Kismet

Thirteen [The Spark]

"So, what is it?"

You sit with your legs crossed and pointed towards Harry, one of his large hands settled into your lap with your hands folded around it, your fingers entwined as your mouths burn with the residue of your kiss. Truthfully, Harry had never wanted it to stop. He could feel an addiction blooming between the gaps of your lips; a cluster of seeds planted on his delicate skin, your tongue the sun that willed it to grow and spread like a wild vine sprawling across the ground. He could feel something inside of him change instantly; a relaxation, a surrender, a sense that you have been dormant inside of him all of this time and finally crawled your way out to diffuse across his skin and form a protective sheath around his being.

Breathing is easier, blood circulation is easier, thinking is easier.

"What is what?" His fingers shift between yours, undulating their positioning with his thumb stroking across the back of your hand in steady waves as though he were trying to memorize each line and notch in your skin with his palm. He sniffles and keeps his eyes focused on your joined digits, his cheeks still shiny with tears. He chose not to wipe them away since he hardly ever affords himself permission to let them fall, instead choosing to let them dry on their own to reabsorb and nourish his withered despondency.

You try to ignore the sparks glinting up your arm and warming you from the inside out, "your gift. What is it?"

His knuckle grazes your kneecap as he lifts his focus to your face, flaring his nostrils and drawing in a long, healing breath. He sees his affliction as the very opposite of a gift but you are adamant in your conviction, telling him that with patience one day he may have a new relationship with it when the claws of the government have retracted from his soul.

"I um," his cheeks puff out with a substantial exhale, his eyes dropping to your linked hands again as he attempts to formulate himself elegantly. The last time he spoke these words out loud, he was maybe about four or five years old and just coming to a point where he felt he could convey the pictures inside of his mind to his mum and dad.

For some reason aside from fear of exposure, he is hesitant to share this information with you and he can't determine why. It's the one secret that he's held on to for what feels like an eternity; although it would be liberating to let it go, it almost seems as if he's failing himself by setting it free. Leaving nothing that belongs to solely him anymore, but rather, sharing everything he knows and releasing it into the heavens with the hope that his mystery will be cherished.

"Um," he pinches his eyes shut when you squeeze his hand in reassurance, flipping his palm over between yours and stroking it lovingly to urge him to continue. Flash floods, avalanches, tornadoes, muggings, motorcycle accidents flash through his mind, his eyelids squeezing even tighter in an effort to make it stop. Goosebumps travel from his wrist to his elbow like a lit match to gasoline, his chest deflating when you utter that 'it's okay' and that he doesn't 'have to tell you' in a soft hush but it only further expels his confession from his chest, "um? It's like... I have these dreams when I sleep and then... they come true."

You're quiet for such a long while that he keeps his eyes directed away for fear of facing any possible terror or judgement in your expression. His exhausted appearance, his preference to stay awake late into the night, boxing at two in the morning, the endless amount of observed sunrises. It all begins to make sense as it swirls and compiles in your mind. You know from experience that precognition is a psychic ability that the Emissary is just dying to get their hands on and now you're starting to wonder if those Adtroits in the world who aren't captured yet tend to harbor more high priority ESPs because they are petrified of their fates, "that's how you knew I was going to spill my coffee. Oh my god. Did you have a dream about me?"