It takes Harry six days to start feeling like himself again.
On day three he starts walking, slowly, building up his strength again without having to lean heavily on both Alouette and Anthony to be taken to the other room. The first time he gets to his feet on his own he blanches and she only barely manages to catch him a moment before he falls to the floor; he doesn't say a word about it, not during nor after, and it's no secret that he hates every moment of it. Knowing how much he hates feeling powerless, Alouette does his best not to overcrowd him, only offering her help when he seems to be willing to take it. The experience puts him on edge enough for him to spend the next few hours on the bed, and only towards the evening he dares to try his luck again.
Anthony starts to slowly ease him back into eating on day three as well, which gives Harry all sorts of mixed feelings and makes day three a moderately bad day.
By the time day six rolls around Harry can mostly walk on his own, albeit slowly, only needing to lean on Alouette's shoulder periodically. Because of it, Anthony finally clears him for washing up as well, even though he recommends his bandages stay dry.
Alouette locks herself in the bathroom with Harry—after checking that he's okay with being locked in a small windowless room, and he seems to be because he wouldn't be alone and they have a key. Still, she lets him keep the key in his hand as he slides out of his grey sweatpants, and then helps him take his shirt off. There's a bathtub in the bathroom, and she holds his hand—the one clenched around the key—as he steps inside. She doesn't let go of him until he's safely sitting on the ceramic bottom of it and the risk of him slipping and falling is nonexistent.
"Your meeting with Ezra is in eight days," she reminds him as she sits on the floor against the bathtub, taking the key from him and gently tapping it on the ceramic frame as he starts washing his body slowly. She doesn't ask if he needs help even though she's quite certain this whole process would be a lot less painful for him if he let her help him, because she doesn't want to stress him out even more.
He lets out a hum. "I'll need clothes," he replies.
"Hoodies don't work?" Alouette muses with a smile, putting her elbow on the bathtub and her chin on her hand.
Harry sends her a side-glance. "It's a power game," he explains. "He gave us two weeks on purpose. He knows it's the soonest I would agree to, it's enough time for me to get out of bed, but not enough for me to fully recover. He intends to make me look weak in front of everyone, and it's a risk I'm not willing to take." He gives her a dark smile, one that has just the smallest hint of exhaustion in it. "On the other hand, if I look how I usually do during that meeting, it'll incite the opposite reaction."
She narrows her eyes, trying to imagine what she'd think if she was in the situation Harry conjured up. If she didn't spend the entirety of last week looking after him and all she knew was that he was rushed between the walls of the Revolution at night, and then saw him for the first time seemingly unaffected and untouched, what would she think? "You're trying to make them think you're invincible," she says out loud.
"Yes," he only replies.
"But you aren't."
He pauses. "People's minds work in peculiar ways, my Lark," he says after a moment. "They're too eager to confuse the truth with what they believe to be the truth. It doesn't matter if I'm invincible or not as long as I can make them believe I am." He goes back to washing his legs. "If they believe I can't be killed, they'll feel fear and hopelessness when they think of me. The first allows me to control them, and the second keeps them from trying to kill me."
Alouette would love to open her mouth and tell him there's no foundation to his theory, but she knows it isn't true. She still remembers the way she felt about him at the Palace, that knowing he couldn't be taken down and that she was only signing her death warrant, that... hopelessness, indeed. It sends a shiver down her spine to know it was a sensation he consciously inspired in everyone around him, a preventive measure of control efficient enough to dissuade most people from going against him. Even though Harry has claimed he plays the role of director in the world, she can't deny he makes a wonderful actor.
"I'm not buying one of your ridiculously expensive suits," she says, "but I'll get something that looks the part." She puts down the key and takes the sponge from him. "I'll do your back." It isn't a question, because she knows his answer would undoubtedly be no. He wouldn't be able to wash his back on his own though, not so soon after getting hurt, and she has no intention of watching him struggle to obtain no results.
She kneels between the bathtub and sink and gently passes the sponge over his shoulders before sliding down, careful to keep the touch light over the fading bruise on his side he earned when he fell on the street. She puts down the sponge just as the key falls on the floor with a click, but neither of them moves to pick it up.
"Tilt your head back, I'll wash your hair," Alouette says, putting her hands on his shoulders. The water on his skin is cooling down, but he's warm. There's a different kind of intimacy in being in the bathroom together like this, helping him wash himself, something tinged in an odd sense of familiarity and comfortableness, and maybe it's just what she needs to heal her heart after it was brutally shattered a week ago.
"I can—"
"I'll wash your hair," she repeats, reaching past his neck and lifting his chin to make him lean back. She wets his hair under the shower head and then massages soap into his curls. She's suddenly aware that Harry is breathing a little faster, but she can't tell if it's because he's stressed or because he simply isn't used to it.
When she's done she washes the soap away, and it twirls into the drain in a swirl of white and leftover light pink. She waits until the water is clear and then helps him out of the bathtub and hands him a towel to wrap around his waist.
"Sit down for a moment," she instructs, and he sits on the edge of the bathtub, water drops glinting on his bare skin like a thousand crystals in the oddly white light of the bathroom. She pulls out a hairdryer and dries his hair at best, only enough to make sure water won't drip down his neck and it won't feel too wet for him. He doesn't say a word through the entire process, and she has a feeling it might be because it puts him on edge. Something tells her he isn't used to people helping him—both by his request and by their own choice. And something else tells her he doesn't like how it makes him feel. She doesn't dare to address it, though, because he would hate that even more.
She picks up the key and goes back into the bedroom, gasping when she finds Anthony in the middle of the room.
"Here for the regular check up, brought a change of clothes," he says, pointing to the desk.
"One moment." Alouette takes the pair of black sweatpants and walks back into the bathroom, closing the door after herself. "Anthony's here," she tells Harry, handing him the clothes. He finishes drying himself up and puts them on, holding onto the sink not to fall. When he's done, she goes with him to the other room.
Anthony regards him with an approving look. "You look a thousand times better today," he comments, "I told you some walking and a shower would work miracles."
Harry doesn't reply, but the doctor is used to it by now. Over the past week he's had more than one occasion to discover that friendliness absolutely doesn't work on Harry, or better, not like he was expecting it to. In fact, while he still keeps him at an arm's length and hardly speaks to him, he doesn't seem to think of him as much of a threat anymore. Anthony doesn't mind. Apparently, in Harry's book saving his life brings to him being aware of the fact that he isn't going to kill him instead of eternal gratitude, and Anthony's fine with that. In truth, Alouette doesn't think he's ever believed he could ever build a friendship with the President.
Harry sits on the bed while he checks on him. His bandages are a little wet from the shower even though Alouette tried her best to keep them dry, so he changes them. She turns around while he does it. She still can't look at the scarring wounds on his lower stomach without being reminded of that night, and it makes her feel sick—an odd mixture of anxiousness, fear, heartbreak and nausea.
"Done," Anthony says, and she takes the black sweatshirt and hands it to Harry. He puts it on, and the doctor leaves the room.
Harry waits until the door is closed, and then he speaks. "You're upset," he says.
Alouette's head snaps in his direction. "What?"
"You're upset," he repeats, "it isn't the first time." He tilts his head and regards her with an attentive look. "Is it about last week?"
About last week. Such a nonchalant way to describe a moment like that. It doesn't encompass all the times she wakes up at night gasping and has to check that Harry's still alive beside her, nor the stress she feels when she's showering and wondering if he's still alright in the other room. She's constantly on edge, constantly expecting something awful to happen, constantly worrying he might notice and think less of her for it.
And now he's right in front of her and he's waiting for a reply, and the reply is obvious, in fact, it's three words: I love you. But she can't make herself say them. Some confessions come with more strings attached than others, and this one comes with an entire web of repercussions. I love you. How foolish. She likely won't see him again after he goes back to the Palace. And even if she did, what right does she have to love him? She, that came to him with the intent of killing him, that lied to him and betrayed him and took him away from his home. That web of unwanted repercussions was hers before being his. No, she has no right to love him. Not when she's the one that put him in danger, not when he's risked his life more than once because of hers.
No matter how she looks at it, the guilt she feels is encompassing. In the end, he wouldn't have been in Dacran during the insurrection if she hadn't brought him there. If she hadn't stolen him from the Palace, there would have been no revolt in Dacran at all. No one would've lost their homes, their lives in the fire.
Harry is still studying her. "You can't always know everything," he says, standing up and taking a step towards her. "It's what you told me once. Do you remember? You couldn't have known this would happen—any of this. You can't keep the world from falling apart."
"You almost died because of me—"
"No, not because of you. If it'd been because of you, I wouldn't have survived."
Alouette lets out a sound between a sob and a laugh and wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him closer to her in a hug. Harry tenses up immediately, and she loosens her grip on him.
"When will you understand I have no intention of ever killing you?" she whispers into his ear. "Not today, nor tomorrow, nor in a week or a month from now."
Harry's fingers brush against her sides, up and down in a way that's more soothing than it's meant to be. "What about a year from now?"
"Not even then," she replies, "not even in ten years, or more."
"You can't predict the future."
"I don't need to, because I know." She lets out a sigh. "I still like you," she mumbles. Her voice is a little broken, a little aching, a little sad. "Do you still like me?"
Harry lifts her chin and presses his lips to hers in an unexpectedly gentle, open-mouthed kiss. "I still like you, too," he murmurs as soon as they break apart, "my Lark. I always will."
She hides her face in the crook of his neck. He smells like soap, now. Something a little flowery, somewhat sweet. "You can't predict the future," she says, using his same words from before.
"I don't need to, because I know."
She giggles. "Thank you."
Harry leans his chin on top of her head. "What for?" It's such an affectionate action that she nearly gasps in surprise. She wonders if he did it instinctively, or if he knew what it meant while doing it.
"Not hating me, I think."
"I haven't hated you for holding me at gunpoint—more than once may I add—nor for stealing me away from the Palace. Do you really think I'd start now?"
Alouette chuckles. "I'd never had you pinned for being such a bad judge of character."
"Says the one that had more than one opportunity to kill her enemy and wasted them all."
She tilts her head. "We fucked three times, I wouldn't call it a wasted opportunity."
He lets out a laugh, warm as a kiss but dark and thrilling, the kind that makes her want to make him laugh again and again until its sound will be forever etched in her mind. She doesn't hear it nearly enough, and it makes her a little sad. "We could go for a fourth in a week or two, maybe," he whispers in her ear suggestively, "after breathing stops hurting."
"Maybe you should ask Anthony for some painkillers."
"I'm already on them."
"Then maybe in a week or two." She lets go of him, letting out another sigh. She doesn't like to think about him being in pain. She hates not being able to do anything to make it better, it makes her feel powerless. All she can do is keep him company and wait for it to get better—she's never felt so useless before.
There's a knock on the door.
Alouette sends Harry a look. He steps to the side and she goes to open the door. There's the click of the key in the lock, and then she opens it just enough to see who's on the other side.
She frowns when she sees Jesse.
"Ezra wants to talk to you," he tells her pragmatically, and she glares at him.
"He said he'd give us two weeks."
Jesse rolls his eyes. "Do I look like his secretary?"
"Right now, yes."
"Ah. The hot kind at least, I hope."
"The annoying kind," Alouette replies, "buzzing too eagerly around him for my liking."
"Well, you're buzzing too eagerly around a dictator, so forgive me if I'm not too touched by your judgement."
She's slightly annoyed by his comment, but can't pinpoint why. After all, he isn't too wrong about Harry. Maybe that's what makes it worse.
"Anyway, come to him or he'll come to you," Jesse continues, "and I suppose you wouldn't want him to meet your evil leader-slash-boyfriend-slash-nearly murder victim just yet." He glances into the room and catches sight of Harry standing not far behind her. "Oh hey, you're looking surprisingly alive."
Alouette doesn't need to turn around to know Harry is glaring at him. In the Palace, he would've never allowed anyone to speak him in this way, but he knows when to pick his fights—and no doubt considers the Revolution to be a less than opportune setting for his demands.
"And you might end up looking surprisingly dead if you keep it up," Alouette mutters anyway, "and I'm not the one that would be ending you."
Jesse laughs. "That's thrilling. It would be my first one-on-one meeting with the President."
Alouette lets out a hopeless sigh. Jesse seems to be one of those people that can't be scared into compliance, and she can't even find it annoying, because it's something he shares with Harry. "I'm coming. Leave."
"I'm to bring you there myself."
She raises an eyebrow. "What, you think I'm going to run away? Go."
He rolls his eyes again. "As you wish, ma dame."
Alouette lets out an outraged gasp. "What did you just call me?!" she shouts after him in the empty corridor.
He turns to look at her. "Thought I should be respectful towards the elderly, since you're two years older than me. Bye-bye."
She clenches her teeth. Maybe, for the first time, she's starting to understand Harry's wish to make sure people watch their mouth when they speak of him. When she's calm again, she turns to look at Harry. "I need to go for a moment. I mean—you heard him. I'll leave you the key, please lock yourself inside. Will it be okay?"
"As long as the key stays with me," he says, but he seems a little strained regardless. She takes notice of it, but there's nothing she can do to make it easier for him. She can't stay, and the door has to be locked for his safety.
She nods. "Of course. Anthony's door is at the end of the corridor, if you need anything." She takes the key and hands it to him. "I'll try to be fast. I'm sure it isn't too important. Lock the door."
She gets out and waits until she hears the click of the lock before walking down the corridor.
Jesse is waiting for her at the end of the stairs. He opens his mouth, but she gives him a sharp look.
"If you say a word I might be the one biting you. I can't believe you called me old."
"Not everyone can be twenty-one and wonderful like me, Ivenhart."
Alouette's last name feels odd spoken out loud. It isn't the first time she hears it this week, but she still can't get used to it. Sometimes, it doesn't even feel like it belongs to her.
They get to the main building and she follows Jesse into Ezra's office, frowning when she sees Elijah is already here. He looks away from her as she walks in, as if he can't hold the sight of her. It makes her feel a little sick and she wants to talk to him to fix things, or to explain, she isn't sure, but she's scared that he might not want to listen to her. Maybe it's too soon.
"Took a while," Ezra states as Jesse closes the door, and Alouette scowls at him.
"You said we had two weeks."
"Not correct," Ezra tells her, taking the map she saw a week ago from the wardrobe and opening it on his desk. "I said he has two weeks. I've never said anything about you."
"What do you want, then?"
"Can't I request the help of one of my best soldiers?"
Alouette raises an eyebrow.
"I agree that we've had our differences," Ezra says, "but you infiltrated the Palace for months without ever being discovered, took the President from it and then proceeded to evade capture from the Palace for months again. Do you know what that means? It means you're valuable."
"So you want me to do something."
"Precisely. I have a mission for you. It'll take place in three days."
Alouette doesn't like the sound of that. "What kind of mission?"
Ezra checks the time and walks to the door. "Elijah and Jesse will tell you everything. They're on the team. I have a meeting with the council now, so I'll leave you to it."
She definitely doesn't like the sound of it, but there's little she can do. She's in the Revolution now, if Ezra says she's going, then she's going. So she sits down on his vacated chair and listens to the briefing.
• • •
Harry slowly eases himself down on the pillow. His heart is beating fast in his chest, he's never felt this out of shape before. Twenty minutes have passed, and Alouette still hasn't come back.
Alouette.
Alouette, with her thousand questions.
Do you remember talking?
Do you remember that?
Do you remember? So tense and panicked, desperately waiting for him to tell what she wanted to hear. And it's what Harry did. He told her what she wanted to hear, because there's no doubt in his mind that she didn't want him to know. That it was unintentional; that it wasn't meant for him to hear—or that he wasn't meant to survive after hearing it.
I don't. It wasn't the first lie he told, but for some reason, that one felt particularly heavy. But he was right, because she was so relieved after he did, and in truth, so was he. He's never been meant to know. Now, he can pretend he doesn't; he can tell himself that it wasn't real, that it was just an auditory hallucination brought about by the near-death experience, the flickering scrap of a dream he can no longer remember the details of. Yet, he can't seem to be able to get it out of his mind.
I think I love you.
"Fuck," he mutters, covering his face with his hands. There's a not-inconsequential probability percentage that he might be going mad. That percentage may be growing exponentially higher with every passing day. He needs to go back home and focus his attention somewhere else. There's nothing he can do in this place, and it puts him on edge. There's nowhere for him to run.
A knock on the door. "It's Lark."
He takes the key and opens the door. "What did they want?"
She throws herself on the mattress. "Apparently I have to contribute to the cause since I'm here already," she mutters into the pillow.
Harry sits on the bed next to her. "I suppose you having sex with me wasn't revolutionary enough for the higher ups, then."
She laughs and turns around. "They may be just jealous, who knows?" She shifts closer to him and leans her head on his shoulder. "Ezra wants me to go on a mission in a few days."
"Is it a dangerous one?"
She shakes her head. "A boring one, I think. I just have to not get caught. They want me to spy on an enemy, sounds like."
Harry hums. "Should I be concerned?"
Alouette chuckles. "No, I don't think it involves the Palace. It would be unethical, considering you're about to come to an agreement." There's a small silence. "I'll tell you when I find out more."
"Good girl."
She raises her eyebrows and looks at him. "I thought you only liked bad girls?"
"And you shouldn't be betraying the Revolution like this," he replies. "You're my good girl when you do bad things."
"Only when I do bad things? Maybe I'm a little offended." She kisses his jaw. "You're my good boy always," she whispers, "even if you do bad things."
Harry pulls her in by the back of her neck and presses his lips to hers. She tugs at the curls at the nape of his neck, carefully leaning her body against his as he deepens the kiss, and he cups her cheek with his hand. His abdomen stings in protest as he wraps his arm around her waist, but he barely notices over the thrill of having her so close.
The door is suddenly opened and Alouette jumps up. He can't see who it is because the wardrobe is blocking the view, and she pushes them out of the room and disappears out of the door for a moment.
When she comes back her eyes are wide and terrified.
"My sister is missing," she tells him fast, grabbing her phone from the nightstand. "I'll go look for her. Stay here."
She runs out of the room.
Harry leans back against the pillows. The door is still open, and some light from the corridor is coming in. He has a slight headache, now, and the tiredness that has weighed down his limbs for the past week is telling him to lie on his side and go to sleep, but he has no intention of doing that—not when Alouette's sister is missing. He's quite certain she's fine in truth—the Revolution is so carefully controlled that she can't have left the headquarters—but still.
He stands up. His body screams in pain as he slowly makes his way towards the darkened window, hand on the wall for stability, pausing every few steps to allow the sting to subside. His legs feel weak under him, like they're only holding him up by luck and a decently high amount of good will.
He hasn't lied to Alouette, he was saying the truth when he told her it isn't the first time he risks his life—this time, though, he can tell he got closer to losing it than ever before. He's been able to feel it in the tiredness that has encompassed him during the past week, the aches and the strong wish he could just lie on his side and sleep through the next twelve hours. He's far from doing well, and being here instead of at the Palace agitates him. He doesn't get agitated easily, but he is now. It makes him feel a little ridiculous and weak, and he hates it.
He reaches the window and leans his shoulder on the wall, trying it to see if it'll open, but it doesn't. He's trapped. It's a loose cage—one he can barely notice at the moment, but it's a cage nonetheless. And now Ezra has him. If the deal doesn't work out, there's no doubt in Harry's mind that he'll be killed. The thought feels odd. He supposes he had it coming, but the experience from last week has made him realise he doesn't want to die just yet. He will never sign over the country to the Revolution to spare his life, though. He'll find a way out of it. He always does.
There's a black layer over the glass of the window, something like tape. If he takes it off he'll be able to properly regain his perception of time. The past week has made him feel like a mouse hiding in the depths of a house, and he hates it. He's no mouse; he's stopped hiding a long time ago. It's yet another thing that separates him from the people of the Revolution—he faces the world head on, they crawl through their tunnels, never seen, never heard, slowly bringing about the destruction of his country. He hates the thought of having to come to an agreement with them; if he could decide, he'd burn those buildings inside out and put an end to their arrogance once and for all.
But that other group is definitely a problem, and convenience often brings about unexpected actions. It looks like, this time, he'll have to settle for delayed gratification.
He scratches away a corner of the black tape. A ray of white sunlight breaks into the room. It's so different from the multicoloured lights of the city.
"Don't take it off, they'll get mad," a voice says behind him.
Harry turns his head. There's a little girl standing in the door, wearing a faded yellow dress and blinking at him with an unimpressed look on her face.
He raises an eyebrow. "Is that so?"
She nods and steps into the room. "You're the evil prince from the television, aren't you?"
Harry prides himself in having a good understanding of people and being able to predict their behaviour to near perfection. That being said, he was not expecting her to say that. He looks at her a little suspiciously. "And you're Alouette's sister, aren't you?" he bites back.
She walks to him and lifts her hand in an awaiting greeting. "Amina."
He shakes her hand. "The prince."
She laughs, thrilled with the reply. "You look scarier on TV."
Harry hums, he's starting to feel a little faint from standing up for so long. He considers dealing with it silently, but then decides fainting or falling in front of a child from the Revolution would be too embarrassing for his ego to hold, so he moves past her and sits on the chair. He puts his elbow on the desk and glances at the still open door. He has the distinct feeling someone should be warned about the child being in here, but he has no intention of stepping out of the room himself. He briefly considers sending her to knock on Anthony's door, but it would be even more troublesome if she accidentally went missing again.
"You aren't supposed to be here," he tells her, tapping on the surface of the desk. The paper sheets crinkle under his fingertips.
She rolls her eyes, standing near the window. The shard of light coming in through the hole in the tape makes her dress yellower. "I can go wherever I want."
He narrows his eyes. "Do you have permission?"
She scoffs and crosses her arms. "That's none of your business."
"That's not very polite."
"And my sister says you're a criminal."
He raises his eyebrows. "Does she, now?"
She looks him up and down, and Harry has the sudden sensation he's being heavily judged. He doesn't like it. Too bad children aren't like pets; he can't put her out of the room and wait for someone else to take care of her. In fact, he's quite certain Alouette would end him if he did that. He still considers it, though. Briefly.
"Are you hurt?" she then asks.
He's taken aback. "Excuse me?"
"Are. You. Hurt?"
He looks down, a little on edge. Why does she want to know? Who sent her? In an attempt to ease his tension he folds the piece of paper under his fingers once, then twice. He should lie. Still, though. She's Alouette's sister, it doesn't feel right. "Yes," he says.
"How?"
She's asking too many questions. A fold on the paper. She's too curious. It could be used against him. Another fold on the paper. But it's no secret that he was hurt when he came here a week ago. Maybe her sister has told her. But this is no conversation to have with a child; he supposes he could tell her he was stabbed, but then Alouette would undoubtedly get mad at him for telling her little sister something so upsetting. This is troublesome. Can someone come in and take her away? Yet another fold on the paper. "Stomach pains," he ends up telling her.
Her eyebrows rise. "Do you have a stomachache?! Ellie makes a great tea that helps with them! I can ask her to make one for you."
Harry lets out a short chuckle. "I'll be fine." He folds the paper again, and again. He's using two hands now, and the activity is noticeable enough to catch Amina's attention.
She steps closer to the table, watching his fingers move over the paper, twisting and turning and sharpening. "Can I tell you a secret?"
It's a miracle these two haven't exposed the entire family business by now, Harry thinks. "What kind of secret?"
"The secret kind."
He pauses a moment. "Every secret is secret."
Amina shakes her head. "This is secreter," she says. "So? Do you want to hear it or not?"
He goes back to his paper sheet. "Share."
"I ran away."
That was an unimpressive secret. Maybe he's a little disappointed, now. "You can't run away."
"I just did."
He hums, not looking up from the paper. "And what are you planning on doing now that you've run away?" he asks her, folding the paper again. "Your sister might get worried."
"I don't care. She said she'd be back, but she lied. I haven't seen her in days." There's a pause. "And it's your fault."
That's enough to get Harry to look up. "My fault?" He isn't entirely certain how he fits in the scheme of things. It isn't the first time he's made out to be the problem out of nowhere though, so he can't say he's surprised. He sends another look towards the door. Where are her people? He's already tired of playing babysitter. Maybe he should let her out of the door, after all. Someone will pick her up eventually, or she'll find her way back.
"It's okay. Stomachaches are so bad. I don't want to be alone too when I have them."
Maybe he can deal with her a while longer. He's quite certain he might set the whole building on fire if she asks him to play tea party again, though. Without her being in the building, of course. Alouette would kill him otherwise.
"What are you doing?"
Somehow his quick folds of the paper, that he guesses were supposed to turn into something somewhat enjoyable, have turned into nervous rips and shreds, and the paper sheet is now in crumbles under his hands.
"That's a waste of paper."
"I suppose," Harry replies. He runs his fingers through his hair.
"I don't think I hate you," Amina says suddenly. "You aren't as bad as I thought."
He raises an eyebrow.
"But you wasted a paper sheet."
"Were you going to use it?"
She shrugs. "Maybe, to make an airplane and fly away."
"You can't fly anywhere with barred windows."
"Says who?"
Harry opens his mouth to reply, but a sudden gasp breaks the air.
"Amina!" Alouette runs into the room and hugs her sister tightly. "Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?" She looks at her, still unable to let her go. There's authentic fear in her eyes, a display of emotion that would usually make Harry uncomfortable, but this time it doesn't, because he can understand it. It's the first time he truly, deeply understands someone else's feelings. He knows that fear, because he's felt it too in the past. He understands, understands, understands. It makes him feel oddly closer to Alouette, in a different way from before.
"She's fine," he tells her, "she was simply curious, I suppose."
"Curious?" Alouette finally lets go of her sister, but she's still kneeling on the floor in front of her. Now that the initial shock has passed, anger hits her like a tide. "Why did you do that?! Do you know how scared Elodie was?! I ran all over the building looking for you!"
"You lied!" Amina bites back. "You said you were back!"
"I am back."
"Then where were you?!"
Alouette looks down. From what Harry knows, she's been to see her sister only once more over the past week. He doesn't know what she's promised her, but it must be something, for her to be this upset. This is why it's pointless to make promises you can't keep. In the end, the people you try to protect always end up hating you.
"I'm sorry," Alouette says, finally standing up. "You're right. I should've come to see you more often, but I didn't. I'm sorry."
Amina crosses her arms and looks away. "It's okay. I made a friend anyway."
"A friend?" She looks at Harry, and realisation dawns on her face. "Oh, no. Not Harry."
There's some irony in Alouette warning her sister about him when she's the first that can't stay away from him. Harry supposes he should be offended, but he isn't. He understands where she's coming from. If his sister was still alive, he'd stay away from her as well. He'd never intentionally harm her, of course, but he has a tendency for breaking and shattering everything that's too close to him. He did it with Kiara, it won't be long before he does it with Alouette as well. It's too bad he has no intention to stay away—maybe this is what makes him, as she would say, inherently evil. Knowing he might bring about someone's doom and yet not putting any distance between them.
I think I might love you, she said. Love is a complex emotion, one he isn't certain he's capable of feeling. Attraction, passion, curiosity, interest he can understand. Love, though, is different. Every time he tries to grasp its concept, it slips though his fingers before he can get a hold of it. He's tried to in the past, many times. He's read books, he's watched his parents. But there was no love between them—there wasn't anything at all.
Love. He isn't certain what he feels for Alouette is love. All he knows is that she confuses him, she continuously makes him think of odd things, and then he ends up saying more than he should and doing more than he should be allowed to. He knows he must like her to some degree, and he also knows that, whatever that degree is, it's higher than what he's ever felt before. He wouldn't go as far as to call it love, though. Love isn't convenient. It's a little too dangerous for his liking. It sounds like being vulnerable, and being vulnerable means being killed.
Love is the prelude of death. It's fiction, a well-constructed mixture of conflicting feelings that makes people do reckless things for the sake of someone else, not even knowing if they'd do the same for them.
He checks inside himself, making sure his pieces are all in the right places, following his consciousness looking for cogs out of order, and finds none. His thoughts are still fully his, and despite the odd sensation of otherness he's felt over the past week, he can recognise himself. It's a version of himself stained and interrupted by sensations from his past, which make him more restless and prone to quick reactions, but it's still him. A shade of himself he hates, of the deep, darkest grey, but it belongs to him. That much he knows.
"He's your friend?" Amina asks suddenly and Harry's attention drifts back to the present. He frowns when he realises that, for a moment, he was lost in his thoughts. He never does that when he's around other people.
"Yes," Alouette replies, taking her by the hand and walking her to the door. "and you really shouldn't be here. I promise I'll come to you more often. If you ever want to see me, at any moment, just tell Elodie instead of running away, okay? She'll give me a call."
"Okay."
"She was really scared, you know. You should tell her you're sorry."
"Okay. But can I come here again?" Amina sends Harry a look. "He isn't annoying like my classmates. They're always teasing me because you got lost."
Alouette frowns. "That isn't nice of them."
"Elijah told me to kick them when I told him about it."
"Don't," Alouette says fast. "He was just kidding. Don't kick anyone. It isn't nice."
"I talked to them but they didn't listen!"
"It depends on what you're saying," Harry comments from where he's sitting, and Alouette sends him a glare.
"There's no way I'm letting you teach my sister how to take over the world, Harry."
Amina lets out an excited sound. "Can he? Pretty please? My classmates will be so jealous if I own the city of lights!"
"The city of lights?"
"Northfair and Dacran," Alouette tells him, and then looks at her sister. "I'm sorry, Ami, but I don't think he'll let you steal the presidential seat."
Her eyes widen and she turns to look at Harry. "Can you punish my classmates?!"
He raises an eyebrow, trying to decide if she's trying to put a hit out on them. Maybe he's glad he was homeschooled when he was her age, now. Having classmates does sound quite awful.
Alouette sighs. "Ignore her," she tells him, taking her out of the door. "You can come back here if you want, but you should leave him alone. He needs to rest," she says to Amina. "I'll be back in a moment."
She leaves the room, leaving Harry sitting on the chair. He leans his head against the wall and lets out a sigh. Part of him feels like he's just entered a simulation.
He wants to go back home.
He wants to go back home and take Alouette with him. His lark.
I hope you enjoyed this chapter!
Miki