Starlit glitter dashes across the dark sky, accompanied by gray smoke and white noise from their fellow campers. Tents zipping. Quiet chatter. The smell of marijuana and damp moss. Fans howling like coyotes in the distance. Wild predators, there for the music that feeds their souls like small critters.

"ROLLING STONES! ROLLING STONES!" A group chants, their voices echoing in the empty sky.

"THE ORPHANS! THE ORPHANS!" A smaller group rebuts.

Word has gotten out about the fight and allegiances had quickly formed. Under the thin fabric of the communal canopy, Goldie tends to Matt's wounds with a frozen bag of peas from the bus and rubbing alcohol.

"You should see the other guy." Matt jokes, embarrassed by the various cuts on his face.

"I did. You guys did good," Goldie says. Harry clears his throat loudly, not-so-subtly pointing to his minor injuries, signaling for her to help him next. "Take this." She hands Matt the bag of vegetables. "It'll help the swelling."

Matt nods and goes into his tent. All The Orphans sleep soundly. Wendy tended to the trauma of her Lost Boys, save their leader.

She walks to Harry, as though she's walking across a tightrope. The journey towards him is small, yet significant. She has tunnel vision, focused on the bruises littering his beautiful face and body. A flash of fantasies pass her eyes. Kissing each dark blue patch. Running her fingers across the lines of the damaged wings of his butterfly tattoo, up to the splattered wings of the swallows at his clavicle, the wings extended by black blood leaking just beneath the surface of his clear, unblemished skin.

Harry looks directly at her, like a dog with his tail between his legs. Awaiting her truthful commentary. Awaiting her opinion of him.

"Are you disappointed in me?" Harry asks. His voice wavers as he asks the question. He sits atop a wooden picnic table, legs spread and elbows resting on his knees.

"Now why would I be disappointed in you?" She maneuvers her way between his long legs.

He presses his bony limbs against her sides, not wanting to let her go. He brings her in closer to him. She presses a cold rag against his injured face. He closes his eyes. Grabbing her wrist, he takes the hand towel from her hand, places it on top of the splintered table, and presses her bare hand against his cheek and takes in the scent of her pulse point.

"I'm sorry," Harry whispers.

"Stop," she whispers back, kissing his wounded hairline. "You were just defending all of us."

"But at what cost, Golds. I should have thought about it. I should have stopped myself. I heard what he said about you. About the guys. He made them sound like they were servants. Like you're disposable. I couldn't stop myself." A small droplet of salty moisture drops from his eye and works its way through the love and life lines of the palm of her hand.

Goldie wipes away the tiny tears balling up at the precipice of his eyelids. "Can I be honest, Harry?"

"Mmmhmm." He nods, closing his eyes and kissing the blue veins under the porcelain skin of her wrist.

"I'm proud of you." She smiles wide, running her thin fingers through his brown locks.

"You are?"

"You were defending me. Most importantly, all of us. You're our white knight, Harry." She takes a bandaid from her pocket, removes each piece of white plastic from the adhesive, and sticks it to a wide cut on the underside of his chin. "Our very own David to their Goliath."

He rests his forehead on her collarbone, small sobs escaping his lungs. He collects his thoughts and looks up to her light blue irises, deep like the ocean she left back home. "It doesn't feel like that right now. Feels like I fucked it up for everyone. You think we'll get kicked out of here?"

"Grimmy's gonna figure it out for us. Try not to worry." Her index and middle fingers cradle the hard angle of his chiseled jaw.

"Hard not worry about it." He links his arms around her waist, wrapping them around tight against her lower back. She mimics his gesture, bringing her biceps and forearms flush against his hot, nervous skin. "Can we go to bed?"

She nods, grabbing his hand, and leads him to their tent. Moonlight peaks through the open netting of the small skylight, streaks of the open sky laying sleeplessly on the cheap material of their bedding. Goldie lays back on the flannel of the inside of her sleeping bag, her thin tank top creeping up and exposing the shadows of her hip bones and dainty navel.

"How do you do that?" Harry asks, laying next to her. He props his head up on his hand, tickling at the top of her denim bell bottoms. His fingers innocently play with the top button, maintaining eye contact with her. He stares into her spirit. An innocent soul, welcoming love and awakening.

"Do what?" she asks.

"This. You're you. I can feel lost. Wandering. And there you are. My North Star. Guiding me." Harry takes a deep breath and leans back, looking through the small open space at the top of the tent. "I wait for you to rise. I wait for you to set. I look forward to seeing the light of the sun on your face and dream of the moonlight on your skin."

Goosebumps trickle up her arms, up to her head and down her torso and legs. She can't help but tear up. It's as though she's living out a dream. Anxiety. Happiness. They're an eclipse. In this moment, it doesn't matter who is who. A crescendo builds in each of their heads. The sensation of his fingers against her stomach and the feeling of her skin against his throws them into overdrive.

Camping in an area where the other bands are sleeping, they suddenly hear Goldie's idol play. Life on Mars spills out of an acoustic guitar as David Bowie's voice lays the soundtrack of this moment. Her skin twitches under Harry's fingertips.

"It's a God-awful small affair," she recites the lyrics, twisting her fingers through the bottom of Harry's curls.

"To the girl with the mousy hair." Harry giggles, pushing Goldie's hair behind her ear. He leans down. "What are you doing to me?" His voice turns stern, in the sweetest way possible. "I don't even know your real name."

"Does it matter?" Her heart skips a beat. He's figured her out. He's played the game of Scrabble and had the line of nonsensical letters in front of him. He knows what's laid out, and it doesn't make complete sense.

"Of course it does," he comments, kissing her deeply. His bottom lip engulfs hers. He pulls away for a moment. "I need to know everything about you."

"If you guess it, I'll tell you." She unbuttons her pants, and slowly slides the blue fabric down her legs. "I haven't told anybody."

"Wait," Harry comments. "Can I do this for you? Please?"

"Absolutely," Goldie responds.

Harry grabs either side of her pants and pulls them down. "Your name must be absolutely beautiful." He kisses the bare skin of her inner thighs.

"Harry?" she says.

"Yes?" Harry stops, looking up at the angel in his midst.

"I haven't... you know..." Her eyes dart down to her bottom half and back up to his eyes. A series of emotions flow through his veins. A banjo gently strums in the back of his head. A piano plays in his ear drums, letting him know he's responsible for the emotions of a sweet, adorable human. "Can you be my first?"

"Are you sure?" Harry hovers above her, waiting for her consent.

"I've never wanted anything more," she says. The sound of David Bowie's voice rings in the distance. It's the music she prayed for with the inspiration she never saw coming. Cuddling deep in her sleeping bag, she wraps her legs around his body.

He pulls her pants down slowly, the fabric scraping down her legs. Trails of red marks draw down her skin. Piano rings, infiltrating their eardrums, until Harry slowly slips his way into her. She wants to admit her name. Her existence. Her livelihood.

"Harry?" she moans.

"Goldie. I need to know you." He aches inside of her. He hurts. He bows his head down beside her, awaiting the answers to the questions he's been asking his entire life without knowing where his curiosity was taking him. His member grows in front of him. Inside of her.

"Harry?" Goldie moans. "Harry..." she whispers his name. Her heated breath billows out into the air.

"Thank you," Harry mutters, close to her ear. He yearns for her acceptance. For her adoration. For her appreciation. He rocks in and out of her. She's the missing piece filling the jumbled mess of his brain. The harmony to his melody. "Is this okay?"

"Yes," Goldie says. The feeling of his skin against her insides brings her to the brink. She's heard girls at school talk about their first times. The drama. The lack of romance. This wouldn't be her experience. "Can you kiss me again, Harry?"

Harry leans in. His teeth sink into her earlobe. His lips engulf her flesh. His body absorbs every bit of her being. He'd lay in her existence. He'd live in the light of her eyes and rest in her shadow. He'd sleep in the soft tune of her heartstrings, awaiting his maker to take him to his fate.

"Goldie," he softly moans.

"Harry," she whispers.

"You... you'll be the death of me." Harry adjusts himself deep into her. He grabs her leg, behind the knee, and brings it high up to his face. Black ink jots down on his pure skin. Marking its territory. Laying the tracks for her to kiss.

She throws her head back in ecstasy. She's heard legends of how it's supposed to hurt. How there's supposed to be pieces of regret. How you're supposed to be disappointed by the end product. This isn't her experience.

"How did you get so beautiful?" Harry kisses her cheek, the skin of which is sucked gently between his upper and bottom lips as he thrusts inside of her.

"Harry..." she moans.

"I'm here, darling," he moans back. "Here for you always."