Interlude [h.s]

seventy-four

Harry sleeps for thirteen hours.

It's enough time for Alouette to grow worried, but then she thinks about it and it just makes sense. He hardly sleeps more than four hours per day usually, and he was already running on empty last night, considering he didn't go to sleep. And then he got hurt and it was such a close call, of course his body has to recharge.

Still, though. She is more than just slightly worried when she wakes up five hours later and Harry gives no signs of having woken up at any point in the morning. She goes as far as to put her finger under his nose, and she's so glad when she discovers that not only he's breathing, but he's also breathing more steadily than before. His fingers aren't as cold as they were last night as she slowly untangles them and lowers his hand on the blanket gently.

He turns his head to the other side but doesn't wake up. She has to fight the urge to play with his hair until he stirs awake. She doesn't know what's wrong with her. Usually she isn't this affectionate towards him—how could she, when a simple hug is enough to make him tense up? But last night is still so fresh in her mind, and she really thought she'd lose him and she was so scared, and he's right here beside her now, and she wants to touch him. She wants to play with his hair and brush her thumb over his knuckles, kiss his cheek and sleep on his shoulder like she used to because he's here and he's alive and she's still so terrified—but then she remembers he's Harry, and maybe he wouldn't like that. Maybe it would just hurt him.

She sits up slowly, and discovers there's a dish and a bottle of water with two plastic glasses on the desk. Her stomach rumbles and she walks towards it. There's a card on the dish, next to a sandwich that has long gone cold. She picks it up and reads it.

Figured you'd skip lunch. Everything's fine.
Anthony

She smiles and takes a bite out of the sandwich, sitting on the chair and looking at Harry. Dark bags are starting to develop under his eyes, and she wouldn't say he's been sleeping for nearly eight hours—she doesn't count the five hours it took Anthony to save his life because, even though she's quite certain he wasn't conscious through it all, it could most definitely not be referred to as resting.

The blanket is resting halfway through his torso, so she stands up and cleans her hands on the paper napkin Anthony left before walking to the bed. She turns off the main light and turns on the bedside lamp on her side of the mattress, the dimmer illumination makes her eyes stop stinging.

She pulls the blanket up, very slowly, as to not wake him up by mistake. Then, she curls up on her side of the bed and closes her eyes. She doesn't sleep—she can't get her brain to shut up long enough to—so she starts going over the events of the night in her mind, trying to rationalise and explain them. It does nothing but make her grow anxious and restless. She wishes there was someone she could talk to, so that everything would make more sense and seem less scary. But, she realises, she doesn't want to talk to Elijah, Anthony, or even Elodie.

She wants to talk to Harry. She wants to talk to him and hear him answer back, because the last time she spoke to him he was barely living, and now she can't open her mouth—she's quite certain she'll start crying if she tells him something without getting an answer from him. The only thing that would ease her fears is hearing Harry's voice—which isn't a good thing, considering he's not going to be up for chatting anytime soon.

She listens to the sounds of the Revolution coming from the other floors—the steps above her, the low murmur of voices, even some laughs coming from somewhere in the building. It's two in the afternoon; life at the Revolution is in full swing, even though Alouette feels like she's entered a stasis. It's a peculiar feeling to sit here and know everyone else's day is going on as normal while she doesn't know what to do with her existence just yet. She has a feeling Harry would call it a sign of weakness.