Human Design | Sirius Black

xxxxv. Sombre Revelations

IT WAS RAINING, it had been for a few hours now, which wasn't rare for winter in San Francisco. The clouds had disrupted the day and brough twilight prematurely, swallowing up the warm rays, though as the clouds weaned toward evening hours, a few glimmers of golden light managed to stream through, hitting the water drops on the window, painting them into magnificent pearls that Reece watched run down the glass, allowing the repetitive and predictable manner of their movement lull him to a apathetic state of relaxation. His cheeks had stopped reflecting the window long ago, and the only sign of tears left was the broken and wavering streaks of dried salt.

 Carlos's arms were wrapped around his abdomen. On occasion, the fingers of his left hand would stray up to run through Reece's hair to caress his cheek, feather patterns onto his arm on their way, and Reece would acknowledge it with some ghost of a smile, show his appreciation of Carlos's willingness to have let him into his apartment to do nothing. After about half an hour of screaming and crying, in turns and simultaneously, Zeke had retreated to bed from where Rick hypothesised he wouldn't rise for a few days before following him, and Reece had been left alone. He hadn't wanted to be alone, so he had walked through the rain to Carlos's apartment, but once inside, he had realised that he didn't really want company either, so Carlos had allowed him inside and not bothered him out of silence.

The rain slowed to a scattered drizzle, and large droplets gathered on the window, seemingly against gravity as they clung daringly to the smooth surface for minutes before collapsing out of existence. Reece parted his lips, but the only sound he managed was a collection of scathing and scratchy noises that sounded as if he had poured gravel into his throat and certainly felt like it. "I'll get you some water." Carlos's arms retracted from his waist, and then his warmth disappeared. Reece rolled over on the fifty-four by seventy-five-inch bed, which caused his feet to dangle off the edge, watching Carlos walk across the flat painted by golden hour to the kitchenette, where he picked up a thin and tall glass and filled it with water from the tap. It was a small act but there was an indescribable affection in it for him; had he been a wizard, he could just have summoned or materialised the glass and filled it with a charm, but the fact that he would climb out of bed and walk the (short? or lengthy?) distance of several feet to fill the glass from a tap felt to Reece an extreme gesture. When Carlos returned ("here you go" a soft hand brushing against his fingers), he pulled his feet under him to sit up on the bed so that he could drink the water without spilling any devotion onto the mattress. "How are you feeling?"

Reece thought a moment, then said, "Confused," because that was the emotion he first identified. Carlos nodded as if to say that's understandable, which irritated him because nobody else seemed to be confused, as the situation was completely normal to all of them, which alone already annoyed him.

Carlos looked at him with too much of a threat to sink into his eyes, so Reece looked away to sip at his water slowly, forcing the gravel down his throat and into his stomach. His eyes fell to the static of the television screen. It was on; it had been on when he arrived, and Carlos hadn't taken the time to turn it off. It was showing a rerun of the Challenger disaster, which had been on the news non-stop for several days now; the explosion in slow motion, debris kept raining from the sky. 

The volume of the device was low, but since there was no other noise in the apartment now that the rain had stopped drumming, it could just be heard – "We have a report from the flight dynamics officer that the vehicle has exploded. flight director confirms that we are looking at checking with the recovery forces to see what can be done at this point" – or maybe Reece simply knew it by heart at that point; he had always been good at memorising things.

He finished the water, kept hold of the glass with both hands, resting the bottom on top of his ankles that crossed in front of him, and said nothing. Carlos placed a hand on his knee, caressing his skin where his trousers had been torn months ago, calloused fingertips and soft palms. "I just don't – isn't the point of police to protect people?" Certainly not to kill them unless it was necessary.