![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
saysthemagpieI'm not finished with tree narry yet, but I wanted to post a draft of the first half (first third? unclear) before I have to disappear for a day or two to write towards some Real Life deadlines. here is a picture of the kind of tree harry used to be. written for daisygrrl .
(also, the title comes from the song "pine tree lines" by told slant, who you should check out if you are looking for some indie queer/trans quiet heartbreak media to consume. the lead singer's voice definitely takes some getting used to, but the lyrics are so quietly devastating. someday i'm gonna do a little series of fic outlines or drabbles for each song on their album Still Water.)
Harry lives with Niall now. Well—Niall supposes that's always been the case, technically. It's just that Harry used to be a graceful English oak flowering in his back garden, and now he's a person: a tall, beautiful sort of person with a look of perpetual surprise on his face, who sleeps in Niall's bed and eats the food Niall cooks for him and clings close to Niall's side when he takes him down to the shops.
Harry doesn't speak much still, though he's learning, slowly. Most of the time Niall manages to pass him off as a visiting cousin from the Gaeltacht, a rural boy fresh from some isolated village, with only a handful of English words at his disposal. No one presses, though sometimes he catches people looking at Harry, their brows furrowed in confusion, as if they sense in him some elemental strangeness they can't pin down.
Niall thinks it's got something to do with the confused gentleness with which Harry handles simple objects, as if he isn't quite sure what is and isn't alive. Or it might be the stillness that seems to radiate from him, an inner tranquility that the world never quite seems to touch. Animals will curl up at his feet in public and go to sleep, and more than once a small child has mistaken him—or recognized him, perhaps—for something they might climb over.
“You can sort of tell, can't you?" Zayn says to Niall once, thoughtful. "That he's not all human, even now."
It's true. Even like this—indisputably human, or at least human-shaped—Niall thinks that Harry might still be more tree than person. There's a lot about his new body that Harry doesn't seem to understand. He'll get fussy when he hasn't had a meal, for instance, but unless Niall's there to sit him down with a plate of food in front of him he doesn't seem to connect the sensation of hunger with a need to eat. There's sleeping, too: that first night, Niall had left Harry in the guest room, only to come back the next morning to discover Harry standing up beside the bed exactly where he'd left him, bewildered and exhausted. Niall had had to help him lie down on the bed, arranging him just so, then soothe him till he fell asleep, stroking his hair and singing old lullabies to him till Harry's eyes fluttered shut.
It worries Niall sometimes. There are things about his new life that Harry seems to positively love, like music, or the feeling of the wind against his face when they drive into town with the windows rolled down. And touch, too: he likes Niall to scratch his head, or sling an arm round his shoulders when they watch films together on the sofa, Harry staring sometimes at a spot just above the television, as if the peeling paint of Niall's wall is as compelling to him as whatever's unfolding on the screen.
Harry doesn't seem unhappy. But maybe that's learned, too: the knack of seeming sad, of making what you're feeling visible to someone else, in the slump of your shoulders or the twist of your mouth. Maybe Harry doesn't know yet how to tell Niall that he wishes things were different.
"No offense to your boyfriend, mate, but the bloke used to be a tree," Louis tells him. "I doubt he's bothered."
"He's not my boyfriend," Niall says, automatic.
He doesn't stop thinking about it, though. About how Harry feels about all this—the change he never asked for, never could have thought to ask for. He notices the way Harry will sometimes spend entire afternoons out in the back garden: five, six hours at a stretch, barefoot in the grass, his toes digging into the damp earth like he's trying to put down roots. Sometimes Niall sits at the kitchen table, a mug of tea cooling between his hands, and watches him: his tall, willowy body swaying in the soft breeze, his face tilted up, soaking in the sun.
He never goes out to him. It’s funny—before the change Niall wouldn’t have thought twice about spending an afternoon out in the garden, sitting cross-legged under the wide spread of Harry's branches, fingers picking out some half-formed melody on the strings of his guitar. But it feels different now. Like he might be intruding, joining him. He knows Harry finds it overwhelming sometimes—the noise and commotion of the human world, the way things don't ever seem to stop. The garden must feel like a refuge to him, a familiar place he can retreat to when he needs to be alone.
Niall doesn't want to take that from him. So he sits and he watches, his heart heavy with some feeling he can't quite put into words.
He asks Harry about it, finally. They're lying in Niall's bed together one night, curled up on their sides facing each other. Harry has been explaining a dream to him, or what Niall thinks might be a dream, though Harry's vocabulary is still so limited and his understanding of narrative structure so hazy that he might very well just be offering Niall some of his favorite words, each pronounced with loving care: rabbit, moon, bright.
“Harry,” Niall says, when Harry seems to be finished. “Are you – are you happy, like this?"
Harry blinks. He says in that slow, cautious way he pronounces words he doesn’t understand: “Ha-ppy?”
“You know.” Niall casts about for some familiar frame of reference. “The way you feel when – when the sun’s very bright and your roots aren’t thirsty, and the soil’s full of good things.”
“Spring,” Harry offers.
“Sort of,” Niall says. “Except – in your heart. Happy is when you feel like it’s spring in your heart, even if it isn’t outdoors.”
Harry stares at him blankly. “Dreaming?” he says.
“No,” Niall says. “Not dreaming. Happy’s when you’re awake.” Harry’s eyes are wide and dark, uncomprehending. "You've been spending a lot of time in the garden. I thought maybe – I wondered if you were sad that you have to live here, indoors, and not out there.”
“Sad,” Harry says. “Winter."
“Yes,” Niall says. “Is that – do you feel like that, sometimes?”
Harry’s quiet for a long time. Niall can’t tell if he’s thinking about the question, or if he’s simply failed to grasp that he’s expected to respond.
"Harry?" he asks. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Harry looks grave. "Sad," he says. "Winter. Indoors." He touches Niall's bare chest with his fingertips, then touches his own, his face troubled.
Niall's heart sinks. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm really sorry, Harry."
Harry’s frown deepens. Cautiously, he says, “Good?” and points to himself.
"You're very good.” Niall swallows around the lump in his throat. “I know you didn't ask for this, Harry, but you’ve done so well. I'm so proud of you. I just – I wish it could be different for you. I wish you could be happy.”
daisygrrl .(also, the title comes from the song "pine tree lines" by told slant, who you should check out if you are looking for some indie queer/trans quiet heartbreak media to consume. the lead singer's voice definitely takes some getting used to, but the lyrics are so quietly devastating. someday i'm gonna do a little series of fic outlines or drabbles for each song on their album Still Water.)
Harry lives with Niall now. Well—Niall supposes that's always been the case, technically. It's just that Harry used to be a graceful English oak flowering in his back garden, and now he's a person: a tall, beautiful sort of person with a look of perpetual surprise on his face, who sleeps in Niall's bed and eats the food Niall cooks for him and clings close to Niall's side when he takes him down to the shops.
Harry doesn't speak much still, though he's learning, slowly. Most of the time Niall manages to pass him off as a visiting cousin from the Gaeltacht, a rural boy fresh from some isolated village, with only a handful of English words at his disposal. No one presses, though sometimes he catches people looking at Harry, their brows furrowed in confusion, as if they sense in him some elemental strangeness they can't pin down.
Niall thinks it's got something to do with the confused gentleness with which Harry handles simple objects, as if he isn't quite sure what is and isn't alive. Or it might be the stillness that seems to radiate from him, an inner tranquility that the world never quite seems to touch. Animals will curl up at his feet in public and go to sleep, and more than once a small child has mistaken him—or recognized him, perhaps—for something they might climb over.
“You can sort of tell, can't you?" Zayn says to Niall once, thoughtful. "That he's not all human, even now."
It's true. Even like this—indisputably human, or at least human-shaped—Niall thinks that Harry might still be more tree than person. There's a lot about his new body that Harry doesn't seem to understand. He'll get fussy when he hasn't had a meal, for instance, but unless Niall's there to sit him down with a plate of food in front of him he doesn't seem to connect the sensation of hunger with a need to eat. There's sleeping, too: that first night, Niall had left Harry in the guest room, only to come back the next morning to discover Harry standing up beside the bed exactly where he'd left him, bewildered and exhausted. Niall had had to help him lie down on the bed, arranging him just so, then soothe him till he fell asleep, stroking his hair and singing old lullabies to him till Harry's eyes fluttered shut.
It worries Niall sometimes. There are things about his new life that Harry seems to positively love, like music, or the feeling of the wind against his face when they drive into town with the windows rolled down. And touch, too: he likes Niall to scratch his head, or sling an arm round his shoulders when they watch films together on the sofa, Harry staring sometimes at a spot just above the television, as if the peeling paint of Niall's wall is as compelling to him as whatever's unfolding on the screen.
Harry doesn't seem unhappy. But maybe that's learned, too: the knack of seeming sad, of making what you're feeling visible to someone else, in the slump of your shoulders or the twist of your mouth. Maybe Harry doesn't know yet how to tell Niall that he wishes things were different.
"No offense to your boyfriend, mate, but the bloke used to be a tree," Louis tells him. "I doubt he's bothered."
"He's not my boyfriend," Niall says, automatic.
He doesn't stop thinking about it, though. About how Harry feels about all this—the change he never asked for, never could have thought to ask for. He notices the way Harry will sometimes spend entire afternoons out in the back garden: five, six hours at a stretch, barefoot in the grass, his toes digging into the damp earth like he's trying to put down roots. Sometimes Niall sits at the kitchen table, a mug of tea cooling between his hands, and watches him: his tall, willowy body swaying in the soft breeze, his face tilted up, soaking in the sun.
He never goes out to him. It’s funny—before the change Niall wouldn’t have thought twice about spending an afternoon out in the garden, sitting cross-legged under the wide spread of Harry's branches, fingers picking out some half-formed melody on the strings of his guitar. But it feels different now. Like he might be intruding, joining him. He knows Harry finds it overwhelming sometimes—the noise and commotion of the human world, the way things don't ever seem to stop. The garden must feel like a refuge to him, a familiar place he can retreat to when he needs to be alone.
Niall doesn't want to take that from him. So he sits and he watches, his heart heavy with some feeling he can't quite put into words.
He asks Harry about it, finally. They're lying in Niall's bed together one night, curled up on their sides facing each other. Harry has been explaining a dream to him, or what Niall thinks might be a dream, though Harry's vocabulary is still so limited and his understanding of narrative structure so hazy that he might very well just be offering Niall some of his favorite words, each pronounced with loving care: rabbit, moon, bright.
“Harry,” Niall says, when Harry seems to be finished. “Are you – are you happy, like this?"
Harry blinks. He says in that slow, cautious way he pronounces words he doesn’t understand: “Ha-ppy?”
“You know.” Niall casts about for some familiar frame of reference. “The way you feel when – when the sun’s very bright and your roots aren’t thirsty, and the soil’s full of good things.”
“Spring,” Harry offers.
“Sort of,” Niall says. “Except – in your heart. Happy is when you feel like it’s spring in your heart, even if it isn’t outdoors.”
Harry stares at him blankly. “Dreaming?” he says.
“No,” Niall says. “Not dreaming. Happy’s when you’re awake.” Harry’s eyes are wide and dark, uncomprehending. "You've been spending a lot of time in the garden. I thought maybe – I wondered if you were sad that you have to live here, indoors, and not out there.”
“Sad,” Harry says. “Winter."
“Yes,” Niall says. “Is that – do you feel like that, sometimes?”
Harry’s quiet for a long time. Niall can’t tell if he’s thinking about the question, or if he’s simply failed to grasp that he’s expected to respond.
"Harry?" he asks. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Harry looks grave. "Sad," he says. "Winter. Indoors." He touches Niall's bare chest with his fingertips, then touches his own, his face troubled.
Niall's heart sinks. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm really sorry, Harry."
Harry’s frown deepens. Cautiously, he says, “Good?” and points to himself.
"You're very good.” Niall swallows around the lump in his throat. “I know you didn't ask for this, Harry, but you’ve done so well. I'm so proud of you. I just – I wish it could be different for you. I wish you could be happy.”
no subject
Date: 2017-10-29 09:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-10-29 10:15 pm (UTC)also, louis' "No offense to your boyfriend, mate, but the bloke used to be a tree," made me laugh out loud, so thank you.
no subject
Date: 2017-10-29 11:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-10-29 11:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-10-30 04:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-10-30 06:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-10-30 11:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-10-31 10:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-11-10 07:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-03 10:27 pm (UTC)