Summary: Harry can be patient. After all, it's only until next year.

A/N: Lines in italics taken from Sylvia Plath's The Rabbit Catcher, with the tense tweaked.

I might have a multi-chapter fic coming along concerning Tom post-movie, but I'm not sure, since this fandom appears to be dead. If you would like to see it, feel free to tell me. :3


Duality reflects in the mirror. Unadulterated. Harry wheezes back, and says nothing. His eyes are like the portholes of a dead vessel whose boarding souls wallow in the deep with water-filled lungs. His headlamp shines like a beacon of death.

All morning he has been simmering there, swimming in his stomach like a terrible fish. Waiting to catch someone–anyone—alone.

(I felt a still busyness, an intent)

He locks Tom on the inside for this day of the year because it is special.

When he comes to, blood already colors the walls, splattered with the pleading that did not save them.

Several times tonight he's been forced to take off his mask in the terrible knowing that it has happened again, and he pulls off the leechy tube sock to breathe in the death. He gasps for air and sees what he's done. He cannot be forgiven.

He can only turn his back to the silence, the broken bones and stifled lives.

(The absence of shrieks

Made a hole in the hot day

A vacancy)

Harry refuses understanding.

Now he trudges up the path, past the squeal of sirens. Past Axel, who from no lack of trying is still alive, and Sarah, whose love for her asshole husband he's probably only strengthened (he bets Axel loves being the hero). Past the rescue workers who scatter in determination, all with their own tasks. The medics don't notice his staggering gait, the arm he holds jealously to his lower abdomen. He hopes they don't. It's so painful to walk upright he feels like he's going to pass out.

The mask comes off again, teeth grit. He sneers. Harry has only been postponed.

Sarah and Axel have bought themselves one more year.

He waits for when their bodies, or what is left of them, will be encapsulated in history. Harry smiles for the future of their empty chest cavities, and the boxes that will be filled.

That will be his final memory to Harmony.

He smiles in spite of the discomfort.

(How they await him, those little deaths…

They wait like sweethearts.)