these bountiful silences

xx. metamorphosis

"I'll use you as a focal point, so I don't lose sight of what I want."

xx. metamorphosis

Harry blinks away the water from his eyes, tilting his head back and letting the beads pulsate against the crown of his head. There's a steady pressure all around him, pounding on his shoulder blades and lower back deliciously. It's like a thousand tiny hands are massaging gently at his taut muscles, slowly relinquishing the stress that's been building there for months now. He glances upward, right into where there's a panel of light illuminating the small shower. Thousands of tiny particles are flitting towards the singular ray, and Harry's mind flits off to think that perhaps those particles are small, intermolecular beings of the ones that had fallen in the latest Unconformist attack.

He knows that that can't possibly it. That there is nothing that happens to someone after they die. But his mind just can't accept that, he refuses to think that once their physical selves are dragged away from livelihood they cease to exist. And it's not right that so many people died because of the Unconfromists. It isn't fair for their stories to be cut short all in the name of war. So many mothers, fathers, children, and Superiors have been killed mercilessly, and Harry just can't let that go.

He gives his hair a final rinse, gliding his fingers through the wet waves to untangle certain bits before shutting the shower off and leaving it altogether. He wraps a towel around his waist and turns around. Pressing his hand to the massive touch panel and initiating the flame sequence that burns all of his dead skin cells that came off in the shower. Dusty is waiting outside of the washroom door, and he leans down to give her a fond pat before continuing towards the living area.

The telly is on, thrumming about all of the ones lost in the latest attack. It's odd, Harry thinks, how much more affected all of the announcers and higher ups seem about this than they were about Pod R. It's like they're more devastated about this loss, like they weren't as prepared for it. That confuses Harry, too. Because the value of one persons life shouldn't be any more important than the other. The only way that he can rationalize why everyone seems more shaken up about last week's attack is because it was on Pod that borders their own.

"Finally. I thought I was going to have to drag you out of that shower by the curls." A voice says and Harry jumps.

He slowly rounds the corner to his living area. He can make out a mess of brown hair on his couch and his mind immediately predicts Louis. But the man turns to reveal an ever-smiling Niall Horan beaming dead on at him.

"How'd you get in my flat?" Harry asks breathlessly.

"I'm Niall Horan. I can do anything." Niall stands up and brushes his hands on his trousers. "Are you aware that your towel has fallen off?"

Harry glances down and immediately blushes, hand scrabbling to cover himself while he bends down to retrieve his towel. He tightens the knot against his waist and stares at Niall. He has minuscule bags under his eyes, and his smile is twitching subtly at the sides. Those are the only indications that the past few days have taken any sort of toll on him. He taps his fingers against his wrist, fiddling with his watch before reaching into his pocket to introduce an all-too-familiar silver container.

"One moment please," Niall tells Harry, pressing an injector into his own neck and inhaling deeply. "Just a few more of these injections and I should be completely cured." It takes Harry a while to remember that Niall was in remission for cancer, but when he does, he nods. "Anyways, your endowment and my health issues aside, I need you to go put on your Superior kit."

"But today's my day off," Harry says.

"I need you to go put on your Superior kit." Niall repeats, widening his eyes empathetically.