THAT SUMMER, Chapter 6
By Reija Linn
Bill
It has been a long time (at least, it feels that way), since that summer I spent with Harry in Egypt, but there is one thing I still haven't told him, up to this day. I'm not quite sure why, myself, but somehow, I never found the courage.
That night, the first time there had been anything remotely sexual between us, I hadn't been sleeping, at least not all the time. I woke from the feeling of Harry trying to extract himself from my arms, and instinctively pulled him close again - that was when I felt his erection pressing against my thigh, heard his panicked breathing, felt him stiffen in my arms.
Now, it wasn't that I had a problem with that - I concluded he had been having a dream about his time with Ron, and that would be a natural reaction to a dream of that kind. What disturbed me deeply was, that it aroused me, too. Not physically, I was, after all, no teenager anymore, and had learnt to control certain body functions. And at the time, this arousal was, I was sure of that, not directed at Harry, really, but more a reaction to a warm, aroused, male body in my arms - nothing to be ashamed of.
After all, I had just been woken from sleep, and though I did not think myself attracted to Harry, he was a handsome young man, and I was only human.
Yet, I felt bad about it. After all, this still was Harry in my bed, Harry, whom I had come to see as a brother. Harry, who was thirteen years younger than me, the same age as my youngest brother had been. And though I hardly ever noticed our age difference in everyday life anymore, I felt like some kind of pedophile by feeling that way, even if it was only biological.
So, I feigned sleep.
I still wonder, though, why I have never told him this later. But I suppose we all have our secrets.
And I guess I feel a little guilty, even now, when I consider what happened the very next night.
But I'm drifting ahead.
That evening, Harry's first 'day off' since he'd started lessons with the pharaoh's attendant, we did go to Shezra's pub. I'd considered the nightclub, for a brief moment - but I didn't think either of us was ready for that, so we sat at the bar in the little witches' pub, having a drink or two (or, I admit, maybe a few more than that), and tried to talk, for once, about things that had nothing to do with death and loss and war.
Shezra herself was pleasant company, dealing out valuable information about the situation in England packed into mindless gossip very cleverly. She also seemed very taken with Harry, you could practically watch her eyes soften when she looked at him. She also gave him the pet name 'Chosen'.
I had heard the rumors that Shezra was a seer, of course, though she vehemently denied this when asked. I wondered what she was seeing, though, when she looked at Harry. Though I have never been a great believer in the divination arts, them being so very unreliable, I did of course know there were true seers, though far less than those who merely called themselves this. And if anyone I'd met in my life fit my picture of a seer, it was Shezra - especially since she so wanted to make everybody believe otherwise.
Plus, there was that comment she dropped when Harry once left for the men's room, that evening. Then, it seemed irrelevant, but looking back...
"Take care of your Little One, Bill, for his burden will be hard. Be true to yourself."
Anyone could have said it. Empty words. Only, out of Shezra's mouth, it sounded like a prophecy.
"What do you mean by 'my Little One'?"
Come to think of it, she never did answer me.
Of course, things were going much too smoothly by then, and something was almost bound to happen. Harry seemed a little more reluctant to relax in my embrace that night - I admit, so was I.
Not that I felt anything of my arousal of the night before - as I said, back then, our embrace was little more than comfort and brotherly love. I still felt bad about it, nonetheless.
We both had had a couple of drinks that evening, but much as I would have liked to put it on to that, I was feeling remarkably sober.
I dreamt, that night, of drowning. I dreamt of a large impact, of falling, of waves crashing over me, I saw my own face at the surface, or was it only a reflection? But how could my reflection be crying, if I was underwater? I dreamt of being unable to breathe, dreamt of a world of darkness and pain, as white water lilies swam above me on the surface.
And I dreamt, finally, of being pulled to the surface, of warm lips on mine, breathing life into me...
That was when I woke to find myself kissing Harry. Or the other way around. I never did find out.
This shocked me to no end. What was the meaning of that dream? And why, though I no longer returned the kiss, did I not pull back?
Until, suddenly, those lips retreated as if bitten, and I was too startled to pretend I was sleeping this time, so I only looked at Harry, whose eyes were wide with shock, as were mine, probably.
"I... I..." he stammered, nervously, unable to forma coherent sentence.
And driven by my own guilt, by my own earlier response to this kiss, by the situation of the night before, I said something that inflicted yet more pain on this should I had sworn to protect from such.
"I am not Ron, Harry."
I could see the hurt, and, seconds later, the anger rise up in his eyes.
"No, You are not Ron. Neither am I. Bastard."
I didn't understand his reaction then. I don't think even he himself did. But then, neither of us understood mine, for it had been nothing but cruel.
Harry spent the rest of the night on his own bunk, that had been abandoned for two weeks, but was still built up, for some reason.
Our breakfast the morning after was taken in silence. I felt bad about what had transpired, but I couldn't bring myself to say the simple words 'I am sorry'. And Harry refused to meet my eyes.
As the day passed, we spoke to each other again - but only about nullities, and as, after endless hours, night came, we went to sleep in separate bunks as if it had never been otherwise.
By Reija Linn
Bill
It has been a long time (at least, it feels that way), since that summer I spent with Harry in Egypt, but there is one thing I still haven't told him, up to this day. I'm not quite sure why, myself, but somehow, I never found the courage.
That night, the first time there had been anything remotely sexual between us, I hadn't been sleeping, at least not all the time. I woke from the feeling of Harry trying to extract himself from my arms, and instinctively pulled him close again - that was when I felt his erection pressing against my thigh, heard his panicked breathing, felt him stiffen in my arms.
Now, it wasn't that I had a problem with that - I concluded he had been having a dream about his time with Ron, and that would be a natural reaction to a dream of that kind. What disturbed me deeply was, that it aroused me, too. Not physically, I was, after all, no teenager anymore, and had learnt to control certain body functions. And at the time, this arousal was, I was sure of that, not directed at Harry, really, but more a reaction to a warm, aroused, male body in my arms - nothing to be ashamed of.
After all, I had just been woken from sleep, and though I did not think myself attracted to Harry, he was a handsome young man, and I was only human.
Yet, I felt bad about it. After all, this still was Harry in my bed, Harry, whom I had come to see as a brother. Harry, who was thirteen years younger than me, the same age as my youngest brother had been. And though I hardly ever noticed our age difference in everyday life anymore, I felt like some kind of pedophile by feeling that way, even if it was only biological.
So, I feigned sleep.
I still wonder, though, why I have never told him this later. But I suppose we all have our secrets.
And I guess I feel a little guilty, even now, when I consider what happened the very next night.
But I'm drifting ahead.
That evening, Harry's first 'day off' since he'd started lessons with the pharaoh's attendant, we did go to Shezra's pub. I'd considered the nightclub, for a brief moment - but I didn't think either of us was ready for that, so we sat at the bar in the little witches' pub, having a drink or two (or, I admit, maybe a few more than that), and tried to talk, for once, about things that had nothing to do with death and loss and war.
Shezra herself was pleasant company, dealing out valuable information about the situation in England packed into mindless gossip very cleverly. She also seemed very taken with Harry, you could practically watch her eyes soften when she looked at him. She also gave him the pet name 'Chosen'.
I had heard the rumors that Shezra was a seer, of course, though she vehemently denied this when asked. I wondered what she was seeing, though, when she looked at Harry. Though I have never been a great believer in the divination arts, them being so very unreliable, I did of course know there were true seers, though far less than those who merely called themselves this. And if anyone I'd met in my life fit my picture of a seer, it was Shezra - especially since she so wanted to make everybody believe otherwise.
Plus, there was that comment she dropped when Harry once left for the men's room, that evening. Then, it seemed irrelevant, but looking back...
"Take care of your Little One, Bill, for his burden will be hard. Be true to yourself."
Anyone could have said it. Empty words. Only, out of Shezra's mouth, it sounded like a prophecy.
"What do you mean by 'my Little One'?"
Come to think of it, she never did answer me.
Of course, things were going much too smoothly by then, and something was almost bound to happen. Harry seemed a little more reluctant to relax in my embrace that night - I admit, so was I.
Not that I felt anything of my arousal of the night before - as I said, back then, our embrace was little more than comfort and brotherly love. I still felt bad about it, nonetheless.
We both had had a couple of drinks that evening, but much as I would have liked to put it on to that, I was feeling remarkably sober.
I dreamt, that night, of drowning. I dreamt of a large impact, of falling, of waves crashing over me, I saw my own face at the surface, or was it only a reflection? But how could my reflection be crying, if I was underwater? I dreamt of being unable to breathe, dreamt of a world of darkness and pain, as white water lilies swam above me on the surface.
And I dreamt, finally, of being pulled to the surface, of warm lips on mine, breathing life into me...
That was when I woke to find myself kissing Harry. Or the other way around. I never did find out.
This shocked me to no end. What was the meaning of that dream? And why, though I no longer returned the kiss, did I not pull back?
Until, suddenly, those lips retreated as if bitten, and I was too startled to pretend I was sleeping this time, so I only looked at Harry, whose eyes were wide with shock, as were mine, probably.
"I... I..." he stammered, nervously, unable to forma coherent sentence.
And driven by my own guilt, by my own earlier response to this kiss, by the situation of the night before, I said something that inflicted yet more pain on this should I had sworn to protect from such.
"I am not Ron, Harry."
I could see the hurt, and, seconds later, the anger rise up in his eyes.
"No, You are not Ron. Neither am I. Bastard."
I didn't understand his reaction then. I don't think even he himself did. But then, neither of us understood mine, for it had been nothing but cruel.
Harry spent the rest of the night on his own bunk, that had been abandoned for two weeks, but was still built up, for some reason.
Our breakfast the morning after was taken in silence. I felt bad about what had transpired, but I couldn't bring myself to say the simple words 'I am sorry'. And Harry refused to meet my eyes.
As the day passed, we spoke to each other again - but only about nullities, and as, after endless hours, night came, we went to sleep in separate bunks as if it had never been otherwise.