Tribulation [h.s]

26

"Well I know full well that you are the patron saint."

-

Walking into Harry's Manhattan apartment, I expected a lot, but I never expected this.

When the elevator doors slid open on the fifty-third floor, I was greeted with exquisite tapestry, fine architecture, and a wonderful view of the skyline but-

everything is broken.

It's dark, and the air is cold. Shelves are tipped, tables are flipped, furniture is fractured, and I have no choice but to walk over shattered glass that litters each corner of the floor. Along the way, I notice that, even though it looks like a tornado flew through here, this place is surprisingly empty. It's just like his house in the suburbs. No picture frames or paintings are hanging on the bland walls, and there are no odd souvenirs or other small decorations that make this place warm — that make this place home.

There's no sentimental value here, only destruction.

"Jesus- did someone break in or something?" Considering the night we had, that idea doesn't seem too outlandish.

"No," Harry says simply. "I did this." He walks through the ruins without a care in the world.

"Why?"

"Because I felt like it."

"That's not really an answer," I grumble, following him.

"I like breaking things. Is that a good enough answer for you, princess?"

I choose not to respond. He strides through his room — which doesn't look much better than the rest of the apartment — and makes his way to the master bathroom. He starts digging around for something without moving his right shoulder too much and ends up pulling out a first aid kit from the cabinets under the sink. Then, he grazes past me again and sits down on his unmade bed, groaning a bit as he does so. I can imagine his adrenaline is wearing off, and the pain is starting to kick in now. So when he struggles to take his shirt off, I finally move.

"Let me help you."

"No. I've got it."

"Harry, stop being stubborn and let me help you. You're in pain."

He offers me that look – that deepest glare that usually means nothing but trouble for me – but I won't back down this time. I huff out a breath before offering him the same look. It's a bit weird, considering we're in some sort of standoff now.

For a second, he looks surprised. Then, his scowl eases and slowly melts into a cunning smirk. He seems awfully amused now. "That's adorable." My eyes roll skywards. Of course, he starts mocking me. "Where did that attitude come from, huh?"

"I'm not adorable," I complain and step closer to him. I grab the bottom of his shirt and help him lift it above his head, yanking it just enough to make him hiss.

"Again with the attitude." He laughs breathlessly through the pain.

I've never seen Harry shirtless before, and it's hard not to stare. So, with curious, wondering eyes, I take his body in. He's covered with dark, intertwining violets; intricate lines blend with harsher ones to form delicate yet powerful-looking feathers down the length of both of his upper arms. Sadly, my eyes lose track of where the feathers come from as they wrap around his back and disappear from my sight.

He does, however, have other tattoos that stick out to me, like the butterfly in the middle of his chest. There's also strange patchwork that begins right after the feathers end around his elbow, going down to his hands and fingers. Out of those smaller patchwork tattoos, the one that makes my eyes pause after tracing over his body for some time is a set of roman numerals followed by a single name in airy cursive.