"Quit distracting me from my art project."
His fingers tangle into your hair and his head falls back against the pillow, an agitated sigh cutting through the tense space between your mouths as he mutters, "but you're so easy to distract. Mm-" He groans and lifts his hips to press his growing length against your center, "s'why you're always late. Can't we take a little break and-"
You laugh and smack his chest playfully before sitting up, Harry's neck straining and his lips puckered as he tries to chase you for another kiss. You're met with a disappointed groan at the distance between you and your soft rejection, "aw, c'mon. Gimme some credit. I've been doing so much better."
He doesn't have the heart to tell you that your improvement with time is due to him tricking you into punctuality, instead he digs his fingers into your hips and smiles affectionally before sinking his teeth into his bottom lip. His eyelids droop in untamed arousal and he ruts his hips upwards again, a hiss sucking past his teeth at the sensation of his aching thickness pressing into your humid center. His head lolls to the side and his cheek falls against his pillow as his mouth parts to draw in more air, "Nova, you've been doing so good." His pelvis rocks towards you once more as if to punctuate and confirm his sentence, his mind clearly lost within his own tent of lust.
You retreat off of his lap and onto his thighs, his hands balling into fists before he strikes the bed on either side of his hips in frustration, muttering something about you looking like a beautiful, ruthless tease in your cheeky underwear. You chuckle quietly but can't yet bring yourself to detach from your coloring project, reaching down to grab his wrists and pin his arms to the mattress beside his head, "naughty boy. Learn some manners, will ya?"
Your gaze drops to survey the sight below; Harry submissively sprawled out on his sheets as he allows you to command his arms into a position of vulnerability, his stomach muscles pulling and stretching to force his ribcage against his skin with each heated breath. Your eyes drift lower to the happy trail below his button disappearing and beckoning you towards the pitched fabric of his briefs, your eyebrow quirking in curiosity and delighted control at the abandoned state of his power.
"You've got ten more minutes and then I'm wrecking you," and as soon as the explosive sentiment liquifies past his lips, the upper-hand you were flexing suddenly dissolves past your weakened fingertips. His hands relax from their fists, his shoulders and chest thawing when you release his wrists. You cup his jaw and dip forward to placate him with a kiss, his throat vibrating on a hum as his fingertips carve a path up your thighs to squeeze your ass in both of his widespread palms, "and that's ten Harry minutes, not ten Nova minutes."
His stomach flips when you scrunch your nose and giggle at his soft jab and his use of third person speech, nodding militantly and sitting up to bounce a two finger salute from your temple, "yes, sir. Can't wait to see the destruction, although you'll be dealing with the ruins. You better have a cucumber and tomato sandwich in your bag to feed my ghost." A shriek echoes off of his four tiny walls when he shoots up and tosses you back into his sheets, his fingers fumbling with the fabric of your tank top as he rips it up and suctions his mouth to your stomach for a wet and loud raspberry, "stop, stop!" He can hardly make out your pleas through the fragments of your breathless laughter, "I take it back! Mercy- you better not be timing this!"
His entire body freezes when you weave your fingers into his hair and cinch tightly, his scalp burning with your assault and his cock dribbling one then two spurts into his briefs, "shit- fuck, okay. I'm stopping." He relaxes when you loosen your grip, "my dick on the other hand-" A peel of your favorite reckless cackle bursts from his chest when you smack his shoulder and dig your fingers into his ribs for a menacing tickle, "alright, alright! Ten minutes start now. Go."
Harry flops onto his back and you resume your position astride his lap with a victorious grin, "can't be that bad, right? Just take in the sights." His eyes are immediately drawn to your chest softly rising and falling with breath, your nipples sparked from just having his body on top of yours. He licks his lips and nods in agreement, his hands landing on your thighs and smoothing their way towards your center. You wrap your fingers around his wrist to halt yet another attempt at distraction, your gaze landing on the cross inked onto the back of his hand, "hey, dreamy? I've always wondered why you have this cross tattoo on your hand. I mean as far as I can tell you're not religious... at least not a practicing Christian."
He watches you inspect his ink as your eyes roam farther up his arm and across his chest. His heart starts to pound behind his ribs and he knows that you are very inquisitive and if he is completely honest with you, then this conversation is doomed to be steered in a direction that he's not sure he's ready for. He isn't sure if he will ever be ready, so he supposes now is just as good a time as any, but it still doesn't make him feel any less sick to his stomach. He's imagined this exchange and the varying degrees at which it can play out, but his instinct tells him that he has some emotional grappling on the very near horizon, "um..." Your sight fixes on his and the extreme eye contact that he desires to withhold, something that has always intimidated you a bit, "each... one... is for a premonition that stuck with me somehow."
His comment about already having seen each one in color now makes a lot more sense, although now your mind is running wild with interest about the details of each one. You know Harry well and are quite aware of how overwhelmed he gets talking about his dreams and anything personal in general, but you are hoping that with your new-found closeness that he will be a little more willing to open up.
Your fingertips trace over the holy bible on his bicep before you draw your gaze to him in question, "deadly church shooting on Christmas mass six years ago." Your face softens and he can see your throat bob with a grieving swallow before you circle the ship on the outside of his arm. He rubs your legs as if to soothe you and assure you that he is okay with the intimate conversation, "that one is for the ship that collided with an oil tanker awhile back. There was a fire and an explosion. I think five thousand or so people died including children."
You press your palms to his chest before sliding them up to cup his neck and jaw, your chest dropping to meet him in a kiss that conveys empathy and compassion. He hums and kisses you, colored memories of fire, blood and crying mothers scroll behind his eyelids and he squeezes them shut to make it stop, "are you okay? We can change the subject. I didn't know what I was getting into and I don't want to force you to-"
His chest fills with adrenaline as he prepares himself to confess something that lives inside of his mind with almost near-constant pressure and guilt. His eyelids flutter open before he shakes his head slowly as if to communicate that he wants you to keep prying, to be his siren who steers him and who he prays will love him unconditionally. Your relationship and your lives may drastically change within the next few minutes, but he is prepared to fight tooth and nail for you to understand and to hopefully carve a beautiful path of intense mutual clemency, a shared obsession that he already houses, "m'fine. Which one is next?"
You sit up and rub your hands up and down his newly colorful arm before your index finger lands on the anatomical heart. He breathes in deeply and his head is filled with the beeping of a heart monitor, sterile white walls, a defeated surgeon and a devastated family, "failed transplant." It's almost too much for your sensitive heart to handle, you want to ask him if every single one of his premonitions unfold a negative circumstance but it almost seems as though the answer is laid out before you in the form of permanent artistic expression. You trace the outline of the butterfly's wings and elusive tears spring to his eyes, vibrating puddles that line his bottom lashes, "I- I... dreamed that my schoolmate didn't make the swim team because his butterfly stroke wasn't strong enough and when I sympathized with him about it, he revealed tryouts had been rescheduled. He called the Emissary that evening and... mine and my family's lives were destroyed that same night."
It seems as if he had already attempted to take control of his brain long before he began dabbling in lucid dreaming, by taking colored nightmares and transforming them into black-and-white to flatten them into merely memories rather than someone else's imposed pain. To you the butterfly represents the premonition and subsequent slip that changed his life forever, an example of how hard he is on himself; his biggest and most prominent tattoo closest to his heart, a mistake he will never forgive himself for.
Tears burn in your nasal cavity as you drop beside him and tangle your legs together how he likes, your ankles crossed and woven like thread, your arms clutching him tightly as you remind yourself to be enduring and impenetrable for his sake. His fingers rake through your hair before he presses his nose and mouth to your forehead and breathes the scent of your shampoo deeply, your warm palm landing atop his chest to feel the beat of his heart below his skin.
It's the saddest thing you've ever heard; the person whom you've developed a deep bond with suffering through something that you can't possibly come close to understanding. It makes you feel helpless and desperately distraught, an icky sensation splashing up against the walls of your stomach and sticking to the edges like super glue. You clear your throat and rest your chin on his shoulder to press a kiss to his jaw, "you are extraordinary and brave. Your family would be so proud to see how you've managed. They knew the capabilities of the Emissary and the potential dangers that come along with them. They love you and they were prepared to do anything for you. Your life is worth living, your brain is incredible and phenomenal. You are meant to persevere. You're a survivor, inside and out."
Harry flips over and pins you to the bed, his mouth hovering over yours as his gaze roams your face. He rolls his lips together before inching forward to lock you in an embrace, sucking your tongue into his mouth and groaning at the sensation of your nails scratching up his back. He pulls back and pants hot air against your lips, his serrated voice urging you to continue, "one more."
You pucker your lips in concentration as you determine that he's asking you to choose a tattoo in particular, your finger pointing to one of the swallows on his chest to be met with a shake of his head. You point to the set of three nails next and cringe inwardly at what they could possibly represent, a relieved sigh leaving your lungs when he shakes his head again. Your finger draws a line down his arm before landing on the mermaid on his forearm. You can feel his muscles strain the moment you've brought attention to that specific tattoo, his voice hitching in his throat as you bear a few seconds of silence before glancing at him to find him burning holes into your face. He licks his lips and shrugs, his body falling motionless and his mouth drying out before he chokes out hoarsely, "that one is my favorite."
He glances at the mermaid covering the majority of his forearm and recollects the cascading meaning of the mysterious siren leading his way, his lips parting as he inhales a deep breath and decides that if he's going to move to a remote island with you to live out a fantasy dream life, he must be completely honest about your origin first. You hum for him to continue and he pinches his eyes closed to gather his thoughts before cracking them open, his heart soaring and his stomach flipping, "it's for you."
You mutate through a series of emotions, the outstanding ones being confusion and curiosity, "that's... really? But- when did you get it? Didn't you have that before we'd even met? I think I remember seeing it at the warehouse party months ago."
He nods and speaks slowly and deliberately, "I got it maybe three or four years ago."
The only thing you register is the painfully quick beating of your heart and a high-pitched ring echoing in your eardrums.
Harry's mind is alive with a technicolor rainbow; arguments with your parents at the dinner table, snowball fights that end up in a pair of broken glasses, slipping down a flight of steps and dropping all of your school books, slapping a boyfriend in the heat of a distressing debate, flushing a deceased pet fish down the toilet, breaking your toe during a soccer game, licking a melted drop of chocolate ice cream from the bottom of a sugary cone. He's paralyzed physically and emotionally by the onslaught, the frown pulling your eyebrows together only making the images escalate faster.
"I don't- what do you mean?" You lay frozen for a moment before you sit up and gather one of his pillows to clutch to your chest as if it were a shield, "you had a dream about me before the one at the coffee shop? Years ago?"
Harry pulls himself to sitting and battles between touching you or giving you space, he battles between obscurity or bluntness, he battles with whether or not this was a good idea in the first place. A split second passes before he chooses the route of direct and explicit honesty, his heart both squeezing and thumping painfully, "Nova... I haven't been completely honest with you. I- um, fuck. Jesus." He drops his face to his palms and sucks in a huge lungful of air before pulling his attention back to you, not liking that you still haven't moved and your fingers are white-knuckling the pillow in your grip, "yes, I've had dreams about you before the coffee shop. Hundreds of them. My entire life. I've seen you since we were kids. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, I'm so sorry. I didn't know how."
You don't know how to take the information, your body is weighted and physically ill and your head is off floating somewhere in the atmosphere above. You remain sitting up and staring at him with wide watery eyes, angry with yourself that your first instinct is to feel violated and exposed even though he has never had any control over what comes to him in his sleep. It is possible for you to recognize the romance in the concept of being dreamed about until you were found, but you can't shake the sense of vulnerability and betrayal from his choice to remain quiet about it, "you... what? You've known about me all along? This whole time? You dreamed about me long before we even met? And... and so often that you tattooed something to represent me on your arm?"
The questions tangle into a giant knot in his brain, "Nova..."
"How long? What have you seen? Harry? Why haven't you told me until now? Oh my god, please say something." You adjust the pillow over your chest to shroud yourself from his prying eyes, his upset demeanor and the fact that he was brave enough to risk revealing hazardous information to you but now it's biting him in the ass.
He scoots closer slowly to appear non-threatening, his palms flipped over and facing the ceiling as if silently communicating emotional poverty. You're typically sweet, tender and understanding and it's a complete nightmare to see you channeling injustice in your eyes, worse than any premonition he's ever had. He has a world of information he wants to tell you - that he's never seen anything intimate or shameful or that he truthfully didn't know very much about you until you had met, just little meaningless blips and stories along the way. He hadn't even known your last name or where you lived and his mind is swimming so fast that his mouth just ends up opening and closing like a fish out of water.
"You got upset with me because I didn't tell you what my job was, but you've known about me for your entire life and didn't think that I should know?"
The accusation has him slowly returning to his senses, "of course I thought you should know, I didn't know how to tell you! It's not something that you can just casually bring up in conversation-"
"And you acted like you had told me everything." You feel downright awful making him feel guilty about something that he despises about himself and can't control, but you can't help the feelings of trespass pumping from your heart and through your veins. You're upset and blindsided and you feel as though you have the right to own those emotions. It makes you curious as to what else he's hiding and what exactly he's seen - if he can keep something this massive so easily concealed, there's an entire universe of possibility regarding the deep cavern of lies he's been painting for years, "I feel sick. What else don't I know? You let me buy two tickets to Bora Bora with this information buried. Is there anything else? Have you also been reading my mind this entire time?"
Harry's face crumples into a frown at your low blow, the careless strike you've made at affliction in general and the possibility that you've been thinking thoughts that you wouldn't want him to hear, "what's that supposed to-"
You shake your head and drop your gaze to the sheets, "I didn't mean that."
He swallows a thick lump in his throat and decides to brush that off as one of those things people say in arguments that don't make much sense and that they end up regretting later. He hasn't and refuses to give up on working to earn your favor; you were the only thing keeping him sane and when it was bad enough you were the only thing keeping him alive. When he finally met you it felt too good to be true and he was scared that if he told you about it then it would have ruined things.
He reaches out to you but you scoot away, his heart cracking with the sound of the sheets rustling underneath your thighs, "please. Gimme... just gimme a second please," he rubs his temples in small circles, "I need a minute to think." He snaps his sight to you when you whimper and squeeze the pillow to your chest tightly, your galactic eyes spurring him onward, "listen. I know that it's your life and... and that it probably feels invasive but I have no control over this. You know that... you... Novs, please. It's about you but it's also about me. It's very personal and embarrassing to admit because it's a little creepy and unbelievable and I don't truly understand it and- it's really difficult to know exactly what to say, okay? Please. Please? Please don't shut me out."
You're silent and his throat is sore from withholding tears and saying more in one go than he's possibly said in years, so he explains what he knows best and holds closest to his heart, "god, m'gonna sound so crazy right now. You know the scientific evidence that all of the universe's energy and every element on earth was formed in the heart of a star that exploded billions of years ago? You... you went on a class trip in middle school to the planetarium. You watched a supernova burst and you cried because it was so beautiful." He reaches for you again except this time you don't pull away and his heart rate picks up at the notion of your acceptance, "thank you. God- thank you," his fingers bore into your skin, "that's it. That's why - that's why I call you Nova. After that dream I imagined that you were experiencing the very thought that I've had for years except you didn't quite understand exactly why it made you so emotional. But I do. It's because we're the same... our stardust... it's the same. You didn't know me yet but I was living inside of you somehow. I'm- you're- we belong together. It's meant to be. You had the urge to move here ten years ago because I begged the heavens for you. The universe has been talking to us our whole lives. I found you, you found me. Please understand."
He climbs to his knees before sinking back against his heels, tugging your hand towards him and dipping down to rest his forehead against your knuckles in complete abandonment of all of his emotional and physical capacity into your hands, "I thought we would never meet and when I saw you at the coffee shop, I panicked. After that we kept running into each other; the library, the street. It was a force beyond us. I never meant to deceive you. I just didn't know how to tell you how powerful you were to me before I'd even met you. There are no words for you, okay? You're - us - we're completely indescribable." He looks up at you and his voice is so raw that his tongue feels like it's bleeding, his eyes streaked with capillaries and misery, "you're my most exquisite secret. My Nova. S'kismet."
Tears silently streak your cheeks and your mouth is parted in amazed and abrupt understanding. You can remember that field trip to the science museum around the age of eleven or twelve and your emotional reaction to the otherworldly beauty of the supernova very clearly, "I... think that has to be the most brilliantly beautiful thing I've ever heard." You burst into quizzical laughter that quickly dissolves into a sob, "Harry... what the fuck? What the actual, everliving fuck?"
He breathes out an alleviated laugh at the step you've made toward acceptance, "I have no fucking clue. Please believe me when I say that it confuses and scares me too, but we are kindred souls, a perfect union, two halves of a whole. Cosmic." Intended and designed for one another. Fated, bound and inescapable.
You can't think of a single thing to add to his speech, the entire concept is so simply unbelievable to you that you'll need weeks or months to even process what he has had years to come to understand. It is wildly romantic; the tattoo on his arm and every single word that just poured from his heart and his guts. This is something that idealists have been writing about for centuries and it's unfolding before you and falling into your lap like a perfectly frosted layer cake topped with a hundred flaming candles. You were already enraptured with him before this information came to light, but now it is blindingly clear that you have and will always be madly and permanently in love. A love that no other living person will ever touch. A love that originated in the same place in the universe before it was blasted apart only to be rekindled again at this exact time and place.
The silence is broken when you both spring forward with your hands tangling into one another's hair, your mouths sealing together and your tank top ripped off before you're thrown back into his sheets with his heavy weight on top of you. He pushes your knees apart and presses his thumb to your core, a soft cry escaping your mouth and swallowed whole by his greedy tongue.
He tugs your panties aside and shudders to find you drenched against his fingertips, his mouth dropping to suck your nipple past his teeth before he continues his path downward. He gives you his tongue and his fingers, his hips pressing into the mattress to keep his release at bay. He finishes you once with his mouth, his palm guiding an arch into your lower back as he presses his tongue as far into your core as it can go. Your legs tremble and lock him in place, your hands reaching down to pull him back up to join you.
Several seconds or a full minute pass as you take in the sight and energy of one another in the midst of passion, the sun beginning to peek its head just over the horizon of jagged buildings and rooftops. Harry has no desire to count the sunrise this time, the universe outside is no match to his personal universe inside of this claustrophobic studio apartment. The only thing that matters to him at this point in his life is survival but living has changed; he survives for your sake, for both of your sakes. To keep the cosmic dust selfishly trapped between the two of as you live out your own personal nirvanas. Ninety days cannot possibly arrive quickly enough.
He strips the both of you bare and aligns his tip with your folds, his stare rivaling yours when he buries himself slowly and steadily to the brink. Your stomachs are tripping and hiccuping, your centers igniting into a frenzy with each inward and outward stroke. Harry makes it a point to be much more vocal than usual, something that he's been building towards to increase intimacy between the two of you because he knows that you enjoy it.
It feels amazing to speak to you while you're making one another suffocate in rapture, once he gives himself permission to ooze his first sentiment it's as if anguish is being sucked from his lungs along with each word, all of his surface pain attaching itself to language and escaping on every breath and now he can't stop. He'd always found sex to be a release, a distraction and an escape, especially with you, but this extra level of romance has sparked a never-ending flame of emancipation. He wants you to feel as holistically loved from the inside out as he does, "my sweet girl, my angel. My siren, my supernova," he grips the back of your neck and pegs your foreheads together, "I want all of you."
Your chin tilts towards his to sweep your lips together, "that's it," his words are awakening an intensity inside of you that is reminiscent of your time together in his pottery studio, "love it when you talk to me. God, please don't stop. I need you, Harry." The sensation that explodes in his chest is a lot like pressing on your closed eyelids; at first the weight feels nice, like satisfying an itch you can't scratch and then suddenly a kaleidoscope of colors overcomes your entire being, reds and blues and greens followed by blinding white light that moves and vibrates in undulating psychedelic patterns.
It's mind-blowing in its indescribable nostalgic feeling, multi-colored, conscious expanding, brave and rich and his body is reacting before his brain does when he buries himself inside of you as far as you are capable and claws at your thighs, "fuck." The tail end of each of his pants dissolves into a quiet sob, "Nova. Nova... I need you. Don't ever leave me. Ever. You're the best part of me."
You reach your high together, when your core grasps onto him tightly like a hungry fist and sucks him dry. You flutter and pulse and throb together, your sensitivities both heightened and numbed as you cry and sob and wail against each other's lips. You're both so emotionally and physically drained that you fall asleep while he's still sheathed inside of you on the tail end of spoken sentiments of love, the sun reaching its full potential just beyond the edge of the sky as you both slip into an unconsciousness so deep that your minds are blank and empty.
Day 3,776
Harry hasn't slept for two whole days. He's proud to admit to himself that it's now unlike him to go this long without sleep and it makes him feel even happier to know that he doesn't harbor the same feelings of comfort around a wakeful and desolate schedule anymore. After his confession four days ago, you and him have reached a level of interwovenness that he could have only wished for. He woke up still inside of you hours later, a soft gasp sinking into his lungs when he became conscious of his position and your pliant body beneath him. He stayed right where he was and woke you up with kisses to every inch of your face, obeying immediately when you begged him to fuck you again and tell you how much he loves you and how you were made for each other.
In an unusual shift in both of your characters, you each took turns calling out of work sick and stayed glued to his bed for a full twenty four hours. You ordered takeout and napped with Pru, exchanged oral sex and made love in his bed and on his café chair, in his shower and on his kitchen counter. You squeezed every last 'I love you' into conversation, listened to every record in his collection and watched the sun set and then rise again on the roof of his building.
Harry has been existing within an aching haze the last two days however; his coworker asked him to pick up his lunch shifts in exchange for the night he covered for Harry this week and now his schedule has been clashing with yours. He's been much too charged and feverish to sleep, living on large coffees and boxing during every second of his free time. Your devices stay locked in both of your hands, filthy and enchanting text messages constantly en route to one another and promises to bury yourselves under his sheets and never leave again when you have the opportunity.
Harry kicks open the back door to Lily and stuffs his headphones over his ears, pausing his feet to take a deep breath of spring air and tilt his chin towards the sky. The sun is out and still risen due to the earth's position in space and the hint of the life that you soon will share looms behind the saturation of light upon his skin. He hasn't been able to think of much else aside from your mouth, your eyes and your legs, crystal clear waters and silken white sand, tropical fruits and night skies exploding with glitter. His mind and muscles buzz in excitement to see you, the heavy circles under his eyes displaying the obvious sleep he's been missing.
He's beyond tired and out of practice in terms of staying awake for unnatural periods of time, but he knows that if he keeps his eyes open for just a single hour more that he will have the luxury of curling up in your arms in your roomy and deluxe bed. You promised him hours of film in a room full of candles, feeding each other grapes while he massages your feet and sucks on your toes.
He slips his phone from his back pocket and opens your thread of messages.
Harry: Walking to the train now. What have you got on?
His phone buzzes with a reply almost instantly.
NOVA: A big, sexy smile.
He doesn't have enough time to fully ingest your response and the flutter of his heart because his concentration is thwarted by the cold smack of a hand to his shoulder. He jumps in surprise before glancing to his right to find the hostess from his restaurant with a widespread, irritating grin on her face, "hi Harry! Where are you off to?"
Harry groans internally before tucking his phone away, "just off to see a friend-"
Before he can even finish his sentence, she is interrupting with her own personal information, something that she does with him quite often and irks him like mad, "cool! I'm visiting my parents who live out on the outskirts so I have to hop on the express train. Is that where you're headed as well?"
If he had any other plan in the world aside from seeing you he would lie in this moment and run as far away as possible, but it seems as though he's stuck with her presence if they are going in the same direction. He sighs and slips his headphones around his neck, nodding curtly before adding, "yeah. I've got a book to read though, so..."
"Oh, it's fine. I won't bother you!"
His back pocket vibrates with another message from you and he's itching to read it but she seems like the type of person to snoop over his shoulder, so he decides to let it be until he's settled on the train in a seat far away from her. She weaves her arm through his as they begin to walk and he feels disgustingly uncomfortable but chooses to ignore it, his muscles stiff with tension and his neck beginning to ache from how awkwardly straight he keeps his head angled. She blabs his ear off for the entire walk, regretfully parting ways when he waves her off and takes a seat several aisles from where she settles.
He can feel her gaze on his face each time she inconspicuously turns around to watch him, his face buried in his book to appear unavailable and uninterested so that she won't have the urge to come plop down next to him to bore him with her blather. His eyes begin to feel heavy from the effort he puts forth to read the text spread out in his hands, a soft yawn inflating his chest as he rests his cheek against the window and watches the city shrink as the train speeds closer to your apartment and your bed. Each blink grows slower and slower until another yawn urges his eyelids to close completely, his mind sneakily transporting him from the public train to the private ease of your sheets and your legs, the smell of your hair and the plush kisses that he's dying to drown in. Sleep takes over like an evil spell being cast upon his vulnerable brain, pulling him under to lure him into a dream state in the very last place he feels safe losing consciousness.
Predictions?
Xx Birdie