La Douleur Exquise

“Some things are too strange and too strong to be coincidences.” – Emery Allen.

(Listen)

“If you don’t like it you can go ahead and fuck yourself.”

Confronting Jack wasn’t clever. There was this sort of invisible line that separated and shielded him from the rest of us. He exuded something that made you respect him and pay attention when he spoke. It wasn’t his age – with 22 years old on his back he was less than 12 months away from finishing university, a similar situation to that of many of the bodies that sat in the room and watched him attentively.

I respected him because I knew he was wise. As wise as one could be a 22. A series of peculiar events that he often avoided describing had led him to experience the adult life at a rather young age. He’d been out there; he’d seen things, he’d lived. His perception of the world was painfully realistic, and I always assumed his wide knowledge was somehow the reason why he carried so much resentment inside. I knew he’d do anything to delete one or two memories, a rain of bitter images that constantly took him back to his childhood and early adolescence; a flood of constant reminders of why he’d engaged in a permanent dispute with the world and the system it was ran by.

“Get over yourself, you can’t tell us what to do.”

I didn’t know the name of the lad who had been questioning Jack all evening, but something about his attitude told me I’d never see him around again. He stood up from the small chair where he’d been sitting, scrutinised under the gaze of the other twenty people that occupied Jack’s living room, all accommodated very close to each other due to the lack of space. I was sitting on Gemma’s lap, leaning to the side as to not block her view of the show.

Jack breathed out a laugh at the weak insult. And instead of dedicating more time to the boy’s improvised words, he grinned sarcastically and pointed at the door. His eyes didn’t match his smile; they were frighteningly fixed on his opponent and the tone of his voice was flat when he spoke: “get the fuck out.”

Silence filled the room as the short, muscled, (brave?) boy walked away, closing the door rather strongly behind him. Our attention was back to an unimpressed Jack. His eyebrows were raised and he clapped his hands together once before speaking again.

Jack’s eyes reminded me of mountains and the sky. Sometimes they were a shade of nearly dark green, with patterns of blue swimming around his pupils; sometimes it was the opposite. His hair was a mixture, too: a chocolate brown with strings of caramel, matching the thick beard that travelled across his jaw; interrupted in the middle by a gold piercing that hang from his lower lip. I knew him well enough to affirm that in no way did his physical appearance match his personality.

Only his eyes offered a timid interpretation of who he really was: a passionate man with strong beliefs and low tolerance for conformity. His decision to major in Fine Art was something I’d had trouble understanding when I first met him, but after a few interactions and covertly observing him in class when he fixed his eyes on the sketch pad and worked intensely had helped me realise that he was there because he needed a way to manifest the million things that swam inside his head. And he happened to be good with charcoal. Jack Wolf was the perfect example of passion meets talent.

But the reason we were all sitting at his living room and carefully listening to each word that came out of his mouth had a name: Education Reform. It’d been announced by the Prime Minister less than two days earlier and student unions around the country were already gathering to structure a solution to the shithole that our government was about to create.

I was too tired to listen, and Gemma sensed my mental absence when I yawned and rubbed my eyes every ten seconds. She pressed her hands on my back and urged me to stand up, copying my actions and walking behind me through the sea of bodies until we reached Jack’s room and locked ourselves inside. Though we’d tried to convince him otherwise, he’d decided to have the meeting here, at his flat, in the comfort of his small living room because “it’s easier that way.” Now there we were, trapped in a box filled with unpleasing human smells, hints of smoke and no ventilation. He had wisdom, but common sense was something he rarely used.

We let out bodies fall on his bed without hesitation. Gemma had more permission to do so than I did – she joined him under those covers constantly – and I cringed when I realised I was on top of the duvet that witnessed them go at it like rabbits five days a week.

“Do you think he’s got a point?” We were in the dark, our eyes were fixed on the white ceiling, and I asked my question loud enough for only us to hear.

She sighed and I knew she’d immediately understood what I was referring to. “I don’t know. But he needs to slow down.”

“Hmm.”

“Last night we had a bit of a fight ‘cause he wanted my brother to join. Fucking ridiculous.” She began to speak rapidly – something usual in her –, elaborating on how frustrated she was by Jack’s eagerness to show up at 10 Downing Street with a loaded gun. I frowned. My head had flown somewhere else from the moment she’d pronounced a certain word: “you have a brother?!”

“You know I do.”

“Yeah, I just found out ten seconds ago! What kind of friendship is this?” I considered propping myself up on my elbows to glare at her in fake accusation, but my bones felt as if they’d torn apart if I moved.

“You never asked!” She let out a breath of a laugh and rolled on her side to face me, lifting her hand fast and letting it land on my face with a smack. Satisfied with the verbal insults that slipped from my lips after her sudden attack, she blew me a kiss and laid back on the bed. “Yeah. He did two years of History in Manchester and hated it, so he’s majoring in English now. Moved to my flat like… two weeks ago? Bit late in the semester but they accepted him and that’s what he wanted so.”

“What’s his name?” I pressed my hand on my cheek, the coolness of my palm contrasting the warmth that had just been generated by her aggressive actions.

“Harry. He’s 21, you’ll meet him soon. Remember my plan to host a humble gathering tomorrow night? I’ll cancel if you don’t come.”

I confirmed my assistance and continued the conversation for as long as I could, losing control of my own body and giving in to my heavy eyelids and their determination to close.

***

“Oi, Blue!”

I walked excitedly in Louis’ direction when he called my name. He was on my list of favourites.

Louis: low height, high pitched voice, tendency to swear, decent tattoos and affinity for pet names. Blue: legs long enough to pass him, hardly decent vocabulary, obsession with peculiar drawings on people’s skin and occasional yet embarrassing enjoyment of being spoilt and treated like a child.

He was standing next to someone, but I ignored it all and decided to get lost in the scent of alcohol that Lou exuded when our arms wrapped around each other. I grinned widely as we engaged in a short conversation, exchanging quick details of the past five days that we’d been apart.

Louis paused after a moment, letting his lips form in the shape of an o in realization. His aquamarine eyes landed on the body next to us and he smiled politely, “uh, this is Gemma’s brother.”

Green eyes landed on me. I wasn’t surprised. Gemma had given me an extensive description of her young sibling the other night, and at one point during the conversation, when my brows were nearly touching and my thoughts fought to be put together, I arrived to the conclusion that Gemma’s Harry and Olivia’s Harry were, indeed, the same individual.

I’d seen Harry more than once after our first and last conversation that night at my flat. The lad had been civil in the past week; we exchanged polite hellos whenever he walked through the door at night holding Olivia’s hand, and they always left the place together in the morning before I woke up. No conversations had been developed between the two of us, not because there was tension, but because neither of us cared that much. When Olivia and I reunited at night and sat down for our daily exchange of information, he’d quietly grab his phone and centered his eyes on the screen until we were finished. It wasn’t rude. I didn’t really know if he intended it to be. Either way was all right, really. My head was filled with to-do things and there was no space left to wonder if or why my flat mate’s boyfriend wasn’t fond of me.

Louis’ hand gestured from his new friend to me, then back to him, then to himself: “Harry, Blue. Blue, Harry. Harry, Louis. Louis, Bl-“

“You can breathe, all right.” I chuckled and covered his mouth with my hand, then proceeding to extend it to the (not so) new one. Telepathically, we both agreed to avoid explaining that we’d met before, and so we shook hands like the first time and engaged in a conversation with our mutual, oblivious, already wasted mate.

***

“Hey.”

I’d been hiding in Gemma’s kitchen, fiercely typing on my phone. The thing was, when you were scheduled to hand in a total of ten 48x72 paintings in less than two months, any idea that ran through your head was welcome and needed to be written down before it got a chance to float away.

The music was ear-splitting and the voice that approached me went nearly unheard. It was the foreign body that I spotted with the corner of my eye what caught my attention, encouraging me to raise my head to have my green eyes land on a much lighter pair of the same colour.

“Hi.”

Harry offered me a close-lipped smile, similar to the one from before, confirming it was something he did when he was uncomfortable. His hair was hidden; a black, backwards ball cap was on his head and it contrasted the white t-shirt that hugged his torso under a black and red plaid. His long legs were clad in black skinny jeans and he wore black boots to match.

This observation of his physical appearance was short and quick, and my eyes landed back on his, eyebrows raised in expectancy of his next words.

“Need anything?” I pressed.

He walked towards the polished granite counter that rested in the middle of the kitchen and propped his elbows on the surface. All traces of a smile were gone as he inspected me.

“I wanted to say sorry.”

My eyebrows were still up. It wasn’t a defiant stare, the one I was giving him, more of a curious one. I didn’t really know what he was talking about, which was apparently reflected on my face, because he awkwardly gestured with his hands and proceeded to explain: “about…the other day. You can drink whenever you like, you can do what you want.”

My eyebrows went back to their normal place and I breathed out a laugh, placing my phone on the countertop – I wore a short sleeved, pleated navy blue dress that landed on my mid thighs, which were cozily covered in black tights, no pockets to store my basic belongings – and I mimicked his actions, elbows on the countertop as I observed him, a smirk on my face.

“Glad I’ve got your permission, mum.”

He chuckled and lowered his gaze, trapping his lower lip in-between his thumb and forefinger, pondering before his eyes locked back on mine and he tried again: “sorry, I-”

“No worries.”

“It was rude, what I said.”

“I’ve heard worse.”

“I didn’t mean it.”

“S’all right.”

“I think you’re a fucking good painter.”

“No need to be overly nice, but I’ll take it.”

He smiled warmly and tiny wrinkles formed on the corners of his eyes, accompanied by a dimple on each side of his face. He extended his hand out to me for the third time since we’d met and I shook it suspiciously.

“Harry Styles,” he declared.

I mirrored his smile and nodded in recognition. “Blue Champouret.”

He chuckled, still holding my minuscule hand in his large one and observing me through smiling and piercing pools of green, “pleasure.”

Hours had passed and alcohol had been consumed.

An hour earlier I’d found myself in the small bathroom of the flat, with Matt groaning against my neck as he came. He’d lifted me from the ground and held me against the wall the whole time, moving his hips with quick thrusts that turned deep when my legs wrapped around him. When it was over, I held his face between my hands as we connected in an open-mouth kiss, tongues lazy and languidly connecting as we both gasped and came down from our highs. I’d smiled breathlessly when he bit on my lower lip, letting him put me down and fixing my clothes. My cheeks were flushed when I looked in the mirror and organised my hair, ignoring him when he stood behind me and ran his hands through my clothed lower abdomen. “Thanks,” he’d kissed my temple and I smirked at him, withdrawing from his hold and opening the door. “You too.”

But now I was on my own and feeling less awake than before. The party had cooled down and the air was thick. A few bodies were gathered in Gemma’s living room, lost in the scent that emerged from the two lit spliffs that travelled from hand to hand. It was mostly dark, our bodies and the objects in the room were only illuminated by the blue and red light bulbs from Gemma’s lamps, one on each corner. Slow conversations swam through the room, mixed with the music that played at a low volume now, an answer to Gemma’s neighbours, who had showed up with irritated faces to strictly request a tranquil ambiance.

Tranquil we were, and after taking a few drags, I rested my head on the sofa and focused on how the colourful lights from the lamps illuminated the room, creating shadows and shapeless patterns where they crashed against the white walls. My feet rested on the small table and Gemma’s rested on my thighs. She was sprawled out on the sofa and occasionally became involved in the conversations that the others developed around us, though most of the time she’d close her eyes and sing along to the lyrics of every song played, content to have her head in a state of relaxation after the heavy week of work we’d survived with difficulty.

She groaned when Jack asked to have a word with her. His large hands grabbed hers and helped her numb body up before they walked out of sight. At her absence, I rested my feet on the small table in front of me, resting my head on the sofa and inhaling again.

He was with Louis and a few others, talking loudly and making comments that generated smiles on everyone else. He accepted the joint that was offered to him by Tom and took a long drag before giving it back. And when he readjusted his cap and scanned the room randomly, his eyes landed on me.

I held the spliff near my face as I observed him. He didn’t look away and, once again, I was impressed by his confidence. Most people began to act strange when they felt watched. It was a harmless stare, really. No hidden messages or telepathic conversations; not from my part. I was simply induced under the effects of the drug and the previous amount of alcohol I’d consumed. Not a good idea, not something I did often, but the shit of a week that I’d endured was all the excuse I needed to make my head float and repose.

He exchanged a few more words with his new friends and walked in my direction, eyes on me as he plopped down on the sofa, occupying the spot where his sister had been sitting earlier. He mimicked my position: feet landed on the table, head resting on the sofa and eyes scanning the room. I grew tired of the sight of him, closing my eyes and taking a long, slow drag. The smoke swam to my lungs and back, travelling through my throat and floating outside through my pouted lips. I enjoyed the intensity that came along with getting high; the tranquility and certain calmness that flooded your senses.

When I opened my eyes, eyelashes slowly going up, I felt him looking at me. My head still rested on the sofa, but I turned it slightly to meet his gaze. He was too close, so close I could smell the alcohol in his breath, and I assumed he smelt the same in mine. We both blinked lazily.

Laughter echoed through the room in response to some joke, and my eyes left Harry’s to land on the show: Tom and Louis, attempting a slow dance in the middle of the room, encouraged by laughs and words of praise. The corners of my lips went up slowly, unimpressed by these people’s humour but fascinated at the state of relaxation that invaded the room, everyone lost in this fake reality that we were experiencing together.

I noticed Harry looking at me again and a hint of annoyance swam through me.

“What.” I asked, unimpressed.

His face remained vague and he echoed: “what.”

I was feeling generous, so I lifted my hand to offer him the spliff, which he took hold of with his thumb and forefinger, sucking on his lips before trapping it between them. I focused on the spot where his mouth connected with the rolled up cigar as his cheeks contracted. He kept it there for a couple seconds before setting it free, and his pouted lips allowed the smoke to exit towards the ceiling.

The same action was repeated three more times and I watched lazily. His eyes began to look more bloodshot each second, lips glistening whenever he ran his tongue though them, skin glowing under the colourful lights. He quitted his commodity, sat down and shifted until he was facing me, maneuvering the joint until the lit side was facing him. His hand was on the air, eyes going from the spliff to my mouth and then to my eyes, inviting. His thumb travelled to the south region of my face, pressing softly on my lower lip and slowly pushing it down, dilated pupils observing my mouth and giving me a good sight of his long eyelashes.

I let him unzip my lips and formed them in a pout, giving him permission to place the rolled up paper in-between them. When my hand replaced his, I let my eyes drop closed as I inhaled long and slow, feeling my cheeks contract. I opened my eyes and let the air accumulate in my mouth. I was gone; my eyelashes caressed the sensitive skin under my eyes as if encouraging me to close them completely, to drown myself in deep sleep.

I exhaled, not at all bothering with etiquette or politeness. I pursed my lips and let the smoke flow through them on his direction. The layer of air grey dissipated slowly, coating Harry’s face and making the image of him appear blurry, dim, fascinating. He closed his eyes and grinned lazily, dimples showing up on each side of his face and making me mirror his expression of calmness.

We stared at each other quietly, no trace of defiance in his eyes, and certainly not in mine. Our pupils dilated, eyes bloodshot, plump lips parted and eyelids heavy.

“Your bird’s calling.” Gemma appeared out of fucking nowhere and stood in front of us, making me jolt slightly. Suddenly I was more conscious and took notice of the music and the laughs and voices that echoed through the room. I’d zoned them out seconds earlier. All my senses had been on him.

He winced and stood up, exchanging objects with his sister: she gave him a phone and received the spliff in return. Harry walked away and she sat down next to me; her perfume smelled of roses and it only made me want to slip out of consciousness even more.

“What’s in that head of yours?” My eyes were on the others, lazily watching them interact, but they soon found their way to the corner of the room where Harry stood, leaning against the wall and exchanging words with Olivia, I assumed. A soft tap on my cheek was all I needed to understand that Gemma was speaking to me.

“Ah, I see.” She followed my gaze and spoke in a teasing tone. “He’s available, you know. That girl he’s been going out with? It’s nothing. I say you should go for it.”

I breathed out a laugh, “who told you I was interested?”

Gemma’s red lips curved up and she inspected me through her mascara-coated eyelashes. “Hmm. It might not be a good idea, yeah. You’d fuck him up.”

She took the joint to her mouth and my brows furrowed. “Am I offended?”

Smoke flew out of her mouth and she shrugged. “You know what I mean.” My silence proved the opposite, so she continued, eyes landing on her brother as she spoke “he’s always the one acting cheeky and dumping others but I know for a fact that if something happened, you’d be the one ruining him with no mercy,” I winced.

“I love you,” she concealed, resting her arm on my shoulders and bringing me to her, lips landing on my temple in a kiss that I was sure had left a mark of red lipstick. “I don’t want him hanging out with any of these people, now that I think about it,” she gestured, pointing at Louis and his audience. “Like, we’re nice but look at us, we’re useless. He’d never been in this ambiance before; I don’t know if I want him to start now.”

He’d drank a decent quantity of alcohol in the course of the night and had just gotten high next to me a few minutes earlier, so I struggled to understand what she was talking about. He clearly knew what he was doing. Again, Gemma spoke before I could respond.

“When he studied History…I’m guessing it was different, you know? Lots of reading and debates, right? I don’t know, I just want him to make his own friends so he doesn’t have to spend too much time with mine. All we do here is get fucked up, that’s just sad.”

“I can feel the love.”

She squeezed my shoulder and chuckled. Gemma talked a lot. Her mouth moved in different directions when she spoke and she was always gesturing with her hands. Her brain was messy, it was always throwing one idea after the other and this proved problematic when she attempted to express herself verbally. Curious was another word I’d use to define her; always asking questions – often too personal, intruding, or even rude for those who weren’t accustomed to her – because she wanted to learn as much as she could – and because she enjoyed the flush in people’s cheeks when her inquisitions made them uncomfortable. I’d only found out about the existence of her brother two days ago, but the role of big sister definitely suited her. She was good at taking care of people and incredibly talented at defending them. That was my summarised description of a sibling’s responsibilities.

“Listen, you know you can do what you want. Just be nice, all right?”

The joint was trapped between her lips again, eyes focused on her brother in concentration. When she exhaled, her tone was less joking than before, words simple and concise, something rather unusual in her:

“He’s not as tough as he seems.”

***

I woke up with sore muscles and a frozen nose. The position I’d slept in – cuddling Zara on the sofa – seemed more comfortable the night before, when we’d both been tired and high and decided to steal a blanket from Gemma’s bed. Today, my mouth felt like it was filled with sand and paper. My face was cold and my lips felt chopped and dehydrated.

Zara barely flinched when I got up. I gently massaged my temples and stretched out my arms, scanning the room and observing the three people that slept on the carpeted floor. When I walked to the kitchen with the only mission of finding liquid, I came across the owners of the flat.

“Mornin’ princess.” Gemma leaned against the counter, all awake and warm in an oversized shirt and leggings, holding a mug between her pale hands. Harry was next to her, and his eyes went from the screen of his phone to me, nodding and letting his lips curve up timidly. Most of his hair was hidden by the ball cap he’d worn the night before; accompanied this time by a grey jumper, brown boots and what I guessed where the same black jeans I’d seen him on a few hours earlier.

I whined and mumbled a hello, serving myself a cup of water and emitting a sound of content at the sensation of fresh liquid running down my mouth and throat. The two of them walked around the house, gathering their belongings and preparing to leave for “family business shit.” I took a trip to the bathroom, brushed my teeth with Gemma’s spare toothbrush and washed my face, sighing in content at the fresh, clean sensation.

Memories of the previous night flooded to my mind as I fixed my hair into a bun. I had, in fact, shagged Matt a few hours ago in that bathroom, but that was a common occurrence. We were both single and too busy to engage in a relationship with anyone. I didn’t like him that much and I knew for a fact that he wasn’t obsessed with me, either. But we felt attracted to each other whenever we had alcohol traversing our veins.

Something – someone – else was in my mind. I frowned as pale, dim, short memories were recollected in my head, remembering the mesmerizing, high version of him. When under the influence of hallucinating substances, I had a tendency to become entranced by everything I laid my eyes on. With that in mind, I concluded that my admiration and exchange of prolonged looks with Harry had been rather normal. It’d happened with others before.

But my heartbeat had a slight, almost unnoticeable increase in speed when Harry copied Gemma’s actions that morning and leaned in to kiss my cheek goodbye, large hand landing on my hip and lightly pressing before he retracted it, smiling green eyes matching the small, innocent curve of his lips. And when I found myself looking out the window to catch a glimpse of them – of him – leaving the building, I arrived to the conclusion that, normal or not, crossing paths with him was something I was beginning to grow fond of.