Work Text:
Carve
Harry strolls along the beach one night.
He feels the sand take in his feet and leaves a graceful trail behind him.
He gently swings his lamp up to eye level and does a little twirl.
The island is certainly the same as before. However, he isn't.
Harry continues walking. His shoulders slump.
A gush of wind strides opposite his direction. He allows it to capture his sadness.
The wind refuses some of it. A tear threatens to fall. Then he sees it.
There is a tall tree. Harry eyes the fallen coconut. His eyes slowly trail up to the words engraved on the bark.
His palm caresses the carving. He shifts his weight toward the tree. He carefully lowers his lamp.
Harry closes his eyes. He thinks. A vague memory comes to play. There is a voice.
The voice is another male's. It is filled with laughter. It speaks of love. The love was meant for him.
Harry tries to remember his face. It is pale like the snow. But it is soft and sweet. His eyes shine a deep, tender gray.
His eyes are also sad. They often cry. Harry deems this kind of memory more vivid. He imagines himself gently kissing each tear away.
But the man turns away from Harry. His sand-colored strands dance as he shakes his head. He glances at the tree providing them shade. He cracks off a limp twig. He starts to write, tearing off bark as he goes.
"I'm sorry, love. It's not your fault."
Harry recalls wearing his best tailored suit a few days later. He takes one last look at his man's face. His hair is neatly pushed to the back. His eyelids are closed. He looks peaceful.