Reticent (h.s fanfic, punk Harry)

Chapter 27

Hey guys, hope you're having an amazing Week! I really want to thank all of you for sticking around for the mess that is my life and Reticent. I hope you will continue to enjoy this book, and please, VOTE, COMMENT, and SHARE. I love all of you, and I hope you're all having an amazing night/day/afternoon.

For a few minutes, I was rooted to the ground, no indication of what to do in this possible, but very real, situation, and just for a second a thought crossed my mind, that perhaps Harry was inebriated, and from his crying earlier, perhaps a sad drunk? However, soon that thought had me livid with myself; I was acting like Darcy. Harry looked nothing close to drunk. I had no right accusing him of being one.

There was no doubt that Harry was distressed from some situation.

Darcy always told me that crying was a sign of weakness. I never cried in front of her, shy from the morning I woke up to the absence of my father. That morning though she did let me cry without any regard to her rules, and she'd even aided to make me feel better with her persistent whining about going for a walk in the mall with her colleagues.

After her reign over my life had come to and end, John taught me about the paramount effect of crying. He never saw it as weakness, he shed light over the fact that living in the candid life that Darcy did wasn't what being on earth was about. He opened up a whole new perspective for me. He led me to believe that I could be a vivacious woman. And I'd become one-I was becoming one for him. I was making him happy.

So while I stood by the door watching Harry gasp for breath, heaving in and out...I knew what was coming. I knew what to do in this situation. John always said crying was a way to let a human know that they were alive, that they still had something in there that beat for a reason, that sadness still existed in you-and that meant you were alive. Water always pointed to life. He always understood when I cried, and every time, he'd wait just at the end of my bed for me to finish and then take me into his arms for the storm to cool. I was angry when he did that-I was an eleven year old who still thought the world rotated around Darcy.

However he never spoke until the calm would settle over and I'd sit there wondering where to go on after that. But he always knew-he knew what to say and what to do.

The heavy rain outside thrashed against the window, cascading a soft drizzling shadow over Harry's soft figure, his bent back, his strained face. I stayed by the door, letting the slow wind dance around my padded feet.

The heaving finally died down to coarse coughing, which in a matter of seconds turned to sniffles. Harry straightened his spine to look at me now. I looked down at the puddle of vomit he had created. "I didn't know you worked here?" I decided to ask. A person in such a sensitive state couldn't handle more.

He didn't say anything, instead he stayed where he was, rooted to the ground, staring off into the abyss that was the window behind me.While I waited for any indication of change, I decided to sit on a stool facing the counter drilled to the window. I wondered where to go on after this, usually when John would ask a question after my breakdown, I would answer. I never knew how long it would take for me to answer, I don't know how long this would take. But the human brain is quite the sucker for affection and attention; it would take time, but Harry would answer.

"Stop this banal act," came his disgusted response.

A sneered reply wasn't my main goal, but I still received something from him. "You're quite belligerent for someone so quiet."

"I'm not quiet." His response seemed dismissive, but I continued. 

"I can't be blamed for your angst towards life. It doesn't seem fair, Harry."