“Harry.” Someone says, and Harry stirs at the sound, blinking his eyes open and flinching slightly against the dim light.
“Hi.” The person says again, softly, their words tired and warm.
Harry tries to say something back and ends up making a throaty sound instead, blinking some more, bringing everything into focus.
Liam, he realizes, is standing over him, face blurred up by the dim row of lights on the ceiling. Liam, who Harry hasn’t spoken to in nearly eight months now, is standing over him, looking tired and worn out and still like everything Harry remembers.
“Your hair grew.” Harry notes quietly, corner of his mouth lifting up.
“Harry.” Liam says, careful as he looks down at Harry. “You’ve been in an accident.”
“I—” Harry cuts himself off, because it’s then that he notices muted beeping in the background, the staccato heartbeat of machinery. He’s got patches on his arms wiring him up to a machine, and his skin is pale white. He can see the veins there, he realizes. Right there on his wrist.
There’s something so pathetically fragile about that.
He can’t even help but see himself the way he must look in Liam’s eyes, laid out pale and bruised on a hospital bed. Like a boy of skin and bones, maybe. Just a shadow of what he used to be. And god, he used to be so much. He used to be so good.
Harry stays quiet, his fingers brushing over his wrist as he looks around the room, Liam’s eyes heavy on the side of his face. The window on the wall beside his bed looks out onto the parking lot, and there are only a few cars scattered there, all of them blanketed in fresh snow.
The sky, though, is full of winter.
Snow falls down in quick, fat flurries are Harry just wants to reach out and touch them. He also notices the three green armchairs sitting in front of the window, all of them empty, and he tries not to think too hard about the people that he wishes were sitting there.
Blinking, he turns back to face Liam. “The world is ending, Li.”
Liam ignores that statement, but he’s looking at Harry like he’s not quite sure what to say. Finally, he sighs. “I got a call when it happened, you know. We all did. The other boys are downstairs getting some coffee right now, I reckon they’ll be up in a bit, but we were all so scared, Harry. You’ve been asleep for three days now, and the doctors weren’t sure—”
“The other boys?” Harry repeats numbly, trying to sit up in bed. He winces at the pain that flares down his spine, shuffling back until his head rests against the wall. He doesn’t think about the fact that he was dying. Instead, he looks back over at the window, feeling Liam’s eyes on him as he speaks. “They’re here, then? Is he—um, is he here?”
Liam stays quiet for a moment. “Um, no. He had something, I think—”
“—Don’t.” Harry says, and it comes off sharper than he intended. He turns back towards Liam, running a hand through his hair. “I mean, you don’t have to lie to me, alright? I get it. I understand.”
“Harry.” Liam says. His voice seems tired all of a sudden, and Harry doesn’t want to hear it. Not here, where he can’t get away from it, where it’s not spilling out from the other end of a phone line. Liam tilts his head to the side, looking sorry, and it’s the worst thing Harry’s seen in a while. “Harry. You left him, yeah? You do know that.”
“I know.” Harry nods, but he’s looking at the bruises on his hands. When Liam doesn’t say anything, Harry nods again. “I do, Liam. I know.”
