invasato [h.s]

61

"Mm." he hums, opening the neck of a white t shirt so he can put his head through and then let it fall down his torso.

It's been a few days since the Leo and Marco incident. I spent the first day afterward being horrified at myself for what I did, even if I'm not sure if the two of them are dead or alive.

It's kind of assumed by everyone involved that they're dead. We had to let Vincent know what happened, luckily he wasn't mad. We were warned about the dangers of doing such things in public, but we were praised for protecting each other.

Harry climbs onto the bed with me, putting his head in my lap and hugging his arms around my thighs. His eyes shut as he inhales and exhales through his nose, long eyelashes fluttering with the small involuntary twitches of his eyelids. I start to run my fingers through his damp hair. I'm beginning to get used to the shortness of it—not having thick curls to comb through.

I can feel his thumb rubbing gently back and forth along my upper thigh, in a tiny gesture of returning a tender touch.

I swear, I could sit here for hours and touch every inch of his skin with careful and extensive study. The tan on his arms and face from the summer sun. The way his back curves.

"You smell good." I acknowledge.

He chuckles. "Thanks baby. You too."

I grin to myself as I watch him breathe, eyes shut.

"I'm gonna miss your smell when you're away." I say quietly. "And these cuddles." 

He inhales, then nods against my lap. "Me too." he says. "But I'll be back."

He leaves in two days. We've been spending these past few days being together as much as we can, appreciating quiet moments like these.

He's been off though. And as much as he tries not to show it, I can see it. He's been waking up early and getting out of bed, leaving for a bit to go smoke and then he'll come back. Or at night, he won't be able to fall asleep, tossing and turning or holding on to me in restlessness. I've asked him what's wrong, but he won't give me anything.

I think he's stressed.

And who can blame him? He's got a lot going on right now. I'm hoping that he'll pull himself back up, but if he can't, I need him to open up to me so I can help him.

"Baby," I mumble, looking at his quiet resting face in my lap.

"Yeah?" he responds groggily.

I take in air through my nose and blow it through my lips. "Do you remember that night when we got back to Angela's?" I start, "You said you had to tell me something but I didn't let you..."

I've been thinking about that since it happened. What if he was ready to completely open himself to me and how he's feeling, and what's got him down, and I completely shut him out?

He blinks his eyes open, his brows creasing. He then lifts his head so we can see eye to eye. His lips part open while he examines my expression.

"I'm sorry for not letting you talk to me. I should have—"

"Don't apologize." he immediately rejects.

I go quiet and he sighs, looking down as he traces the intricate knitting on my duvet.

"I..." he hesitates, "I have a lot on my mind. A lot of shit that I feel really guilty about."

"Why would you feel guilty?" I ask.

I can see he's fighting himself. He doesn't know how to say whatever he's about to say. His jaw is clenched, his eyes, even averted down, are sad and complicated.