In love and war (Narry)

In love and war

The bedsheets rustle as Harry scoots towards the nightstand, the candlelight now falling more generously onto the pages of the book he is reading. It isn't that he doesn't have electrical lighting in his flat. A table lamp on the aforementioned nightstand- which supports the candle as well, now- is a proof of this fact. Unfortunately, electricity has been out for weeks. Everything is unfortunate these days.

Ever since the war had begun three months ago, England has been thrown into a state of utter chaos and havoc. Men have been stripped of their jobs, forcefully recruited and sent off to the front lines. The womenfolk are all nurses now. Harry, though; Harry's case was different. He hadn't been able to pass the health checkup for the army recruitment, and therefore had had to stay behind. He was thankful. Violence wasn't his cup of tea. However, he did have to earn somehow. So the Cheshire born lad took up a job at a children's daycare centre. With their dada's shipped off across the waters and their mommy's always rushing to and from the government hospital, the kids often weren't taken care of. So this is Harry's routine now. Toast. Newspaper. Work. Home. Sleep. That's all he knows. Except sleep is hard to come by.

The night is still, but he knows it is only a matter of time. The real game always begins at night. He gathers the material of the blanket between his sweats-clad legs, pressing them hard together, searching for a warmth he knows he won't find. Stifling a yawn, Harry flips the page of the paperback, the sound of the paper turning sounding monstrous in the calm. But it is only the calm before the storm.

A gunshot rings out, piercing the darkness. Harry jolts, scrambling out of bed. The blanket catches on his large foot, causing him to stumble a little. The long limbed lad shakes the offensive material off with a curse, quickly making his way over to the window. He wastes no time in shutting it and closing the curtains. Diving back into bed, Harry blows out the candle, the book now resting forgotten next to him. He waits with bated breath. He always waits. For what? He won't be able to tell you because he doesn't know. There is a fear though, a common, constant fear amongst all the people. That the next gunshot they hear will be their last.

The room is thrown into absolute darkness. Harry counts the passing seconds with the help of the obnoxiously loud tick-tock from the clock on the wall opposite his bed. A minute passes, then thirty. The curly haired lad's eyelids are heavy now, drooping. It had been a long day at Gingerbread Day Care. Jake, the four year old, had been hanging off his curls all day while his little sister Nancy asked him why the animals picked the bunny as a symbol for Easter. Harry didn't know, and he couldn't care less. Maybe they'd held a conference, the animals. Maybe the bunny had served the lion a good turn, and the king of the jungle had blessed him thus in return. Or maybe he was just cute. Yeah, that explains it. Cute furry tail and cute long ears and cute front teeth and cute...

Briefly, light floods into the room through a chink in the curtain. It's gone as soon as it came. A shuffle of feet and suddenly, a cool metallic object is being pressed to the side of Harry's head; and a thick, accented voice is threatening him saying that he'll blow his skull to pieces. He fleetingly wonders if the man is Irish.

"Stay where you are. Don't you dare make a move," the voice hisses.

Then Harry can hear a match being struck, and the flickering flame partially lights up the face of the stranger. Curly's breath hitches in his throat. The eyes are the first thing he notices. Crystal blue, brilliant and startling, sparkling like sapphires in the light. The rest of his face is sooty, but even underneath, Harry can see patches of cream coloured cheeks, lightly flushed with a faded rose. He's merely a boy. A boy his own age, perhaps a year or two older at most. Those blue eyes flicker down to the bedsheet, then back up, a pink tongue poking out to lick the soot off petal-like lips.

"They're after me, your folk. I climbed up the drain pipe along the building. Make a noise, and I'll shoot."

And now, Harry's certain that he's Irish. Because they're the enemy and they're the ones his countrymen are battling against. But the boy's threat seems pretty empty, what with the revolver shaking in his other hand, voice wavering and everything about him just, well, scared. Like a cornered prey. And perhaps he is. They stare at each other like that for what feels like a long time. Harry, curious as to why the other looks so cuddly in spite of the receding blonde-dye-job-gone-wrong in his hair. And Blondie as to what Harry would do next. Recklessly, he tosses the gun onto the bed, burying his face in his hands in utter despair. "It's empty," he croaks. "No bullets."

Harry jumps, recoiling from the revolver as he'd half expected it to go off. He cocks his head a little, reassured because it doesn't go off, and also due to Blondie's words. "Are you hungry?" he asks impulsively, knowing it isn't the best thing to do but not knowing what is. Blondie's head shoots up immediately, and Harry can only see it due to the sudden movement- the match has burned out. "Yes. Yes, goodness yes," Blue Eyes breathes, and he can be heard sniffling. A pause ensues. "Do you have chocolate?" His voice is meek, and the green eyed lad has to check himself from cooing.

"I'm not going hurt you, okay? Just let me..." Harry trails off, scooting towards the nightstand slowly, careful not to startle the boy. It's funny how quickly the tables have turned. He reaches blindly for the drawer, pulling it out and extracting a matchbox, striking a match and using it to light the candle. Blondie is in uniform. Tattered, muddy, blood spattered uniform. His eyes are glistening with unshed tears, but there are clear streaks down his cheeks where the soot has been washed off. He's been crying before today, before now. Harry feels awkward, because he's lying down and the boy is kneeling on the bed next to him. Yeah, it's awkward. "Here," he mutters, holding out the candle to- "I'm Niall," Blondie speaks up, voice shaking a little, a bit hoarse, a sprinkle of unspoken emotion. Harry likes it a little, a bit, a sprinkle.

Niall takes the candle and holds it up, watching the boy's every move. Meanwhile, Harry hoists himself up into a sitting position, pushing the longish curls back from his forehead. The candlelight throws dancing shadows across the Irishman's face, making his pale skin look ghostly. The Cheshire lad potters across the breadth of the bed on his knees, stooping over to dig into the bottom drawer of the nightstand. He pulls out a box of Ferrero Rochers, counting the number of chocolates inside, wrapped in the solicitude of golden paper. There are three left. Three which he has been saving in case of an emergency. (There were ten initially, but the number dwindles every other day.) This is an emergency, he figures.