fingers flying over the keyboard, tongue pushed against the inside of her cheek.
She has the hots for one girl and she turns out to be her fucking soul mate. The universe must really hate her.
“You have a soul mate?” She wants to snatch the words out of the air. The question is offensive, she knows, Louis is offended too, her face scrunching up into a scowl.
Her words are cutting, a little snark added, clear about her displeasure. “That’s invasive but yes, yes I do.”
“I’m sorry — I didn’t mean to pry, fuck, um I’m gonna go. Really sorry, Louis,” she sincerely apologises, hastily walking further from Louis, not turning back even as she calls after her.
Only when she finds Rowan and is gripping his shoulder trying to ward off a panic attack does she realise she’s left her phone with Louis.
Louis wanted to hand back her phone.
Good lord she is a certified idiot.
___
Rowan finds her loitering near the toilets.
“Riet?”
She throws herself at him — literally. “Ro!”
He softly pats her back, movements hesitant, confusion bleeding through. “Hey, is everything alright?”
“No,” she cries or wails, it is a horrible noise, like cracked snot or something.
The sound earns them a few weirded out glances, a few concerned ones. Embarrassment creeps up on Rowan’s face, his nose turning beet red.
“Let’s get out of this place,” she mutters, quickly weaving her way through the throng of people, a sea of perfumes and colours blurring in her periphery. She is vaguely aware of her brother’s footsteps following hers.
She ends up in the alleyway behind the club, the dumpster reeks of rotting garbage and stale smoke.
The breeze feels refreshing on her sweat soaked body. Summer is not really her season.
Rowan finds her a few minutes later, nose wrinkling as he gets a whiff too. “What the fuck is wrong with you today?”
Harry fish-mouths, not really registering the outburst. “What do you mean?”
“Seriously, Harry? You first text my number asking where I am and then you drag me out here on my day, making a scene— God, I know you don’t worship the ground I walk on but can’t I have one day? One day just to myself without you —” a frustrated growl slips past his lips, face distraught.
Harry does feel shitty for doing this. “It wasn’t me who texted you,” is what she says, stupidly.
“Just — just get to the point, I don’t want to waste my time beating around the bush with you,” he grits out, eyes narrowed into slits.
“Yeah, well. I met my soulmate,” she blurts out.
His face flashes with six different emotions in one breath. “What the fuck?”
“I feel you,” she lamely says, wincing at the glare shot her way.
“Explain.”
“Uhm, I bumped, to be precise, she bumped into me and we got talking and I asked her to put her number in my phone and then I saw her tattoo and being the nosy bitch I am, I asked her about it and voilà — turns out she does have a fucking soulmate and that person might be me,” she says in one long breath, chest heaving as she tries to calm her racing heart.
“What the fuck,” he repeats again, head tilted up to the white and orange sky, shock the dominant emotion on his, his body wound tight, mouth slack.
“Again, Rowan, I know.”
“Also, wait, wait. Your soulmate is a she?” His voice keeps increasing in pitch, the she coming out — pun unintended, or is it — more as a squeak than anything.
She chuckles, stilted and nervous. “Yep, for the time being at least.”
“You like girls?”
“I like girls.”
Silence follows her admission. Harry focuses on the toes of her boots, darker than the rest of the boot, probably a drink spilt on it or her toe perspiration soaking through — she hopes the second one is not possible. She might be going a little crazy, she is aware of her pulse, her ears are fuzzy with blood rushing to her head.
“You, Harry, are an idiot,” he finally says, corners of his mouth twitching.
She bites her lip. “I know.”
He shakes his head. “Let’s go get your phone.”
Her chest loosens in relief.
veritas
[May, 2006]
Her Cessabit — Altum— turns out to be a grumpy, two feet tall, fairy with bright green wings.
She is the polar opposite of Nixie, her humour dry, eyes a dark brown, almost black and voice saccharine sweet. Unlike him she doesn’t leave behind glitter.
“I prefer leaving behind fragrances, it gives some headaches which equals less people to grate my nerves,” she tells her, trotting around their flat at six pm, delicate petal white fingers poking and prodding at her careful messes.
“That’s comforting,” she retorts back, stifling the urge to swat her hand away.
“What’s your poison?”
Confusedly she cocks her head to the right. “Sorry?”
“Do you prefer Harriet or Riet or Harry?” Al rephrases, watching Harry squirm under the heavy stare, straightening her sheets.
“Harry,” she sulkily mutters, glaring, she doesn’t mind being addressed by any of those but she is slightly annoyed by Altum.
In her defence she hates it when people rearrange the careful messes she leaves around the house, it disturbs her.
“Why do you look like you are one step away from stabbing me between my eyes, Harry?” Al teases, her cheeks shining a neon violet.
Harry’s neck flushes, she averts her eyes, she wants her Cessabit — her grumpy little summer fairy — to be very much alive, thank you. “‘S just that I hate it when people touch my stuff.”
Altum lights up, her gauzy wings now turning a bright, ripened mango yellow. “Oh my, I apologise.”
“No harm done. Will you tell me more about this soul marks and other things?” Harry questions, as she rumples up the sheets Altum had just straightened.
She flies around, finding a comfortable position on top of her desk, a puff of jasmines and coconut scent floating up. “Have a seat, love. This will be long,” she says, kind and warm, her entire demeanor softening.
“Let’s start with what you know.”
Hesitation flits across her features, teeth sinking into her lower lip, a furrow appearing between her brows. “Very little, honestly.”
“It’s okay, Harry. I’ll fill in the gaps, don’t worry.”
“Well, for starters I know that having a Pax is rarer than having a Cessabit and that it might mean you definitely have a soulmate?” The end comes out as a question.
The scent changes into something warmer, hot chocolate and peppermint. “It is not definite but for the most part — yes. There have been instances where a Pax had been assigned but they didn’t have anyone.” She tilts her head to the left. “Not to mention Nixie has a flair for dramatics — speaking of him, did he leave behind anything?”
Harry curls up near the end of her bed, hair spread out behind her, wavy curls glossy and silky against the solid green sheets.
She remembers the outline. “Oh, yes he did. T’was an outline of a flower, a lily most probably.”
Al’s face falls, a shadow falling over. “You definitely have a match.”
The blood in her veins feels cold, and then hot, the hotness that only comes from pressing a bare part into the ice for too long, numbing.
Her face gives away how distraught she feels inside.
“If you feel more comfortable with Nixie around, I can ask him to talk to you about this, Harry.” She kindly offers, her discomfort obvious.
They’re both fidgety and unsure of how to tackle the subject. It’s a fragile concept, especially taking how delicate Harry is, a fragile, tender age where everything is overwhelming, right on the cusp of adolescence.
It was easier to ignore the lily and the glitter when they were hidden away, she almost forgot about it and now being forced to take in all of it — this idea of having a soulmate, losing the colour from her life for love — it springs tears to her eyes.
“What about the colours?”
“Fuck, sorry, heck. I’m sure he told you that you won’t see things in colour right?”
“He did,” she sniffles.
“Okay, erm, so you might get your mark — it will look like a tattoo and mostly will be in black — on the night of your eighteenth or just after it. Nixie and I will be here the day after you get it, so don’t worry yourself sick about it. We’ll help you through it, okay?”
Harry has to take a deep breath, lungs inspiring more and more air in as she tries to make sense of everything she has just learnt, head reeling.
It just coaxes panic from the deepest pits of her stomach, acids churning and worry thick, coating the inside of her mouth. “I don’t understand how or why or— I don’t understand anything, Al!”
She floats up to sit beside her, becoming bigger, her fragrance sweeter, the soft tips of her wings brush her arm. “Oh, love. It’s okay, shh, I’m here to help.”
Al keeps murmuring empty and sweet reassurances, slightly rocking them to and fro under the roof of her childhood home, the ceiling is a drab grey, dim and gloomy. She never noticed how depressing it actually felt. She wants to count the water stains.
Her nose is red and runny but she feels significantly calmer. “Will I have to accept them? Whoever they are.”
“Not at all, Harry. You don’t have to commit yourself to someone just because they are your soulmate, especially if they turn out to be a proper twat — I keep cursing — but keep this in mind. You always have a choice.”
Harry basks in the silence. She breaks it with another question. “What if — what if I do decide to marry my soulmate and years later I want a divorce?”
“Then you get a divorce, you will never see them again, your mark will erase itself.”
“Will be able to see colours again?”
Altum’s severe features scrunch up in pain. “No.”
Harry tries to keep her face blank. The bleak smiles they exchange tells her she’s doing a poor job of it. She is only twelve, there are things bigger than this, far more important but she can’t help resent the world for the way it is. No kid should have to go through this, the sheer amount of fear that tags along with the fairies, the dread that fills them up as they learn the reason of their presence.
She wishes to never meet her soulmate.
inpulsa
[August, 2013]
She can barely see her, the flickering street lights, the low hum of engines, buzz of cicadas — the auburn of Rowan’s hair prominent, Louis’ silhouette leant against the red brick wall.
“Hi again!” They all cringe at the fake cheeriness forced in her voice.
“I assume you are the brother?” Louis questions, not looking at Harry, fringe falling over her forehead.
Rowan steps forward, his shoulders partially obstructing her view of Louis. “Yep, that would be me.”
“Would’ve been really weird if you rammed into her, mate,” she snickers, carefully handing over Harry’s phone, her right hand limp by her side.
Choked out laughter rips out of her throat. “Yes, yes it would’ve been rather unfortunate.”
Less than a day since she’s known her potential soulmate and here she is, laughing over an inside joke.
Her face drops. “I’m sorry for running out on you like that, Louis. I really am.”
Louis sobers up too. “Thanks. What was that for? If you changed your mind you could’ve just told me, mate.”
Harry has no words to say, at least none that will let her explain herself without sounding like a huge twat.
“Oh shit! Did you have an epiphany or something?” Louis’ tone borders on snarky, she seems to have no issues with Harry practically working herself into a panic attack.
She nods, toes curling in her shoes, fingernails digging into her palms — only the red crescents will remain to remind her of this. She hopes they are the only ones that remain.
“Kind of. This might come off as rude but can I see your, uhm, mark again?”
Louis’ reluctance is all over her face and her body language just confirms it. Harry doesn’t blame her, if anyone, much less a practical stranger, asked to see her mark, she would be wary too. Hell she’d even make a scene and curse them out — Louis is too nice for her own good.
Louis rocks on the heels of her boots, face illuminated in the flickering streetlights and dying sun.
What seems like hours, they were probably a few minutes at the most — it is the anxiety that makes it seem so, she reasons with herself — she gets a nod from Louis
“Um, here,” she carefully bares her palm, the golden lily glittering even in the dim light, the finer details mesmerising — there is a thin curve of colour missing, Harry might be just delusional and possibly paranoid at this point but she thinks it forms a H — her flower is breathtaking.
“‘S so beautiful,” she breathes, heart clenching painfully in her chest — goodness she recognises it. It has uncannily resemblance the one Nixie had left for her.
Rowan’s eyes catch her watery ones.
She gingerly backs off. “Louis, this is me completely overstepping all boundaries, feel free to tell me to fuck off and—”
“Let me guess, you want to know what the complementary mark is?” She snorts, features masked with anger.
The wind howls, a chill sweeping over her bare arms, skin breaking out into goosebumps. August shouldn’t feel so cold.
“I — yeah,” she stutters, ignoring the thinly laced mockery and fury.
“Fuck off, mate. You’re pretty but you seriously lack proper etiquette, did you know that?”
The abrasive tone is a shock to her, Louis is in her right to say no, hell Harry is being a douche, blatantly disrespecting her privacy and sticking her nose in places she should not, but it still is a shock.
Her face crumples, she turns to hide it in the safety of Rowan’s chest, fat teardrops soaking into the cotton of his shirt, the familiar scent of laundry detergent and rose fabric softener doing very little to comfort her.
“Wow,” she hears Louis mutter, her shoes clicking against the stone path, the thrum of the bustling city vibrating through the brick walls.
She feels so small, leant against her brother’s body, swallowing the bitterness of rejection, shame crawling up her throat as her actions play themselves back to her in repeat, happy cheers and drunk noises pouring out once in a while someone opens the back door of the club.
“I’ve gone and fucked it all up, haven’t I?”
“You don’t actually want me to answer that, do you, Riet?”
“Nope. Let’s go home — I don’t want you to spend your last day here tending to a moping me.” She tugs on his arm, distancing herself.
The sky is a ribbon of colours — pink, red, orange and fading blue.
There is a metaphor somewhere in the hiding, between two clouds but there is no time for her to search for them, maybe it is not hiding — maybe it is avoiding and she will be none the wiser.
Not searching for them is the hardest part — just like letting her soulmate slip through her fingers.
Later that night she watches the same grey ceiling she has had since she was old enough to sleep alone, thinking of ways to wash away the hurt, clean the wound she inflicted on herself, erase the last twenty four hours — she falls asleep thinking, the thoughts plague her dreams, she drifts in and out of slumber, some of the visions far too real, some way too blurry.
She dreams of her and Rowan eating ice cream straight out of the box, watching the shitty soap operas that are on the telly every hour, keeping each other company.
She wishes her mum was there to make her a bowl of vegetable soup — the one she would make for her whenever she fell ill — she misses her.
She dreams of the soup too except when she turns to thank her mum, she is nowhere. In her mum’s place is Louis — the only version of Louis she knows — makeup slightly smudged, hair soft and silky across her forehead, nose lovely and eyes big and blue.
Maybe it is a sign aimed at her, urging her to clean up the mess she’s made of their barely formed relationship.
arbitrium
[December, 2018]
“I’ve got me fingers crossed for white Christmas,” Louis murmurs from where she’s pressed flush to her body, lips cold and a little chapped, the flimsy fabric of her nightgown brushing against her bare back.
“You hate the cold and the snow, Lou,” Harry’s words still come out as fond — she’s a bit rubbish at hiding it, her skin feels tight as she smiles, she needs to moisturise.
She feels her shrug. “I hate a lot of things, babe, but Glacie, you, and Nixie have fun. ‘S nice to see you laughing without worrying about it.”
The it is Louis referring to the topic of their marriage.
“You’re sure about marrying me?”
“Was ready to marry you since I bumped into you,” she coos, kissing her neck.
“Even though I was rude and lacked manners — no, wait, etiquette as you put it.”
They’ve had this conversation before, a lot of times, not long after Harry and she got together.
“You were a right twat, H,” she snorts, stretching out, a long winded sigh escaping through her parted lips, the edge of the gown swishes.
Harry hums, rolling on top of Louis, her breasts squishing between them, tummies aligned, hearts pulsing in sync under their sternum.
“I was and you still wanna wife me,” she teases, trying to ignore the nagging thoughts in the back of her head.
“Easily one of the best decisions I’ve made so far,” Louis sincerely says, eyes shining and face open, heartbeat steady.
Harry might just end up bursting into ears, her heart beating so loud, her cheeks flushing pink and rose, her insides drenching in golden syrupy warmth despite the biting chill the air is carrying.
She returns the soft smile — there will be time later in the day for her to overthink and question her choices but for now, she allows herself to nuzzle back into Louis’ embrace, tight chapped skin, cold fingers and toes, bad breath and all the unglamorous things.
She wants Louis and all these unglamorous mornings — them spitting toothpaste into the sink, making god awful noises while gargling, face pulled at odd angles picking at their noses and heavens know what else.
It’d be so easy to say yes and have this with Louis forever, her loving visceral, their bond stronger than anything she could ever even dream of.
Until.
Until she sees the band of pale skin just below the dip of her waist, contrasting with the usual bronze of her skin, eyes sparkling the brightest and clearest blue even in the foggy morning light, purple and blood red bruises blooming across her shoulder and — and so much more, all becoming dearer when soaked in colours, colours she can tell apart — the ease is gone, replaced by a tightness, cords of an unnamed ache squeezing around her rib cage, right where the flowers, the love, the adoration should grow instead of this heavy, dark feeling pooling there.
She hopes Louis hasn’t seen her frozen frame.
_____
Louis gets a white birthday — they spend it alone, Rowan was supposed to show up along with Louis’ sister but the snow piled up too much and they had to regretfully cancel the trip.
The morning is a blur of kisses and sticky batter and mismatched woollen socks, ugly jumpers, and wrapping paper, and glitter. Lots of it glitter — their Pax positively dumping buckets of it everywhere, every corner, so much that Louis had told her If I sneeze glitter, you’re obligated to love me — Harry has sniffed less air than sparkles.
Their flat is shining.
Their flat is shining, glimmering or whatever, she’s too busy trying to clean it.
It’s a pain washing it out from her hair.
Cheery, festive music is pouring out of Louis’ phone, a pile of holiday cards sit on their coffee table, waiting to be opened.
“Haz, this one’s for you,” Louis tells her, hanging between her fingers is a rich brown colour envelope, Harry’s name written across it in messy cursive.
With a mutter of odd under her breath she abandons the piping bag and rips it open, nose wrinkling at the unsatisfactory sound.
The symbol on top of the page is of the council’s. She’s seen it on all legal documents — most recently when Louis sent out her confirmation.
The symbol on top of the page is of the council’s. She’s seen it on all legal documents — most recently when Louis sent out her confirmation.
She feels her breathing hitch. It can mean only two things, one Louis’ letter might have been a rejection and two, it is about her deadline.
Somehow the first one would be an easier pill to swallow than the second.
“Harriet!” Comes Nixie’s squeal tapping her out of trance, the momentary distraction washing away the rising bile.
It’s only temporary, all good things come to an end or some bull, Glacie’s gaze falls upon the paper clutched between her death pale knuckles, her wings rapidly shifting to a somber, faded, grubby mustard, her elfin features tightening into a pitying smile.
Nixie notices the shift, his eyes imperceptible cutting to flit at the page, the envelope, and their faces.
His face falls too. “Oh, Harry. I wish they had waited — I specifically asked them to hold it until New Year’s but it got sent out anyway. I was going to talk to you about this, I swear, but the letter got here earlier—”
“—and we still have to decorate the tree. C’mon, G, let’s start with the tinsel,” Louis butts in, rubbing between her shoulder blades, pressing a soft kiss to her nose and disappearing into the living room, trying to give them space.
She skims over the page, sure enough it is about her own confirmation letter.
Wordlessly she picks the piping bag and gets back to working on Louis’ cake.
“That’s it? You’re going to pretend like you haven’t read it?”
“What do you want me to do, Nix? Tell them no? Tell them yes? Tell that yes I want to marry Louis and no I don’t want to be colourblind for the rest of my life?”
“Harry, you knew this day would come. I tried to push this back and avoid bringing it up — I get it, I know you’re not exactly falling over yourself to tie the knot but there’s little I can do in case of soulmates.” He heaves a tired sigh, almost as if he’s had this conversation a hundred times prior to this, maybe not with Harry but with someone else.
“I’m not your first assignment, am I?” Tendrils of curiosity crawl their way up, twining with her heartstrings.
His breath is tinted, it reminds her of water lilies. “No but you’re the one I care about the most.”
“I have to give an answer before my birthday?” Harry diverts again, her heart is clenching and aching, the sincerity and the warmth in Nixie’s words is too much for her.
“You do.”
Her hands shake, the icing sucks. “I’m scared.”
She is much taller than him, it doesn’t feel so when he wraps her in am embrace.
Her traitorous mind flashes an image of Louis and her in thirty years sitting under a tree, curled into each other, everything in black and white.
“You’ll get my letter before my birthday,” she whispers, pulling away and trying to clean up the messy piping.
Deep beneath the fears, she already knows.
Louis is covered in silver and magenta tinsel, their eyes meet across the room, matching smiles breaking out on their faces and yeah, Louis knows too.
She is so in love, with the white Christmas, the red cheeked girl under the tree, two winged glitter shedding fairies, a badly iced cake and a tingling soul mark. She is in love with all of it.
She’ll be damned if she gave in to the fear.
rogationem
[January, 2019]
There is a tiny dark green dot under the 31 in her calender.
The bed is empty, Louis had gone stormed out the night prior, their argument blowing up into something too big, too petty for them to stay under the same roof without making jabs directed at each other that were uncalled for.
The bedsheets are cold, her fingers are white, her back is dry.
Her movements are lethargic, limbs heavier than ever, the mere idea of getting out of the bed and doing anything too taxing.
Harry hates this feeling. She always feels rotten, a week old greens or something along those lines.
Admittedly she’s the one who messed up, once again, bringing up the already fragile topic of their marriage — Christ, she hates that word so much — her whole stance defensive and standoffish.
It was ugly.
“I want to watch the seasons change, my fairies’ wings and their colours, I want to make fun of Rowan’s sunburnt cheeks — I want to see the world in colours, fuck, Louis. I want to wake up and see my lover’s eyes and write things about how they shine in the sunlight. I want to pick curtains that will match our sofas and I want all of that and, God. I want that with you but you are the only one taking that away from me!”
Guilt tugs at her heart with its heavy fingers. Her heart is at the bottom of the pool but the water is murky and she is too scared of what she might find to go get it back.
All her metaphors are broken and non sensical.
I want that with you but you are the only one taking that away from me!
How easily she sunk her poisonous claws into Louis’ tender body — right in the sweet, safe spaces she bared to Harry with sincere love. She hurt her exactly where it would hurt the most.
Her bubble is burst by the door of the empty, cold bedroom flinging open, fresh aroma of baked bread and sugar cookies filling up the room.
Altum is in her humanoid form, unusual but nothing about her day has been normal so far, tailed by a glowing Nixie.
They both look at her pitiful appearance — she tries imagining how she must appear, hair a mess, nose red from all the sniffling she had done last night, dried tear tracks and white goop near the corners of her eyes, white of her eyeballs probably red from lack of sleep — pitiful indeed.
Altum snaps her fingers, dried petals fall from her hair, a grimace on her face. “I apologise about that, not really my season.”
A faraway look glazes her golden eyes. “Right! You’re a mess, Louis’ not here, I take it you were a dick last night?”
Shame stains her cheeks. “I, yes.”
“Great, now get out of your bed. We need your picture and need to send your letter to the council today before two.”
A fleeting glance at Nixie tells her he’s already picked out an outfit for her.
She complies.
____
“Harriet, my love, are you ready?” Nix is by her side, his wings an iridescent silver, outline washed in a bluish light, embodiment of soft winter.
Harry adjusts the collar of her shirt, sleeves of her jumper pushed to her forearms, the fuzzy maroon wool rubbing over the goosebumps, if she squints enough and lets her vision go blurry, she can see little yellow sparks erupt where the wool rubs against the raised hair.
Her words are wobbly, her lips quiver, cold shivers wreck her insides. Cold sweat beads along her temples and under her clothes, her bra feels too tight around her bust, the clasp is digging into her sides, the waist of her jeans is curling and the cold button is pressing uncomfortably into her belly.
She thinks her face is turning chalky and sick.
Warm fingers curl around her wrists. “Breathe, you idiot olive. In and out, follow my pattern,” Altum orders, breathing deep and loud with all her might, bursts of sandalwood and rose permeating the air, the subtle sweetness sticking to the lining of her lungs.
Harry tries to follow the lull of her breathing, trying to swallow the perfumed air, trying to ignore the sharp pain spreading across her sides, her rib cage, or maybe diaphragm, she’s too anxious to think, expanding and imprinting angry red lines on her pale flesh.
She tries to shake off the tight grip of her Cessabit’s fingers. “No, Al, let me — let go of my hands!”
Taken aback by the hysterical yell Altum retracts her hands. Her wrists smell like honey as she twists them to undo the clasp, the stretched band loosening.
Her skin stings, there are rapid marks rearing their heads at her, blood brought to the surface — not breaking the skin — not yet, bruises sprouting like flowers, violet, blue, pink, yellow, all dark.
“Harry?”
“Yeah, sorry. I’m not okay, I’m not ready. Fuck, Nixie, I — I can’t do this, what the fuck.”
Panic etches itself into the planes of her face, green eyes flitting from one fairy to the other waiting for them to tell her it’s okay, Harriet, you don’t have to do this but it never comes and it never will — they’ve spent the last few years telling her so and pushing it until the absolute last minute, the deadline hanging over them like a stubborn cloud, painted grey with her own devastation and this ugly, bile tainted feelings pooling under her tongue.
“Do you want to draft a rejection then?” Al’s tone is bland, each syllable still pricking her heart like rose thorns.
“No, I — can’t let her go. I can’t let Louis go,” she admits, the firmness a shock to her own self, voice an octave lower, the frantic beat of her heart slowing down, a sense of calm engulfing her.
A heavy weight is off her shoulders, the trapped ball of emotions in the middle of her chest deflates. It feels good to be sure.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Let’s get over with this. I’ve got a girl to apologise to.”
Their smile feel warm inspite of the howling wind outside.
____
Her palms are sweaty.
Louis had opened the door with a glare but let her in.
“I’m making some tea, we can talk after that. My dad won’t be here for another few hours, so don’t worry about any estranged relative of mine popping in.”
Harry cracks a smile, she loves her so much.
The familiar clink clank of tea cups and whistling of the kettle is comforting even with all the hostile glowering.
Louis sets her cup down on the table — she’s not ready for Harry’s touch, not even an accidental brush — it’s a punch to her gut.
There are cherry blossoms painted on her cup.
“Fer and I spent painting this set the summer I caught chicken pox,” Louis absently says, wisps of steam rising from her cup, strawberries adorning it.
“Oh, I never knew that.”
She shrugs, the dip of her collarbones become prominent. “Now you know.”
Her head is filled with the chant of I love you, I love you, I love you and I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
She blurts them out. “I’m love you.”
Louis just blinks, once, twice, swoop of dark lashes brushing her eyebrows, then there is laughter, belly deep, raucous laughter.
“Fuck, I’m sorry, I love you.”
She watches her wipe a tear off her cheek. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“I’m sorry. I got scared and I did what I always do and pushed you out.”
“That’s what you always do! You start hiding and pushing me out when things get hard, and fuck, Harry we’re supposed to work together not against each other. I’m so tired of waiting for you.”
Tears trickle down her face, tiny droplets clinging to her lashes, and for the first time ever, Louis looks small.
It breaks Harry. “Lou—”
“No, please don’t say anything. I assume you sent your letter? Should I come pack up my things? You can have those octopus slippers, I know you love those—”
She kisses her quiet. “Shut up.”
“Nothing’s solved, we still need to talk.” It’s a wasted protest because Louis’ breaking her own words and kissing her more.
Colours burst behind her eyelids.
“Want a home with you, baby,” Harry manages between kisses, lips swollen, her heart thumping loud and happy against her sternum.
Louis abruptly pulls back. “Don’t — don’t say shit like that when you don’t mean them.”
Harry cradles her face, Louis hisses at the cold metal of her rings but relaxes against her, eyes searching hers, hope shining the brightest out of all the emotions.
She presses her lips to her forehead, tucks a strand of glossy hair behind her ears, thumbing at the soft and thin skin. “I, yeah.”
“Marry me.”
“That’s the plan,” she quips, swallowing Louis’ weak protests, wrapped up in the cocoon of their love.
Liber
[February, 2019]
“We should have an autumn wedding,” Louis murmurs, scribbling her signature on the form, red mouth quirked up in a grin.
She takes the pen. It’s bulky and violet. She signs her name under Louis’. “Yeah, we should.”
Nixie and Glacie kiss their cheeks, dousing them in glitter and crystal flakes.
The rings are simple, provided by the council as a sign of their union.
It fits Louis’ finger perfectly, the gold of it shining, complementing her honey skin.
“I miss your ass,” Louis whispers, and Harry snorts.
“‘S still white as ever. Nothing to worry about.”
Louis’ fingers shake with how hard she’s trying to not chuckle. The ring sits snug beneath her second knuckle — there is a bright light, a quick flash of colours, all blurring together.
The colours are blinding and she is willing to be blinded by them one last time.
She makes a wheezing noise, and waves her free hand around as the worst of the blur starts to clear and she can see past the mist around her vision.
Louis’ teary laughter only confirms her decision.
It’s the best one she’s ever made in her life.
___
“First day of married life!” Fer squeals throwing open their door, too fucking enthusiastic for seven something according to their bedside clock.
Harry burrows closer into Louis’ back, poorly hiding her face between her shoulder blades.
“Why did we give them a key?” Harry groans under her, voice sleep rough, irate but also fond.
She feels the pads of her fingers tickle as Louis brushes a bit of hair away to bite her nape. “You were the one to give them a key, not me. I blame you.”
Harry is putty under her, smooth, sleep warm skin, dark curls spilling down her back, tickling her nose. She’s so at peace.
“Mhm, you love them just as much. You’d have given them a key if I handn’t.”
Fer groans. “You two! Out of bed, c’mon.”
“I can imagine him turning parrot green, is that weird?”
“Him turning green?”
“No, silly. Me thinking in colours.”
Harry squirms against her chest, tilting her head just enough to kiss the corner of her mouth. Louis is the most beautiful sight in the morning.
She purses her lips. “No, not at all, love.”
Her eyes are pale — she misses the blue of her irises in the morning, the darker ring of blue used to be clearer.
She sees nothing now. They’re light, that’s all.
Harry twists around to lay her hand over her naked chest. The ring is a new addition and even though it’s been less than twenty four hours — it’s become a symbol of comfort.
“We should really get up now.”
Harry is about to refute it, she even goes to thumb at her nipple but there is a sound of glass shattering and they are up and throwing on the nearest robe, worried about the havoc being wrecked in their kitchen.
Nixie is kneeling on the floor, picking up shards of something clear, transparent and stained.
“Oh my god. Who allowed you two into the kitchen?” She gasps out, taking in the disaster they’ve made of the kitchen.
Louis is cackling as she pulls Harry into her side, and soon enough she’s laughing too.
Even as she starts cleaning up the mess, her body tingling with remnants of laughter, there is nothing she would trade this for.
Louis’ smile feels like golden sunshine and every other colour she cannot name. There are colours that do not exist except when they are together and Harry falls a little more, a little deeper in love.
She never wants to lose her.
With soapy hands she leans over to kiss her, smiling at the barely contained giggles.
Louis’ lips taste like love.