Dawn of Fog and Glass

Chapter Seventeen: Dawn of Fog and Glass

"What's happening?" I whisper, looking at him as if through a window.

He shouts something back, but the barrier between us muffles the words.

"What?"

He tries again, but it's useless. My chest rises and falls, his face blurring through the tears still spilling from my eyes. I must look a wreck: messed hair, red face, and a stitched-up, wild scar raking across my neck.

He sighs and leans close to the mirror. His mouth opens, and a puff of steam fogs up his face.

He writes with his finger. Where?

I breathe on the section beside it, careful to write it backwards for him. But my breath only fogs up a small circle, and if I could, I'd write an entire essay for him. I'd write a novel if he could get past the grammar mistakes.

Instead, I only have room for 503A.

He shakes his head. He doesn't understand. My shoulders slump. He doesn't get it. "503A" means nothing to him.

He poses another question.

How?

How what? How does this connection work? How are we speaking right now? How can we possibly connect through a mirror?

I can guess. I mean, the mirror is glass. I was panicking, and suddenly the thumping was even and Orion was there. But as far as I know, I can't create video-chat-like portals in mirrors.

I don't know is the best answer I can give.

He leans back, confused. After a moment, he points at his neck, eyebrows raised. I narrow my eyes. What is he talking about? But then, obviously, he's talking about the Frankenstein's-monster-like slit in my neck.

I shrug, breathe on the mirror, and answer: Crawler

His eyes widen, and he hurries to write the next question. Safe?

It would be so easy to say yes. To comfort him, to tell him I'm alright.

But we don't lie to each other.

I don't know

He frowns, eyes squinting at my tear-streaked face. What's wrong?

Everything is wrong. We'll never see each other again and I have no way of telling whether he's real or whether I'm going crazy and I just want him to hug me and I miss him every day and Barrett wants me dead and oh god, he needs to know about Draco, but I can't fit that all into one puff on the mirror. So, instead, I summarize: Miss you

His smile is bittersweet, and I think he's blinking something away. Miss you

I look him over. Paint cracking on his hands, a dash of purple behind his ear, skin pale, shadows under his eyes. He looks tired, sick, but he's Orion.

I write, Dysautonomia

He merely chuckles, relief sighing into his face. I'm fine

Take meds

He laughs again, but nervously. An unusual silence befalls us as we both try to think of something to ask each other. I know what I need to ask. But how can I summon up the courage to write it?

I shake the thought aside. It's too important to ignore. Still, my heart pounds when I write Draco on the mirror. He takes a moment to look up again and see it. His eyebrows furrow. Please take it well. Please take it well. Please take it well.

He mouths, What?

It's not my business. I know that, but Orion needs to know Draco's alive and well and missing him every day. I add another puff underneath and write 503A again. Something buzzes in my brain, and I try to ignore it, to hold on to the control I feel.