Painted Lady {h.s}

dreams

{I keep my visions to myself
It's only me who wants to wrap around your dreams}

★ LORELAI ★

July 5th
1997

The tile in a bus bathroom is surprisingly cold.

That's a fun fact I've learned this morning. I haven't slept for more than an hour or so, my eyelids heavy but my mind awake. I sit on the small bathroom floor, a sleeping Harry tucked into my lap. I've been up all night with him as he expels last night's regrets.

It started at four in the morning, when we were peacefully tucked into Harry's bunk together, and Harry was sound asleep. I was sprawled on top of his body when I was flung onto the floor, luckily he has the bottom bunk or I probably would've gotten a concussion. Harry sprinted past me in the dim lighting, racing to the bathroom. I followed him in, sitting with him as he threw up everything in his stomach.

I was already awake though, my brain not wanting to shut off for just a minute of peace.

I can't stop thinking about what he said on the rooftop during the fireworks. Whether it was purely drunk words, or his true feelings, it has caused me to spiral.

I weave my hand through Harry's sweaty curls as he sleeps in my lap. We have a sort of routine going, he wakes up and immediately has to throw up, and I comfort him back to sleep. It's nearly seven in the morning, and we haven't left the bathroom once.

I can sense Harry begin to stir beneath me, the warning before the storm. His eyes slowly flutter open, pure fear stuck in his irises. I quickly pull my hands away from him, knowing what is coming next.

He springs out of my lap, his eyes wide and his cheeks puffed. He latches onto the toilet seat, his back hunched and his breathing labored. He dry heaves into the bowl, making me sick just hearing it. I tiredly scoot closer to him, rubbing gentle circles into his back to comfort him.

This wouldn't be the right time to ask if he meant it, would it?

His whole body shakes under my touch, the image hurting my heart to witness. He throws up the contents of his stomach, and at this point it has to just be stomach acid, which makes it that much worse. He dry heaves for a couple seconds before he slowly pulls back from the bowl, his hairline drenched in sweat.

I flush the toilet as Harry slumps against the wall, looking completely burnt out. I grab a wad of toilet paper in my hands, inching my way towards him until our knees are touching. I hold his face in my hands, slowly wiping the remnants off his face, and tossing the wad into the trash. He stares at me drowsily, watching my face as I take care of him.

When I look back into his eyes, I see a bead of water trickle down his cheek. I quickly use my thumb to wipe it away, staring into his sad eyes.

"Do you want some water?" I whisper, and he nods slowly.

I stand from the floor on my sore legs, grabbing the paper cup by the counter and pouring him a small glass of water. I kneel back down onto the floor, handing the drink to his shaky hands. He takes a couple small sips before placing the cup on the floor beside him.

"I'm sorry." He croaks out, his voice hoarse. He keeps his head low as he speaks, his hands toying the loose threads on my socks.