C H A P T E R     F I V E

Runs and Rain

(3 months til' Christmas)

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                  IT TOOK HARRY three days to figure that he had been taken to London. He'd heard of this city before; he's pretty sure this was where his father was from. Or at least around here.

                  In the month following his arrival, there was obviously a lot he'd had to get used to. First of all, there was no snow. At all. Anywhere. And he supposed this was something he'd been aware of beforehand, but he never realized just how...bare everything was without a sparkling white blanket covering it. He spent at least two weeks in the first library he managed to come across, flipping through pages and pages of photography books. It sort of helped. By the third week he was no longer thrown so aggressively off-guard whenever he left his hotel room in the morning.

                  Ed had somehow managed to get ahold of a Hit-Maker Elf currently in London, and shortly after Harry got off the train he was greeted by him, an elf named Grady. Grady was a God-sent, honestly. Harry realized now that he would have been homeless and stuck on the streets had it not been for him.

                  Harry was sure it had a lot to do with his mother's status back at the North Pole, but regardless, he'd take the special treatment. Despite the fact that he'd quit being an elf, they were still going to look after him. Grady hooked him up with a suite in the hotel that the London Hit-Maker Elves resided in while they were there, gave him two of his old outfits, and helped him get a job as a waiter at the hotel restaurant. It was all just to allow Harry to get on his feet, of course. Eventually he'd have to move on, take care of himself. He knew this, but he accepted the aid until he could manage it.

                  He didn't see Grady much after that, which wasn't surprising. Hit-Maker Elves have jobs to do; they're in places like London for a reason. Grady specialized in the same thing that Ed planned to, so he was always out and about, sneaking holiday music into the playlists that play over loud-speakers in public places and hanging up flyers of Santa's face all over the place. Harry wondered if Grady knew the Elder Elves had canceled Christmas. He figured he wouldn't tell him. Perhaps if Grady never knew, he'd never stop trying to spread holiday cheer.

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                  WITH HIS FIRST paycheck, Harry went to get himself a jacket. He had one from home technically, but it wasn't very practical. It took a lot for Harry to feel cold, so this jacket was a looser material, thin and pretty worn out. He's had this jacket for years, has always had a hard time getting rid of it; he wasn't sure why.

                  The mild London temperatures this month left Harry wishing he could walk around without a jacket at all, but he'd stand out then. He already knew about this from his training. The less he stood out amongst the humans, the more successful he'd be as a Hit-Maker Elf. But you aren't a Hit-Maker Elf, he reminded himself, pulling open the glass door to a department store one of his coworkers had recommended upon seeing his sorry excuse for a fall jacket every morning. You're a human now.

                  It turned out that humans were weak, and Harry would have to learn to suffer through the fall season nearly roasting beneath his new, expensive outerwear. An entire paycheck, gone. How do humans live like this?

                  When he left the department store, the weather was not like it had been earlier. The air was heavy and damp, the sky an ominous gray. Harry paused on the sidewalk just outside the glass doors, squinting up at the darkened clouds and trying to figure out what they meant. He knew there were more forms of precipitation than just snow, and he remembered learning about certain indicators to help figure out what kind of weather was headed his way. But he either didn't pay enough attention during training that day or there had too much to remember, because for the life of him he couldn't remember what gray clouds and thick air meant.

                  Despite his lack of memory, he had a feeling this wasn't a good type of weather. He wasn't sure if it was a human instinct or not, but he felt he should probably get back to his hotel as quickly as possible. The only time the sky even slightly resembled this back at home, a mighty blizzard was coming their way. While Harry was pretty positive it wasn't a blizzard, he didn't want to take any chances.

                  With his new jacket tucked away in a plastic bag at his side and his old one on his back, Harry headed back the way he came with a skip in his step and a quickened pace. He couldn't keep his eyes away from the sky; they flickered upwards every couple seconds, alert and wide. God, this place was weird, he thought. I should have paid more attention during training.

                  Harry had been a good elf-in-training, all things considered. He always did his homework, always participated in group discussions, and he was always very enthusiastic about learning more about the humans. He always figured that the sooner he finished his training, the sooner he'd be promoted, and he wanted nothing more than to share his poems with the rest of the world. His family and Ed could only give him so much praise back home; he wanted more people to read them, to feel the things he feels all the time and to love Christmas as much as he does.

                  There really was nothing Harry loved more than Christmas. And he didn't love it because he was half elf and he had to; he loved it because it was the one time of the year that (most) humans put aside their differences and opt to be kind to one another. People tell the truth during Christmas, and they admit feelings they suppress and lie about throughout the rest of the year. People put other peoples' happiness above their own during Christmas, and people are so kind during Christmas. Harry loves all of that. He wished it happened all year round, but if he only got it once a year, then he'd make the most of it. And he'd help everyone else make the most of it, too.

                  That was why he wanted to be a Hit-Maker Elf. Their entire job was to spread holiday cheer amongst the humans, and no one had more holiday cheer than Harry.

                  As he turned onto another street, a low rumbling sounded somewhere in the distance. Thunder, his brain supplied for him. That was thunder. What did thunder mean, again? Why couldn't he remember?

                  He quickened his pace even more, clutching his jacket bag tighter as he felt himself grow more anxious though he didn't know why. There was still another fifteen minutes of walking ahead of him before he'd make it back to his hotel, but maybe if he jogged every once in a while he could cut that time down to ten minutes...

                  This time when he glanced up at the sky, he saw something that stopped him dead in his tracks. He remembered learning about it. That's why he remembered thunder, because it's usually paired with this, and this had been the one thing during that lesson that had fascinated him enough.

                  Lightning.

                  It was so beautiful, whatever it was. A streak of white light, maybe even a luminous light purple, flickering across the sky for just a second. Harry was lucky he'd even seen it. It was jagged and angry looking, like a festering wound. Smaller veins came from it, dancing in all kinds of directions until they disappeared as well; it had lit up an entire section of the sky for that split second.

                  "Come back," Harry whispered, pleading with the universe. He just wanted to see it one more time.

                  He couldn't help himself. He waited right there in the middle of the sidewalk for a couple more minutes, but the lightning didn't return. Thunder cracked the thick stillness several times, but it appeared that the lightning wouldn't be returning for a while, so he began to walk again, remembering that he was pretty sure nothing good actually came from thunder and lightning.

                   And he was right. About a minute later, he felt the first few drops of liquefied snow...rain. It was raining.

                  "Uh, oh," he mumbled, pulling off his jacket quickly and lifting it over his head. He began to run, praying the downfall wouldn't pick up speed until he was safely under the roof of his hotel.

                   But he had no such luck. The rain fell harder and harder, the breeze that had suddenly appeared making it almost impossible for Harry to continue holding his old jacket over his head like an umbrella. On top of that, he was still carrying his new jacket in a plastic bag, and he was trying to twist the top shut so that the thing that cost him all his money wouldn't get wet and ruined.

                  This wasn't working. He was getting soaked, he was getting tired, and he'd just stepped in a puddle that hadn't been there earlier and now he could feel water seeping into his sock. How did humans live like this? How many times had he asked himself that question? And why didn't they all try moving to the North Pole on a regular basis to avoid things like this? He just didn't understand.

                  And he wasn't going to make it back to his hotel without getting sick first. That was almost certain. He began to look around at the shops to his right, figuring he was better off taking cover than he was attempting to make it home. At last, there was a little coffee shop or bakery or something. It didn't matter what it was – there were tables and it wasn't raining inside.

                  He ducked into the tiny place, grateful to stop running. He didn't want to drip water everywhere, so he carefully lowered his jacket from above his head, trying to keep the little pool he'd caused on the floor to one small area. When he finally looked around, he realized he had entered a cute little diner. There weren't many people inside that he could see, and definitely no one else who was at dripping wet as he was. He tried not to feel self-conscious as he approached the counter.

                  A small girl with big brown eyes and reddish-brown hair smiled up at him. "Hello, sir. Welcome to Gibson's. What can I get you?"

                  "Um...I'm not sure," Harry admitted, working to give her a friendly smile while pushing his dripping hair back and off his forehead. He was also trying to even his breaths, but that wasn't necessarily working so well. "Have you got hot cocoa?"

                  "We do. We have regular, caramel, white, cinnamon – "

                  "Peppermint?" he asked.

                   She stared at him for a moment and pursed her lips. "No – well, actually, I could probably do that. Peppermint hot cocoa for you, then?"

                  "If you'd be so kind, I'd love some."

                  The girl – Molly, according to her nametag – stared at Harry for a beat longer than was probably considered normal, but he figured it was probably because he'd been too polite. He didn't learn about human manners during training; his mother had taught him. It wasn't that humans weren't polite, but they generally weren't as polite as Harry had just been, at least not regularly. Oh well.

                  "Sure," Molly smiled again. "It'll be ready in a moment."

                  Harry handed over what little pocket change remained from his paycheck and stepped off to the side to wait. He saw his reflection in the display case for a tray of muffins and fixed the wet mop atop his head. As he did so, a little bell jingled behind him. He hadn't remembered it going off when he entered, but he'd been very focused on getting under a roof.

                    "God, the weather's shit, in'it?" asked a slightly high-pitched voice with a very thick accent, a little different than the others Harry's heard so far. "Hi, Molly. How are you on this fine Friday afternoon?"

                   "If you're asking whether I aced that paper or not, it's good news," she responded, her face lighting up an entirely different way than it had for Harry.

                  He could tell why immediately. If their friendly greetings were anything to go by, Molly and this new customer were already very familiar with each other. Harry snuck a peek at the man who'd approached the counter.

                  From his view of the stranger's profile, Harry watched the corners of his eyes crinkle with a smile. "I knew it would be," he said.

                  "You're a genius," Molly told him, shaking her head like she couldn't believe it. "The usual?"

                  "Don't have to tell me twice. And that'd be great, thanks."

                  He was small, this stranger. Smaller than Harry, a bit taller than Molly. His hair was damp, but Harry could tell he'd had it styled at some point today, and from this angle his cheekbones looked sharp enough to cut glass as far as Harry was concerned. And Harry was very concerned.

                  He couldn't help watching the man turn away from the counter to sit himself on a black sofa in the far corner of the diner. He couldn't help watching the man as he pulled a worn out notebook and a pen from his bag and set them on the little coffee table in front of him so that he could continue to dig through his bag for something else. And honestly, Harry would have continued to watch him had Molly not slid his hot cocoa over the counter to him.

                  "Here you are, sir. Refills are half-price if you buy a muffin. Let me know if you need anything else."

                  Harry hoped she couldn't tell he'd been staring at Cheekbones. "Thanks so much."

                  Originally, Harry didn't sit in the booth closest to the door because it had the best view of that sofa in the back corner (and subsequently whoever was on said sofa). No, he sat there – of course – because it was most conveniently located and it was right by a window. But he couldn't deny that he couldn't seem to focus on anything other than the stranger.

                   He was pretty. There were other words Harry could use to describe him probably, but they weren't coming to him right then. It was like seeing lightning for the first time all over again.

                   Harry especially liked the way Cheekbones walked. His strides were confident and even; there was no way this man ever stumbled over his own feet the way Harry occasionally did. And his expression always turned gentle and kind whenever he was interacting with Molly, like when he went to retrieve his finished drink, but when he was sat alone the smile disappeared and he looked...tired. But in a good way somehow. It was endearing.

                  Harry never took two hours to finish one cup of hot cocoa (especially hot cocoa that tasted this incredible), but he couldn't bring himself to leave first. The entire time, he sipped his beverage and watched the man scribble into that notebook. Sometimes he wrote very quickly, his hand flying across the page while his lips turned upwards at their corners. Other times he'd press the top of his pen against his chin or right cheek and stare at the page, a frustrated pout on his gently-angled face. Harry knew his own face was pretty angular, but this guy's was different. Better-defined cheekbones, rounder brows, squinty eyes. They were blue. Even from across the room, Harry could see that they were very blue.

                   After two hours and three more refills of his drink, the man finally stuffed the notebook back into his bag, sighing deeply to himself. He brought his mug up to Molly and chatted with her for a moment before leaving Harry wishing he would have asked for his name. It wouldn't be appropriate to ask Molly...right?

                  It didn't matter. Something else took over Harry then, replacing the part of his brain that had been occupied by his admiration and infatuation for Cheekbones Harry stood and borrowed a pen from the counter, returning to his booth with a determined prowl. As he pulled a napkin out of the dispenser in the center of the table, the tip of his tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth, and he pressed the pen to the napkin and began writing words his head was supplying for him. This usually happened when it came to writing poems, but he's never been hit with it so forcefully.

                  He didn't really have time to think about why. As he came to the end of the poem – which had taken up both the front and back of the napkin – he had to write the final two lines on his hand.

You're going to ruin me, but

It's okay