Interlude [h.s]

forty-three

Harry sits up quickly.

The dark blinks back at him, and then the windows open before he can even give the command. Bless automated systems.

Now the light from the city is coming in through the glass, painting everything of a violet shade. He looks at the time, it's only half past four in the morning. Dawn will be in a few, which means he slept a total of two hours and forty-five minutes tonight. It isn't that bad, he reasons. He should've expected it when he chose not to take any sleeping pills.

Harry can't remember the nightmare that awakened him from his sleep, isn't even sure it was a nightmare at all. He feels a thousand times more foolish than what he's willing to accept and he gets off the bed.

The lights are motion-activated and follow him as he makes his way out of his bedroom and into the living room. He pours himself half a glass of Pinot Noir. That bottle alone costs a little over ten grand, but he doesn't mind popping it open so unceremoniously.

He takes a sip and explores the taste on his tongue as he walks towards his black leather couch. He lies down on it, his head on the armrest, his crystal glass in one hand.

The windows in that room open as well and Harry glances as the lights of the city reflect off the cup. The wine is dark red, just like ripe cherries. It isn't nearly as sweet, though. He tips it gently, first one side, then the other, watching how the liquid slides off the crystal. He tips it against his lips and takes another sip. He closes his eyes but does not sleep—darkness welcomes him.

He sits up again, running his hands through his loose curls. He's wearing a silk shirt and black trousers to match, because he's always found fashion to be rather invigorating.

Dress well once, it's a statement. Do it every time, it becomes part of your character. He was much younger than he is now when he realised that dressing well for himself is just as important as dressing well for someone else. If he gets himself to believe he's that made-up version of himself that is always the picture of perfection, he'll start feeling like that even when the obscurity of the night is so dark that not even the lights of Northfair can enlighten it.

He takes an economics research from the coffee table and studies it carefully while drinking, taking his time with both the wine and the papers. He looks over it until the sun rises and then he puts down the empty glass and walks into his bathroom.

After a quick shower, Harry brushes his teeth and shaves the little stubble he has on his jawline and upper lip. He uses makeup to cover the dark circles under his dull green eyes and he's as good as new.

He walks back into the living room in nothing but his boxers and cleans up the glass before putting it back in its place as he waits for his hair to dry. He'd usually never clean up after himself, but his privacy comes at a price. He had to learn to do a lot of things himself just to make sure nobody will enter his rooms. Evie still does, but rarely, and he doesn't mind too much. She's likely the only person he genuinely trusts out of everyone that works under him.

Harry leans against the back of the couch and watches as the sun rises higher and higher in the sky with every passing minute, until it finally peeks through the tall buildings of Northfair, almost blinding him. His city truly is a star among stars.

He walks back into his bedroom and walk in closet and picks out his clothes. He's feeling rather peaceful but not too fancy, so he discards the lace dress shirts and chooses a simple yet elegant one, matching it with a black suit that enhances his shoulders and slim waist.

A glance in the direction of his nightstand makes him feel some type of way, his rings bring all sort of memories to his mind. He shakes his head, he won't lose his mind chasing larks so early in the morning.