Twenty Nine [The Tide]

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Day 3,758

The rhythmic spinning is completely mesmerizing; an exquisitely centered hunk of brick-colored clay that more resembled a small, craggy mountain top has slowly transformed into a flawless ellipsoidal deep bowl before your eyes. Both the harmonic whirring sound of the pottery wheel and the dizzying rotation have you hypnotized, your dehydrated eyes blinking every time Harry's chest presses into your back when he leans forward to dip his fingertips into a murky bowl of water and draw your attention back to your lesson.

In a typical shift on the chaotic weather of early spring in your city, spry beams of light from the sun's rays filter in through the stately raindrop-spattered windows to project soft splotches of fluorescence on the oriental rugs and hardwood floors. You imagine that if you were to traipse barefoot over the smooth wood and polished carpet, the soles of your feet would warm with each footstep upon the heated patches. Pru in particular would be in absolute heaven; sprawled out in a perfectly carved square of sun, her ebony fur baking in the lemony luster as her tiny belly rose and fell with each gentle sleeping breath.

Harry reaches around your hip for an oddly-shaped natural sponge, his nimble and soaked fingers wrapping around the small object to make it appear even more shrunken as he holds it inside of the bowl to soak up extra moisture that's accumulated in the bottom of the vessel. His flushed, bare stomach and contrasting vested thighs have you wrapped in a heated cocoon as you sit perched on a stool in front of him, his legs spread wide to accommodate your body harbored inside of his. He rests his chin on your shoulder and uses your revealing thighs  where your dress has slipped upward to anchor his forearms as he slowly and patiently explains each step of how to use a pottery wheel. However, his unintentional erotic language coalesced with the entrancing work of his impeccably sculpted hands and fingers is more distracting than it is teachable.

You can feel his warm chest vibrating against your spine as his rhythmic, calming voice ascends up his throat, "while it's spinning slowly, ease off the pressure on the pedal when you get towards the rim..." His hands follow what you presume are his verbal directions, his unclad foot tensing as it pulls upward and his fingers switching their position to smooth the top and the outside of the bowl, "press the rim... go in for another pull, sweeping your fingertips across the inside."

Harry had woken you up early this morning. Much, much too early; the moon had made its orbit across the sky and tucked itself beyond the horizon, but the sun was still asleep as you wished you could have been. The bed dipped just before he whipped the covers up and over your heads, pawing at your hips and arms to flop you onto your back and then once again onto your side to face him, his face nuzzling into your neck and his legs locking with yours when he whined for you to come to him. It's hard to ignore his desperate and vulnerable little pleas when they happen, he doesn't always allow himself to be coddled or reach out much after he's had a premonition but this time was different. Horrific at first, then promising. Special. Progressive.

He has been religiously scrawling a cluster of four small stars on the palm of his hand each night before falling asleep in an attempt to practice lucid dreaming. He's had exactly two premonitions since you did extensive research on the topic together, but has had zero luck in tapping into that deep subconscious part of himself to be apprised of his waking self. He chalked his inability to comprehend a premonition as it's occurring due to his intense fear and anxiety around the subject, often waking in a combination of both frustration and upset as he throws the sheets away from his sticky torso and locks himself in the bathroom to be sick and maybe shed a tear or two in the privacy of his favorite sanctuary, the shower. 

This morning had his future pointing in a different direction though and at first he awoke in a full blown panic attack, his heart positively pounding out of his chest and his sheets soaked in sweat as he sat up and choked on his own saliva and salty tears. He could feel the forsaken pallor of his skin creeping back in from months ago, his trembling hands lifting to rake his hair from his face as he stumbled from bed with his feet caught in the layers of bedding. You groaned out some sleep-addled inquiry about his well being which he brushed off with a convincing lie, quietly clicking his bathroom door closed as he slapped a clammy palm over his mouth to stifle a sob and pressed his back against the door before slipping to the cold ground.

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