Sandalwood
in which you have an affliction for candles and Harry hears wedding bells.
“Y’gonna burn the whole house down.”
When you groan in response, taking the pillow behind your head and pretending to smother his face in your lap, he digresses. Or maybe you were so quick to give up because he started pinching the dips of your waist with the tips of his fingers - you can never last long when he does that.
“It’s two candles,” you tsk sarcastically, “hopefully we can survive that.”
He’s watching you through heavy eyelids, zealously gawking at how good the poorly lit candlelight is at capturing all the best features of your face. It’s likely what’s gotten the scent of Jo Malone sandalwood to grow on him so rapidly.
There's an almost surreal sense of tranquility completely swallowing the room; the rain tapping the living room windows, the ever-so-faint purrs of the cat at the bottom of the couch. There’s no lights on aside from the black and white film on the TV and the five wick candle on the coffee table, just a few feet away. And he’s back home now, finally, head in your lap while your fingers brutishly comb through the front pieces of his hair.
“Smells like,” and he puts a goofy emphasis on his sniffing to lull a giggle out of you, “smells like a Sephora in ‘ere.”
Maybe it's you who brings that sober, pastoral element. He never felt like this back in the boisterous environment of New York, and he had lit plenty of candles in the confines of Madison Square Garden and hotel suites. There seems to be a quality to you, or a certain component to your presence, that brought him to this particular abyss. It almost feels dreamy- kind of like he’s floating. And it’s certainly a state of mind he wants to say in forever.
“Y’missed me?” he asks, eyes rolling upwards so he can look at you from below, “while I was gone, missed ‘avin me around?”
When you look down, it’s almost in complete bewilder. Your hand keeps moving through his mane, tousling with it and giving it an innocent tug- as if you were reprimanding him for such a ridiculous question. He mewls a joking ‘ow’ before you roll your eyes at him. Maybe it was silly, but he missed you, and he made sure to tell you everyday as much as he possibly could. And he wanted to affirm you felt just the same.
“Of course I did,” there goes that candlelight again, accentuating your smile even from this ungodly angle he’s gazing from, “I wanna be around you alllllll the time.”
The clinginess in him absolutely drowns in that response, basking in that concept and compartmentalizing it for safekeeping. The idea of being around you all the time, all day in every place, it’s truly a thought he could savor eternally. And what an all consuming thought it was, as it’s now glued to his frontal lobe and aching in his chest.
You’ve probably already gone and forgotten about it. Now your heads leaned back on a few propped up pillows, eyes glued to the TV so you don’t miss your favorite part of the movie. One hand of yours is still lost in his hair, the other resting flatly atop his chest. Your engrossed in the television, but he’s engrossed with you.
You, and the thought of a ring on your finger. A big one, so big that all your friends were ridden with envy and consumed with jealousy. Strangers would stop you on the street and others would stare in awe from afar. You in a wedding gown, oh, the thought is almost too much. White from head to toe, like a virgin, even though he’s very very sure you’re far from it. He likes the way Mrs. Styles sounds, and he’s looping it so much on a highlight reel in his mind he can almost physically hear it.
His eyes are fully glued to you- have been for the better part on an hour by now. Just admiring what’s in front of him; the idea of never being away from you, having you forever and after that, exchanging vows and listening to his kids call you mummy. He’s so wrapped up in idealizations that he doesn’t care you've caught him gawking.
His stomach flutters when you cup his face, scrunching your nose at him, “What's got you all starey?”
“You,” he mewls, “I wanna marry y’right now.”
He frowns when you laugh, like you don’t believe how deadly serious he is and how that wasn’t some sort of delirious joke. Your hands are still cupping his face, the pad of your thumb rubbing circles on the apple of his cheek. You’re literally making his case right now, in front of your cat and that overbearing sandalwood candle. His frown lines deepens and that’s when your post-chuckle grimace evaporates, so now he knows you’re finally starting to catch on.
“Harry you’re being-”
But he’s quick to interject, “hope y’wanted to finish that with serious, ‘cos I am.”
“I know you are” you soft laugh, like you’re encouraging him to think logically, “but we should talk about this a little more, right?”
To him, it sounds like you don’t truly need heaps of convincing and begging. A little coaxing seemed like it’d be enough to get the job done. This wasn’t an impulsive or spontaneous decision, this is a commitment he wants to make as soon as possible. Not that he would abandon that next step if need be, because the convincing and begging was plan B. He was certainly not beneath that.
“Y’love me?” and now he’s sat upright, his hands on your now crossed legs as he leans his face in closer to yours.
“Very much,” you smile, “Yes, I love you.”
“Ok!,” he exclaims, “Nothin’ t’talk about then. Can pack a bag, drive t’Vegas and we-”
“You just got home from New York,” you chuckle, brushing a freelancing strand of hair from his face, “don’t you wanna relax? Just.. I dunno.. hang for a bit? Do nothing?”
Honestly, as he sits there and innocently mocks you while he pretends to rack his brain, he can't think of a better way to spend his newfound free time. Even in playful spirits, he can't drum up a better way to commence his return home. He wants this, you, always. And he wants it right now.
But he’s nervous you’re being too rash, too logic and too ‘adult’. He doesn’t wanna be argued off the ledge right now, he really just wants to jump head first. He wishes, and God is he hoping, that for once you’d just take a deep breath and take the plunge with him. If you reasoned him out of this he’s sure it’d be enough to make him cry.
His eyes are frantically studying the expression on your face, waiting for it to emit some kind of clue for him to catch on to what you’re thinking.
“Well what would I wear?”
“(Y/N),” and he’s practically leaping off the couch in excitement, “Anything! Jeans, that white linen set y’just got. Y’fucking orange pajama pants y’still wear that’re from wha’, like, 2011? Anything y’want, anything.”
He swears he might start jumping up and down like a little kid, his whole body is just that electrified at the fact you haven’t shut him down yet. And when you stand up, he definitely has to swallow that squeal of excitement cooking in his throat. All he needs is to hear you say it; just agree with him so he can go absolutely bananas and go grab one of the bags he hasn’t unpacked yet.
“Ok,” you exhale, the corner of your mouth starting to pull a grin, “let’s get married.”
And now he’s squealing, wrapping his arms at your waist to give you a proper twirl before he’s hounding you with peppery kisses over every inch of your face he can get to.
“But I’m not wearing those orange pajamas,” you insist, “they have a huge hole in the crotch”