Februarybelle - See You, Space Cowboy

H O P E

can’t sleep. need money. miss harry styles.

the eise eisinga planetarium in franeker, the netherlands, the oldest working planetarium in the world. located inside the former home of eise eisinga

is diplomats son the greatest song ever written. no. but also like it might be……

me: *sees new pics/vids of harry*

me:

“Who is the most likely to be a rapper?” - x

Harry mocking fans - 28/09

“I am troubled and harsh and hopeless. Though I have love inside me. But I don’t know how to use love. Sometimes it scratches like barbs.”

— Clarice Lispector, tr. by Elizabeth Lowe, Água Viva (The Stream of Life)

favorite THROAM scenes in no particular order → a kingdom by the sea (book ii, chapter 6)

Mike returns after a few minutes, and I hold my breath for some news. But – Mike doesn’t look reassured. He looks paler coming out than going in. He eyes us, clearly feeling uncomfortable, and worry tightens in my guts again. “Bren’s fine,” he rushes out because clearly that look of concern on his face is visible to us all. “He’s fine, uh. He’s pretty out of it from the fever, it’s hard to make sense of what he says. He, uh. Does, however…” He looks at Dallon. Then he looks at me, and I don’t know why. Then he hangs his head and sighs. “Bren’s asking for you.” He looks towards the door like he wants to avoid eye contact with everyone. “Bren’s asking for Ryan.” I stare. Can’t process the words. And then I do. […] In the next second, I’m already in the bedroom. A lamp on the bedside table is on, being the only source of light in the dark. The curtains have been drawn, Brendon’s suitcase is in the corner, and he, god, he’s under the covers. And then I’m there, sitting on the edge of the bed, taking him in fervently – which is ironic, considering. His eyes are closed, but he’s not asleep. His breaths are shallow and irregular, his chapped lips parted. He was pale before, but now he’s flushed and sweaty. His cheeks are red, but it’s not a healthy shade, it distinctively looks like he’s burning up. It’s hard to tell if the wet hair stuck to his forehead is the result of the show or the fever. The worry remains even at his side, feeling unbearable, and my hands hover, not daring to touch. He’s been stripped of his stage clothes that I spot in a messy pile on a chair. He’s left in a grey undershirt that he uses as a pyjama top on the bus, and a bare ankle sticks out from under the duvet, his white jeans also having been removed. I pull the covers over his foot so that he doesn’t get cold. This stirs him slightly, and I whisper, “Hey.” His eyes flutter open. My stomach drops. He looks at me for a few seconds before recognition seems to kick in. “Hey,” he breathes out, sounding relieved. He breaks into a smile, and I almost laugh from how relieved I feel, how desperate. God, hey. Fuck. His eyes close again. Tired. His hand reaches out, and I clutch it instantly, feel the way his skin emits heat. I bring our hands to my mouth, kiss his knuckles softly. Close my eyes. Breathe. Feel him alive. Feel the way his hand grips mine – weakly, but it still does. Reassure myself. He’ll be okay. “You’re so fucking stubborn,” I tell him, and he laughs weakly like he’s amused. I join him even though my laugh is slightly pained. “God, what am I gonna do with you?”