Kismet

Eighteen [The Record]

You haven't been inside of many apartment buildings on this side of the city; they are intimidating by nature and stretch far into the sky, their expansive widths and the way they're built in horseshoe shapes with imitation courtyards in the center make them appear like walls of steel or grounded international space stations. It's obvious that they were painted shades of poppy red, powder blue and ballet slipper pink to ease the obstruction of manmade monstrosity, their vibrancy having weathered from years upon years of harsh rain and snow. The structure and color reminds you of the way citizens dress themselves, like male birds always on the hunt for a mate. Constantly attempting to outshine one another, their conspicuous dance a distraction to the cataclysmic massacre of innocent people that occurs under their noses daily.

You had assumed when you entered the lobby of Harry's soaring apartment building that you would be taking the elevator to his floor, so when he makes a beeline towards the stairwell marked with a bright red 'exit' sign, you simply stop in your tracks and observe him.

He can sense that you're no longer behind him when he reaches back to grab your hand and grasps nothing but air. The dusky gray of another gloomy morning lights up the lobby with a faint, creamy glow, the windows reflecting off of the beige linoleum to add multiple layers of shining graphite to the ground. The lighting is exceptionally suitable for Harry's naturally subtle flaxen complexion, his grassy eyes gleaming in your direction when his gaze twists over his shoulder, his wild mane of curls falling in waves around his chiseled bone structure. He takes a couple steps towards you but bounces back and forth between his feet nervously, his eyes surveying the arrival of the elevator before looking back at the stairwell.

He had endured a premonition maybe three or four years ago in which he was caught in an elevator during an earthquake in Mexico, his fists pounding every single button on the panel until each one glowed and the car stopped to let him escape. He snaked out between the metal doors mere seconds before the elevator dropped down the shaft and burst into bits in the basement, his knees buckling from shock and the movement of the building to force him onto all fours. He ended up gaining consciousness before witnessing anything too devastating, but he had learned the following day that it was one of the most destructive natural disasters in almost eighty years. The impact measured 9.1 on the Richter scale and had killed over one hundred thousand people.

He chose to avoid the news for weeks to come because his helplessness made him sick, knowing that in a perfect world his affliction would be used by government officials and scientists to help predict and prepare for such mortifying events but that wasn't the way things worked. He was an outlier, a nuisance. He was a problem and a threat. He was the enemy because he had something that corrupted officials wanted to eradicate or use for war and nothing more, but he refused to give them what they cherished because like all authority, they misuse power and flex their muscles at times when it's not necessary to domineer. They want what they don't care to understand and they disregard what they think they comprehend. But they're almost always wrong.

The elevator dings and the doors slide open, you and Harry are staring at each other in a clear display of checkmate with your feet planted firmly against the tile below your boots. He passes his helmet between his palms before adjusting his bag on his shoulder and tucking the headgear under his arm, his fingers pinching his bottom lip into a tempting puff of pink, "I... usually take the stairs." He hadn't quite realized how unusual it was until you stared at him like he had suddenly grew fur and rabbit ears, "s'okay. Let's take the elevator. I'm - it's fine."

He was kind of hoping he could use the walk to regain his steady footing from the scooter ride and to ease the tension of soon having you in his intimate, quiet apartment. He trusts that you would fill the space quite nicely with your body and your voice and your smell but it still doesn't shake the nerves causing each one of his fingers and toes to go numb. His hands were so sweaty on the ride here that he had to keep wiping them on his thighs in the hope that you wouldn't notice. You had, but you just chose to keep it to yourself, "what floor do you live on, dreamy?"