Mindon Island
April 3
Harold didn't like where his mind had gone, sitting alone on a blanket on the beach. A lightning strike of a thought, forking off into the depths of his memory; it was a strange little urge, bizarrely specific and all kinds of dangerous.
Maria had been a model. This... had implications, as one might imagine; a certain social level attained. A certain desirability. His girlfriend partied, and not the way Harold tended to. She mingled, she danced, she sought out people and blended easily with them. She danced beautifully, in fact; a cascade of dark hair and motion of lithe body.
Harold... didn't dance.
The problem became quite apparent, and quickly.
Harold was wired to be a jealous thing, in spite of his flirtation with a warped version of polyamory. People wanted his girlfriend. People danced with her, eyed her, moved and held her, inspired a bliss written so clearly across her features that Harold burned and ached with envy.
He couldn't change it. He didn't know how to try, and he wasn't about to make a fool of himself dancing with her. There was nothing in him that could give anyone that look.
That didn't mean he wouldn't keep watch.
He would go with her when he'd given up the argument, and he'd take his usual place at gatherings of that kind. He'd find a quiet corner. The stoner corner of the party.
Light up. Get absurdly high. He'd lean back in his seat, his chin tipped back and a plume of smoke passing his lips. Time, space, the burn of his drink, people and a beat that sober was painfully loud would wash over and through him, rushing by and slowing to nothing and turning inside out.
Bliss written across his own features, he... wasn't himself. Quite. Like that. He knew, the part of him still clear headed enough to know anything, that it banished the air of dweeb he carried with him for a little while.
Nobody looked at him and saw Harold Lee.
His mind was cast there, and even with the background thrum of jealousy and awkward, he knew it was because the overwhelming sense of being so far out of place as to be laughable would ebb away.
The mess and wrongness in his mind wouldn't matter, for a time.
On a blanket on Mindon Island, he ducked his head between his bent knees and covered his ears with his arms. An insistent beat provided by his heart and imagination pounded through him, and he held his breath until he was lightheaded, fighting to scatter his thoughts in a way that felt right.
April 3
Harold didn't like where his mind had gone, sitting alone on a blanket on the beach. A lightning strike of a thought, forking off into the depths of his memory; it was a strange little urge, bizarrely specific and all kinds of dangerous.
Maria had been a model. This... had implications, as one might imagine; a certain social level attained. A certain desirability. His girlfriend partied, and not the way Harold tended to. She mingled, she danced, she sought out people and blended easily with them. She danced beautifully, in fact; a cascade of dark hair and motion of lithe body.
Harold... didn't dance.
The problem became quite apparent, and quickly.
Harold was wired to be a jealous thing, in spite of his flirtation with a warped version of polyamory. People wanted his girlfriend. People danced with her, eyed her, moved and held her, inspired a bliss written so clearly across her features that Harold burned and ached with envy.
He couldn't change it. He didn't know how to try, and he wasn't about to make a fool of himself dancing with her. There was nothing in him that could give anyone that look.
That didn't mean he wouldn't keep watch.
He would go with her when he'd given up the argument, and he'd take his usual place at gatherings of that kind. He'd find a quiet corner. The stoner corner of the party.
Light up. Get absurdly high. He'd lean back in his seat, his chin tipped back and a plume of smoke passing his lips. Time, space, the burn of his drink, people and a beat that sober was painfully loud would wash over and through him, rushing by and slowing to nothing and turning inside out.
Bliss written across his own features, he... wasn't himself. Quite. Like that. He knew, the part of him still clear headed enough to know anything, that it banished the air of dweeb he carried with him for a little while.
Nobody looked at him and saw Harold Lee.
His mind was cast there, and even with the background thrum of jealousy and awkward, he knew it was because the overwhelming sense of being so far out of place as to be laughable would ebb away.
The mess and wrongness in his mind wouldn't matter, for a time.
On a blanket on Mindon Island, he ducked his head between his bent knees and covered his ears with his arms. An insistent beat provided by his heart and imagination pounded through him, and he held his breath until he was lightheaded, fighting to scatter his thoughts in a way that felt right.