Inspired by the Coldplay song, Magic.

Magic
Call it Magic. Call it True.

The moment when a rush of adrenaline courses through the brain, blood gets shuttled through the veins faster and faster and the heart works harder than before. It's the stress response. Norepinephrine takes a hold of your brain and feeds in the most famous, unworded question: should you run or should you stay? All thoughts and desires are consumed by the chemicals in the brain. Those chemicals? They take up the power within.

An innocent scan of the room and suddenly he find it, the person of his frustrating desire sitting in the back of the hall, a head of gold ducked down while a hand skimmed over the paper, clutching a pencil with careful precision. There's a flutter in his chest – an uncalled-for skip of a beat – and words halt in his throat. His tongue grows dry, and once perfect senses suddenly drop in ability.

Then floods the Dopamine. Bell rings, students file out the door. Someone stands too quickly from the table and knocks the books out of another's hands. They fly to the ground. The victim quickly pushes to the side and begins to pick up her scattered worksheets and textbooks, and no one bothers to stop and help. The most response gotten was a rushed 'you okay?' before the speaker whisks away with the rest of the flow.

Adjusting his glasses, the accidental attacker stands awkwardly by, backpack on the table, materials halfway in the transition of being stored into the open mouth. He feels a rush of energy and the urge to speak, unlike his normal, studious, serious demeaner. He can't just brush this off like any other encounter with anyone else. – Why? Why? – A muttered 'sorry' comes from his lips; he sounds out of practice, having used a word that hardly appeared in his daily vocabulary.

But the blonde smiles – it's a marvellous smile – and something shifts within the onlooker. Something of a smile in return twitches the corners of his mouth up. A hand lifts to his head and pushes his hair back to front – a nervous tick brought back by an influx of nervous energy.

Brought about by an influx of Dopamine.

Long after the encounter, serotonin keeps the moment alive. He sits with his back to the wall, an arm resting along the edge of the desk, but his mind can't focus. His eyes dart away every second after he forces his gaze to work, to necessity, to his future. But the future doesn't captivate him like is has before. He hasn't felt this feeling before, he doesn't know how it works or how to work with it.

It takes all Harry's energy to complete his work that night. Little regrets of things he should have said or how he should have acted, the moment now so many centuries ago, circled his mind. He should have gotten up more slowly. Or maybe, he shouldn't have gotten up at all. He could have waited until everyone passed...

He wouldn't make a fool of himself, that's for sure.

Harry was not usually consumed by these such thoughts. Never the self-conscious one, always the sure-fire, confident one.

It's a natural feeling, so they tell him, doesn't mean he has to like it.

Picnic tables line the shaded pathway connecting the dorms to the science buildings. Harrison Wells sits at one, Tess Morgan studies at the other. Final exams are creeping around the corner with the following month, and books are starting to make more and more of an appearance during the typically free periods of the day. Before him is a book opened to complex figures and formulas, large paragraphs of long-winded explanations. Spiral-bound notebooks scatter across the wood surface. A pencil nearly rolls off the edge of the table, all thanks to the wind, but his fast reflexes snag it before it can fall. Normally, his attention would snap back to his work as if nothing interrupted it in the first place. Now, however, his gaze was up and faltered not, holding the same position.

Tina catches the lack of movement and looks up from her own studying. But Harry abruptly gazes to the words on the page, in hopes of dodging the conversation no doubt in the queue of things to do. Urges and prompts tumble from his friend's mouth – she might as well have been prodding him with a sharp pen, with the sheer velocity and precision of the words – until he lifts his chin to send her a glare.

The brief, triumphant gleam in her eyes says it all. It fades when she dives right into orders, wasting no time in which Harry could just duck his head down and resume his work.

Harry doesn't want to listen, but he does anyway. There is no time for additional distractions, like Tess. Exams take priority over brain chemistry. That's all feelings are (not that this is as simple as a feeling). It's indescribable, so Harry chalks it up to 'distraction' – in the future he imagined, distractions cannot be considered. His stomach feels like a thin mist and a gust of wind settled inside, creating convection currents and pockets of updraft. Talking to people; fine, he'd do that. Going up to Tess?

Unsure whether Tina finished, although uncaring of the answer, he darts his head back to the page to find his spot again and resume, but he can't. The place he left off was nowhere in the position he thought it was. The words somehow changed and yet all he did was look up.

Tina chuckles across from him, shaking her head.

"You don't remember, do you, that you turned the pages?" she says with a circular gesture of her pencil at his book.

"I–." He studies the page, searching for the familiar words with the intent of someone who does not want to be proved wrong, a frown etched into his features. The harmless frown morphs into a scowl, and he utters a dark, "No."

A little breath of air clearly tainted with amusement escapes Tina with an exasperated, "Just talk to her," in its wake. He shifts on the bench and reaches a hand for a leg of his glasses; his fingers always find an object to fiddle with when uncertainty strikes. He can't think of a way to refute this, not when caught in the act, but he also cannot bring himself to admit that she's right. She's right because he has to talk to her. He should talk to her...

Eventually, the constant prompts and pushes lead way to silence. The sudden drop in sound pushes him away from the table, and his steps take him to a place not far away at all from his study set-up. He spews a few unconnected words that did not relay his high intelligence whatsoever, but the effect is worthwhile. Words halt her arm from moving and brings her eyes around and over her shoulder. Some more phrases start tumbling out in pursuit of the first and he is sure he blew off any good chance with her, but to his surprise, she laughed.

The sound was golden. It traveled on the rays of slanting sunbeams, filtering through the leaves overhead. Nothing like it had been heard before. It sounded sweet as honey, with the same golden overtones and rich undertones. Conversation slowly eased on from there and – to the surprise of the two of them – things seemed to fit. Words and sentences overlapped in excitement and wonder. Something happened. Perhaps Tina's pushing paid off.

Feelings like these were fifth dimensional beings that protruded in their daily, three-dimensional lives. Feelings like these could not be chalked up to norepinephrine and cortisol, dopamine, and serotonin. For the first time, he contemplated how love could be just the product of mere chemistry. He couldn't understand the nerve signals jumping across synapses, triggering the chemicals, changing his mindset to produce this.

He is a scientist, and as a scientist, he knows there is nothing magical about the attraction one feels for someone else, but in the moment, with two sets of blue eyes locking... Well, he'd be damned if it is anything short of magic.

And Harrison Wells does not believe in magic.