✓ Wrong Moves and Knife Wounds /h.s./

[15] vulnerable humans and small confessionals

apartment
[warning: talk of suicide and religion. sorry in advance to anyone who reads on and is offended. i'll try to make sure that this does not repeat itself in future chapters.]

Rory cleans the bathroom with a frown that Harry can't help but notice. He doesn't notice these things very often but here —lying down on his bed pretending to sleep but really just watching her— he feels like he can remember her face entirely even after she's gone. It scares him a little because he can't do the same for Penelope.

Every time Rory turns her back or turns her head he traces the new angle of her face. She tries to steal glances at him and he pretends to be asleep so she won't worry much about him not getting enough of it. It was a mistake to admit that to anyone, let alone someone who would actually care.

Harry frowns when he sees her standing in the bathroom facing the mirror. He wonders if it's playing a trick on her like it had done to him because that's how she's looking at it. He's utterly silent as she tilts her head and tightens her lips before bringing her hand forward to graze the glass.

"Don't touch it." He stops her before she has the time to cut herself. He doesn't care if she gets hurt or not, he just doesn't want it to happen here.

Rory turns to look at him with wide eyes, the bloody rag in her left hand loosening in her grip as she looks at him curiously. It's no secret that his secret is out but he knows she'll ask anyway to see if he'll be honest with her. For once he's a step ahead of her. "You didn't sleep?"

Harry shakes his head and leans up in the bed, pushing his wounded hand further into the covers to feel the pain. It's soothing but repulsing at the same time. Like sleeping. Sleeping. "It's like swallowing a bullet," he tells her so early in the morning, removing the blanket from around his torso. "Like being forced to lock it between my teeth and tilt my head back." Swallow it whole and wash it down with his dead girlfriend's blood.

"Harry-"

"Can I call you Aurora now?" He doesn't feel so bad about being honest with her anymore. Maybe it's because now he knows she has vulnerabilities. It's like finding out she's human and capable of bleeding. Is it too late to tell her to touch the broken mirror so he can see if she really bleeds? Do they bleed the same way?

"What?"

He knows she heard the question. Maybe the format wasn't right. Maybe it just came out wrong. "I want to call you by your real name."

"Okay."

He's looking at her like she can reach into his body and remove the bullet, but she can't. It's metaphorical but that's not how it feels and her fingers are always trembling but he trusts her. In this instant, right now like this, he trusts her so much and it's not that scary anymore. He closes his eyes and smiles a little because his thoughts are so scary but he's coming to terms with what he wants. In a way, he's already made up his mind. Death. It sounds pretty when he says it over and over again in his head. Why was he so scared of it before? Dying is like sleeping without dreaming; and dreaming means shit to him if all he really ever dreams about are nightmares. It all makes sense now. The question is when and how. Whether or not he'll do it or the world will. He knows he doesn't have the heart to do it himself but he'll do anything at this point.

"What are you thinking of?"

"I have to go," he stands up and rubs his eyes, momentarily feeling lightheaded from standing so suddenly.

Aurora sets down the washcloth and looks up at him. He can see her fingers twitch at her sides and he smiles because he knows why. His fingers do the same exact thing when he wants to reach out and touch something. He wants to know what part of him it is that she wants to touch. Calloused hands? Hot neck? Thinning face? "Where are you going?"