Once in a Lifetime ➳ Larry

chapter three

Chapter Three

Harry awakes to the sound of birds chirping. A crow squawks outdoors, perched high in a tree, its sharp, black beak releasing an ear-splitting caw. It continues for a minute or so, just screeching towards the cabin's half-open window. Harry grumbles in annoyance and covers his ears with his hands. He's exhausted. Eventually, the crow ruffles its feathers and flies away.

Now that Harry's awake and conscious, he starts to feel the pain in his jaw again. It's sharp, like syringes shooting in gum line. When he swipes his tongue over the roof of his mouth, he feels sharp, long canines. The taste of his own blood lingers on his lips.

Everything aches, from his head to his toes. His chest hurts, too, like a fire blazing in his lungs. Each breath feels constricted, like there's not enough air. He wheezes quietly.

He tries to open his eyes, but it burns. He winces and shuts them again. He pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to focus on breathing. Inhale, exhale, repeat.

He hears someone enter the living room.  "Ros— I mean, Harry.  Are you awake?"

Louis shuffles closer to the couch. Harry tries to look, blinking rapidly, but he can't. It stings.

"Don't open your eyes," Louis instructs. He sits at the edge of the sofa. The cushions compress under his weight. "Your eyes are adjusting to the change of color. I reckon it hurts like hell."

Harry nods and rubs them with his knuckles. "Fucking miserable."

"I'll get you some eye drops," Louis says, giving Harry's hand a reassuring squeeze. "Be right back."

He listens to Louis's steady footsteps as he leaves the room. Harry shifts on the lumpy couch. He squints his eyes through the blurriness. A knitted quilt drapes over his lap, made of scratchy wool that tickles his skin. When he looks out the window, he sees a burst of sunlight that illuminates the entire cottage.

Harry sits patiently and glances around. Dozens of books fill the shelf in the corner with their colorful spines facing outwards. An antique globe sits on top. Against the wall, he sees a table with scattered papers and, oddly enough, an old typewriter. Louis seems like an educated man, Harry thinks. Then again, he's had 226 years to learn.

A few seconds later, Louis returns. "Told you not to open your eyes," he tsks, but there's a hint of teasing in his voice. Harry glances at the small bottle in his hand.

"You think that'll help?"

"I know it will," Louis sighs. He places his index finger under Harry's chin. His touch feels icy. "Tilt, please."

Harry throws his head back. Louis thumbs at Harry's eyelid, urging it open. He squeezes the bottle, and a few drops drizzle out, splashing against his lashes and leaking into his eye.

"Ouch," Harry seethes, flinching a little.

"Don't move," Louis says sternly. He stops, reluctantly. "It'll help, okay? Trust me."

Harry frowns. "It hurts, though."

"Only temporarily," Louis assures. He moves on to the other one. He compresses the bottle and it dribbles, the clear liquid cascading into Harry's bloodshot eyes.

"Fuck," Harry swears, blinking away his tears.

" 's okay," Louis promises. "Sometimes when I haven't eaten in a long time, my eyes turn really silver, almost metallic. I use the drops to help ease the pain."