Merry Happy

Chapter Twenty Four

The next morning went on like the last few mornings had. Limbs wrapped around limbs, lips brushing against naked skin, breathy giggles that filled the room as the morning sun dawned through the hardly closed satin curtains.

"I've got to go to the studio today." Harry said as they finally found themselves getting out of bed. She knew he was watching her as she bent over to grab her cotton shorts from puddle they had fallen to on the floor.

He rested against the headboard, his bare chest looking tempting to her as he smirked at her. She pulled up her panties and shorts, turning to him to return the smirk.

"New songs to record? Fans to please? Babies heads to kiss?"

Harry laughed, shaking his head as she studied him with a smile. "New songs, yes."

"Well, that's good."

She let herself ogle him for a moment, the beautiful designs drawled with blank ink against his bronze, flawless skin.

"I never asked you." She found herself asking out of no where. "Have you been having any more bad dreams? About the–"

"The bird." Harry ducked his head sheepishly, looking down at his wringing hands. "No, I haven't. Not since you've been in my bed, but sometimes–sometimes they come back."

She tried to lighten the mood, forcing a laugh. "Poor big boy is scared of a few birdies in his dream?" She pouted out her bottom lip as he glanced back up at her. The smile died from her lips when she noticed his expression.

"It's not like that." He tried to laugh as well, but nothing about him seemed even remotely amused as he spoke. In fact, there was a dreaded look to him in which she didn't like. "It's different."

"What are these dreams, Harry?"

She moved back to the bed, sitting on the edge of it and turning so he had her whole attention. His green eyes studied hers for a moment, sucking back a breath with the look of an internal war going on amongst his insides before he worked up the courage to speak again.

"It's the same every time. This kid and his bird and the bird, well, it resents the boy. It absolutely fucking hates the boy. This bird, this delicate and thoughtful creature who had loved the boy back, now resented him ever since the boy had his wings clipped."

Quinn's mind went blank as she stared at Harry, wondering if there was something physiologically off with him. She had never seen such sorrow on his face and he was simply speaking about a dream he had had, a dream that didn't seem as scary as he led it on to be.

She was silent, her lips tucked in as she stared at him. He lifted his eyes to her, once again searching–always searching her face– as if he were looking for something he was missing, as if, by looking hard enough, he'd find something there. Something he wished were there in the first place.

His words were hoarse when he continued, "It makes sense though, doesn't it? The bird has all the reasons in the world to hate this boy. He had taken the poor creature from it's own freedom, the life of a bird, and took away his ability to fly." Harry shook his head, distressed as Quinn felt the urge to laugh or to cry. "It makes sense. The bird had loved the boy just as much as the boy loved the bird, but the boy made the bird his prisoner."

"Harry–" Quinn croaked.

Half of a smile pulled onto the corners of his mouth as he looked towards the window. "I know, it's fucking stupid. I don't even know why–" He swallowed. "It's just dumb, yeah? I'm going fucking insane."

He got out of bed then, not ashamed by his nakedness as he reached for his own clothes on the bedroom floor. She was silent as she watched him slip into them, running a hand through his matted hair and turning to give her an uncertain smile.