Aerial

The Fifteenth Chapter

"That's it? You gotta eat, babe. Wanna go to the diner? We have a buncha time. I'll buy you waffles." Your cheeks puff out at the thought of swallowing something so heavy and sugary and he wants to laugh at your adorable chipmunk face, but he decides to answer your question instead, "'kay. I scarfed like, half a bag of granola and a couple glasses of Carnation Instant Break-"

"Okay, I can't hear this right now. I'm sorry. I think I'm going to yak."

Harry grins and flops down in the small vanity chair beside you, his knee brushing yours and his proximity an instant swell of soothing sensibility, "d'ya need me to split so you can get your shit together?"

You shake your head and watch him tilt his head to light his cigarette, the familiar ambrosial scent working to further ease your nerves, "no. Stay." It feels like his heart physically grows in size at your request followed by the coy nibble on your bottom lip, "I had all these nightmares about you losing your grip or forgetting everything as soon as you'd learned it or realizing you could find a million better partners than me and then firing me in front of an entire audience." You decide to leave out the part about him regaining his memory and reverting back to all of his old habits, making your current situation nothing but a brittle leaf in the wind.

"Man, quit talkin' all that static. We're gonna be fine. Better than fine. I got you." He rests his elbow on his thigh and reaches a hopeful hand out to you, "I can't fuckin' wait to get my hands on you."

It's unexpected to feel so much comfort from his company and candor, the source of all of your current frustration and turbulence simultaneously beaming a steady stream of light straight into your heart. Nettie's warnings dissolve into the mirror at your back as you reach through his cloud of pink sugar to curl your fingertips around his. Harry chokes on his smoke, his digits squeezing yours tightly in recognition of your advance as he hunches forward and presses your knuckles to his forehead first and then his lips, "so, can I jump your bones now?" His delighted smile rivals your unamused frown, "cop a quick feel then?"

He laughs when you playfully smack the back of his head and move away from him all at once, rifling through your bag of clothing to pull out your warm ups, "nope, turn around."

.

There never seems to be a perfect moment to break the news to Harry of your Achille's injury. Considering his betrayed reaction when you'd told him the first time, you're forecasting the same circumstance happening all over again, even though he seems to be taking information with a grain of salt these days. It hurts to even imagine purposely disturbing his genial mood for a whiplashing trigger. You're hoping the opportunity will present itself naturally so that you're not forced into the awkward position of sitting him down and staring into his faithful eyes while you brace yourself for the heat of his biting anger.

Harry asks a ton of questions during your long, slow warm up. Whether or not this was your typical procedure before his accident, if he could put music on and dance with you a bit instead of boring himself to sleep on the ballet barre, if you could hold his ankles while he does his round of sit ups, if he could lay you down and help you stretch out your hips, how much longer you have until it's time to take your sunny break outside, how much longer you have until it's time to practice on the fly bar together.

Due to his surfing, skating and general restlessness, he's maintained a nearly perfectly fit physique while on sabbatical from the circus. You project that he will probably be ready for the giants in just a few days' time, so long as his brain can withstand retaining information and routines, but so far that hasn't proven to be an issue either. He swears up and down that he's already got your performance choreography locked by how much time he's spent watching you practice, that he lives and breathes his role in the circus, that his muscle memory is impeccably strong enough to withstand even a life-threatening head injury and that he's a natural born athlete.