killer instinct - || h.s. ||

88

" and i have this dream where i'm screaming underwater
while my friends are waving from the shore "

---

aurora astor.

Consciousness greets me with a steady thrum of anatomical beeping and the accompaniment of the hissing of fabricated air flooding my lungs. The cool air dusts against my numb skin, gradually aware of the way my bones weigh down with grief on the plush cot beneath me.

I dare to peel my eyes open, dare to brace the possibility that this could all be real.

I blink, those slow, savoring blinks that resemble an eternity of sleep with each one. Adjusting my dry eyes, darkness still coats the room with the faint glow of the vitals chart above me.

I notice the cream-colored blanket tucked up to my chest, almost as if tugged further up to ensure every inch of me was kept warm. I curiously wiggle my toes to ensure I wasn't entirely dead, and my eyes drag across the hollow room draped in night.

That is except for the chocolate-colored head of curls, sitting at the edge of my hospital bed with his head hung.

My hand intertwined between his, still matted in dark blood, lips sealed against the back of my hand. His eyes pinched shut as if praying in hopes that anyone could hear him above.

I stare down at him, perceiving him through blurry eyes that grieved the way I left him again. I tighten my hand against his, squeezing with the little strength left him me.

And his eyes flutter open, immediately hit with the sight of his glassy, bloodshot eyes in the dim light. It strikes me with such force that my breath softly catches. He can't possibly form the right words but pool more tears at his waterline with a relieved sigh.

His shoulders deflate as he blinks profusely, turning his head from me to pin his cheek to the back of my hand. Shielding his face from me, a frown overtakes my face as I listen to him muffle down his cries.

"Harry," my voice rasps from its disuse.

All he manages is a subtle hum through his swallowed agony. "Look at me," I thickly whisper, "I'm here, I'm here, I promise." I assure him.

His face hesitantly turns, revealing the tears glistening across his face splotched with dark violet bruises. And I shuffle over with a soft groan, our world suddenly moving in a contrasting slow motion, lifting the warmth of the blanket tucked over me.

And he instantly kicks off his shoes and climbs into the small cot, big enough for just one, yet he still slides in beside my body to entangle until into one. His warmth exudes into me as he tucks himself against my chest, burying his face into my neck.

I instantly notice the stiffness in my arm, remembering the gunshot now bandaged and put back together. I still encase my arms around him anyway and tangle our bodies together, allowing him to outlet the pain he's bottled these hours without me.

"I'm right here," I run my bruised fingers through his messy hair, sporadically layering soft kisses to his head as I scrunch my fingers through his curls.

His tears soak through my loosely tied gown, seeping against my skin with every delicate hiccup of his.

Eventually, his emotions fade out, merely nuzzling his head closer to me. Sniffling softly, he doesn't acknowledge the weight of his emotions much further.

Instead, his rough fingertips just softly trace patches of bare skin peeking out on my spine to spell it out rather than make any of this tangible. Neither of us dares to say a word, savoring the momentary calm after the storm for as long as we possibly can.