Author's Note: I wrote this quite awhile a go. Be forewarned that Harry and Hermione are NOT in a romantic relationship! The relationship that Harry is in is a malexmale slash pairing. This is also a story that has potential to trigger for due to: abuse within a relationship, mentions of mental illness, heart disease, suicidal tendencies, major character death.
The identity of HIM is left entirely to the reader.
Small clouds fluttered by in a deep blue sky, and he watched them out his window. He hadn't moved in days except to get up and use the bathroom. He didn't speak. He didn't eat. He just lay in his hospital bed looking out the window, wondering how high he could fly if he were to jump off the side of the building. As high as the birds? Airplanes? Or as high as the chickens who couldn't fly at all? The ones who stayed stuck to the ground. Would he get stuck to the ground if he jumped? It was normally these thoughts that had the doctors strapping him down when he would open the window and start climbing out.
It's perpetual silence in this white, white room. No sound makes it through the clear, clear glass until someone opens the white, white door that matches his white, white room. More often than not it was HIM who came in. The one who put him here to begin with. The only one he loved in his entire life, his lover, savior and devil all at once. He knew that HE loved him; he had the scars to prove it. Scarring his body, that's how HE showed HIS love, how HE proved that even though HE makes him bleed and scream until he feels like his throat is going to stop working permanently that HE will always love him no matter how bad he is. But bad people have to be taught lessons; and boy did he learn LOTS of lessons. But that's okay because it makes him a better boyfriend for HIM.
He still wonders about the chickens.
Noise permeates his silence and his eyes snap open. His movements were languid as he rolled his head to the now closed white, white door to see who has intruded into his white, white room. HE is standing there smiling down at him with dark eyes. His heart jolts and sinks in conflicting feelings; excitement and horror. "Hey babe." HE leans down and kisses his lips before sitting down in one of the hard, hospital chairs. HE still has that smile plastered on HIS face. "Well, I have good news my little Lark! The check came through! Guess what that means?" HE said and paused as if waiting for an actual response.
Little Lark stayed as silent as he had been for the past 10 months. That check, that damn check. That check was what started this whole mess. "That means that when you get better we can move to Florida! Just like you always wanted, right? And you'll get outstanding offers there, amazing opportunities! Big, open stages, people who sing just as good as you, and tons of other musicians. Isn't that awesome?" Little Lark's hand twitched in response but HE wasn't satisfied. "Hey, come on Little Lark! Talk to me! It's me, baby. Come on." He prodded but Little Lark did nothing. HE stood up and leaned over Little Lark. "Answer. Me." He growled but Little Lark said nothing. Instead, he reached his hand up and brushed it against HIS jaw.
HE frowned but didn't push it again. HE just leaned down and kissed Little Lark before turning to leave. "I'll be back." HE muttered, then threw the white, white door open and walked into the loud white, white hallway. Little Lark turned his head to look out the window again. He wanted his answer; was he a pretty lark in the sky . . . or a flightless chicken?
It happened for four days straight before Little Lark couldn't stand it and stood up; he had to know what that pretty noise was. It was coming from down the white, white hallway, the only noise that made it into his white, white room with the door closed. It was so soft and sad that he felt drawn to it. He was hesitant in opening his white, white door and exiting his white, white room to trek down the white, white hallway toward the sound increasing in volume, but he managed.
Little Lark turned into another room that the noise was coming from and almost ran back out in shock. It wasn't a white, white room like everywhere else; this room had blues and reds and greens and oranges not just white, white colors. For some odd reason it reminded him of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, so he dubbed it the Willy Wonka Room. A large window took up one entire side of the Willy Wonka Room showing the outside and letting sunlight pour in. The carpet was one large, spinning red and black spiral that moved inwards. And in the middle of this spiral was a piano with a girl a bit younger than him playing the keys with soft fingers.
The girl looked back and smiled at him. "Hello. Do you want to play?" She asked stopping but Lark shook his head. He moved forward a bit and she smiled with an encouraging air. "Do you want to hear me play?" She asked and Little Lark hesitated before nodding. She motioned him over before turning back to the piano keys. Little Lark shuffled forward and sat on the piano bench next to her tentatively.
They sat quiet for four hours, Little Lark just listening to this girl play as he watched her, soaking in every feature she had. Her hair was a lustrous gold-red-brown mix; close to being light tan but also leaning a bit toward red. Her skin was pale and smooth and reminded him of the marble he saw a lot of statues made up of. She had a small button nose with small cotton-candy colored lips. Her eyes were a deep hazel that shifted between muddy brown and tree-green. She had a coke-body figure, mostly curves and dips. All in all she was very beautiful.
They left in companionable silence, the girl only saying goodbye before disappearing down the hall to another room. Little Lark ventured back through his white, white door into his white, white room. He lied back down on his bed and looked out the window.
Little Lark went back to the Willy Wonka Room every day for five weeks following that first day. He discovered the girl's name was Hermione, a somewhat peculiar name in his opinion. She never asked his name or asked him to talk, not like HIM. She just played the piano and talked to him in low tones for hours on end. Or some days they would just sit there, never making a noise and just listen to the piano. HE continued visiting Little Lark regularly and the longer Little Lark continued to remain silent, the more aggressive HE got. HE would threaten him, bribe him, do everything HE could to get Little Lark to talk. But HE never got a peep out of Little Lark.
One day, Hermione didn't come. Little Lark sat at the piano, his fingers on the piano keys, not pressing, just laying there. He wondered where she was; then he started wondering why she was here, in this white, white place in the first place. She didn't seem ill; a bit tired maybe, but not ill. Hermione didn't come back for three days. When she did come back, she seemed tired than usual. But she sat and played the piano like usual.
Hermione told him many things about herself. She told him she had a 28-year-old brother named Justin who played violin. She lived with Justin since her parents were both in jail for drug use and had been there since she was 8. She told him that she grew up in poverty, living from paycheck to paycheck in a small 1 room shack of an apartment. Hermione explained that her brother had amazing talent, talent enough to get into Julliard. However when her parents had been arrested, he dropped out and got a job to support both of them.
The one thing Hermione didn't explain was why she was in the hospital in the first place. Hermione would talk about school, friends, music; anything and everything except her condition. Little Lark figured it must be a condition since she had no stitches or injuries at all. Little Lark was content though and didn't need to know. They were fine just sitting, listening, and playing.
But then Hermione turned to Little Lark one afternoon and looked him in the eye. "Will you do something for me?" She asked and he eyed her, weary. Hermione took the pencil and sheet music off the piano, flipping the music over to the blank side. "Can you talk to me? On the paper." She asked and Little Lark just blinked. Then he reached out and took the items. "Please, tell me why you're here." She whispered. Little Lark tapped the pencil against his finger for a minute before he started writing. Mental instability. Hermione sighed, her eyes sad."What happened?" She asked and Little Lark paused again. HIM. Hermione licked her lips, nervous. "Who's . . . HIM?" She asked in a soft voice. Another pause. My boyfriend. Hermione frowned. "What did he do to you?" Showed me he loved me. "But isn't that a good thing?" Yes. "Then how is he responsible for your being in the hospital?" He hurts me. ". . . Does he . . . hit you?" Sometimes. Most times he cuts me. Not enough to kill me, just enough to leave his scar and show that he loves me. Scars are love, and I have a lot of his love on my body. "God . . . that's . . ." Hermione shook her head and smiled at Lark. "Never mind. So, tell me about yourself . . ."
Things continued this way for a few days, these paper conversations in the Willy Wonka Room. Then, the day before Little Lark's one-year anniversary of being in the hospital, Hermione asked him a strange question. "What's your name? Your real name?" She had never asked before, preferring to get his attention just by speaking out loud. Noise always caught his attention. Little Lark started to lift the pencil but stopped. Hermione asked for his real name. And Little Lark was . . . not his real name. That was something only HE called him. Little Lark put the pencil down and turned his body toward her a bit. Hermione smiled and leaned forward. Little Lark opened his mouth. H . . . Ha . . ." He paused, his throat sore and scratchy from not using it for so long. Hermione leaned forward again, excitement shining in her eyes. "Ha . . ." Little Lark watched as Hermione's eyes widened, excitement being replaced with shock and fear. Then, her eyes rolled back into her head and she fell off the bench.
Nurses and doctors flooded the room, picking Hermione up onto a stretcher and wheeling her out and away. Little Lark just sat in the same spot, staring out into the white, white hallway. ". . . Harry."
Little Lark watched out his window in his white, white room in the white, white building that resided in the now white, white room that transpired when Hermione died. A small strain on her heart, kicking in her angina pectoris, and WHAM she was gone. It was a strange thought to Little Lark and he couldn't help but wonder; is she now a beautiful lark or a flightless chicken? Those thoughts had returned full-force but now he became confused. Was he Harry again or was he still Little Lark? Hermione would call him Harry for sure but HE would call him Little Lark. And the last thing he wanted was to make HIM made by calling himself by a name someone else would use. He was HIS and HIS alone, no one else wanted him.
Harry blinked up at the ceiling. But...Hermione had wanted him. She'd laughed with him and smiled at him. HE never did that, not for real. HE was always faking HIS smiles, HIS laughs, HIS affection. HE never meant what he said when he gave Little Lark kind words. Harry balled his hands into fists. HE never cared about him, not like Hermione. HE was never gentle, not like Hermione. HE wasn't even a decent human being, not like Hermione. In fact, Harry was almost certain he had never been anything worth his time.
At first he'd been convinced that HE loved him. Harry and Little Lark alike had fallen head over heels for the man. Two years they spent in a happy, rejuvenate relationship. Harry's parents had never cared, always too wrapped up in their own little problems, and Harry being their only son they allowed him to slip through the cracks in their lives. HE was Harry's escape and the day Harry turned 18 he left his parents house and moved into HIS, getting a full-time job at the mini-market down the street. However, living together proved to be the very thing that made HIM turn into a monster.
HE became controlling and abusive, never allowing Little Lark to do anything without his consent. HE chose his clothes, food, friends; every aspect of his life was controlled by HIM. The first time HE hit him, HE had apologized and begged, swearing it wouldn't happen again that HE would never commit such a horrid act again. And Little Lark had believed him and continued to believe him through blackened eyes and split lips. Lastly, that damn check happened. Money had been tight for a while and HE was getting aggressive as money became scarce during the recession. So HE became almost desperate. HE made a deal with one of the local dealers.
HE started trading drugs at night in shady places with even shadier people. Little Lark had begged him to stop, afraid for HIS safety but HE had insisted. "He'll pay us a huge check soon." HE'd said. "We'll have more money then we know what to do with!" He'd soothed. "We'll move to Florida and start over. Wouldn't you like that Little Lark? You can go to a vocational school, full-time. You can become the voice teacher you always wanted to be." He'd promised, whispering it in Little Lark's ear at night while they lay in their cold, lumpy bed.
The check didn't come fast enough. HE got tired of waiting and took all his frustrations out on Little Lark. The beatings got worse, progressing until Little Lark landed in the hospital. HE came up with a good excuse; that they'd been crossing the street and someone ran a red light then sped off in panic. Given the area they lived in, the emergency crew believed HIM. It was as he was lying prone in this very same bed a year and three days ago that Little Lark had started watching birds, wanting to be one of them so bad.
Little Lark sat up, running a hand through his long, thick black hair. He stood and walked to the bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror. He saw a gangly, sunken-eyed, sallow skinned bird, caged by its master and with broken wings. His eyes were two dull emerald stones placed in tired eyelids. Small, pink lips opened, the skin splitting and a bit of blood rising to the surface from dryness and biting. "Harry. I'm Harry." He muttered, and his face hardened. Harry raised his head and crossed his arms. "And you won't cage me ever again."
The white, white door opened and someone entered his white, white room. HE smiled and walked up to Harry's bed. "Hello my beautiful Little Lark! How are we feeling today?" He asked, but, as always, Lark remained silent. HIS mood turned violent in a flash and Harry felt fingers lock around his neck, pressing down on his windpipe. "Answer me you little!" He screamed, squeezing harder. Harry opened his mouth and HE released his neck, mood instantly lightening. "What was that Lark?" HE asked sweetly. "Harry." HE stepped back a bit; surprised at the sharp way the word came out.
"W-what?" HE asked and Harry sat up in bed, eyes narrowed slits. "I said my name is HARRY! Keep your hands OFF OF ME!" He screamed, his vocal chords strained from not being used in months. HIS eyes narrowed. "Who the hell-!" He started yelling. "Get out! Get the hell out! You're nothing to me now. I want nothing to do with you! If you come back, I'll call the cops on your sorry ass! You won't control me now! YOU DON'T CONTROL ME!" Harry hissed and HE looked dumbfounded. He fumbled for the white, white door and fled his white, white room into the white, white hallway. Harry leaned back and sighed, looking out his window again. He was about to kill that damn lark if he didn't get the answer to his question.
Harry sat at the piano, fingers lying on the ivory keys. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes; and played. He poured his souls into the song, knowing it had been Hermione's favorite. It was called Blue and it was by a Japanese pop singer named Gackt. It was all crashing notes and fast-moving paces. Whipping body movements and soul-grinding feeling had to be put into the song. Once the last note revolved around the Willy Wonka room, Harry stood. He kicked the stands out from behind the piano and gave it a bit of a kick toward the window, following it. It fell through the large window with a deafening crash.
Glass rained down on Harry, slicing him in multiple places as he walked to the edge of the window. He looked up at the blue sky, spotting a bird flying by. He recognized it as a lark. He looked down at the ground, six stories below, smiling to himself. He spread his arms and leaned his head back, the same smile on his face. That day, got his answer to the question that kept plaguing his mind as he flew. He was definitely a flightless chicken.