Wandering Sky
By the time Harry realizes that he'd stomped out of his house clothed only in his pajamas and nothing else – not even shoes – he's so far from Number 12 Grimmauld Place that he can barely see it. He shoots down the idea of retreating home to his bed after only a moment. The strange energy beneath his skin isn't as bad now that he's left his house and it was a waste to go back to hiding from it. The burning had only gotten worse the more he'd been in denial.
Still, it would be nice to have remembered shoes … maybe he could just –
No. Going back to Number 12 would take too long and walking around London in the wee hours of the morning was hardly the most dangerous thing Harry's ever done.
Even if, Harry grimaces as he takes another step and feels the rough asphalt grate against the tender arch of his foot, it could certainly compete with the most uncomfortable thing Harry's ever done.
It was too late to go back now, however.
All Harry could do now was move forward.
Something strange happens to Harry between him resolving to try and ferret out what could help combat the inferno beneath his skin and him journeying into the city proper. He gets lightheaded and dizzy and he burns so much hotter than he had before, it feels almost like a fever. He stumbles too, and almost trips and falls. He catches himself before he can collapse, but gets a cut on his hand for his trouble when it catches on the side of the building.
He rights himself slowly, head pounding, squeezing his eyes shut against the disorienting feeling. When he opens them –
Everything blurs behind a haze of orange.
Firefold Community Clinic is the second best hospital specializing in the research and treatment of those with flames or otherwise 'supernatural' abilities. It's facilities are quite nice and there's not much of a noticeable difference between the technology used here, in London, and the technology that's used back home. Unsurprisingly, Italy houses specialists that understand flames in a manner that would likely shock those at Firefold. Shamal could've done his residency there, in any number of hospitals staffed entirely by those in the mafia –
He'd wanted to spread his wings a little bit. Make some new contacts. Et cetera, et cetera.
(Okay, and maybe that's true, but Shamal had been all set to work at the best hospital specializing in the research and treatment of flames – but he'd slept with the daughter of one of the board members and after the fifth, albeit somewhat half–assed, assassination attempt, he'd figured leaving Italy for a while may be for the best.)
And even as a new transfer to Firefold, he's begun the process of ingratiating himself to those that would be future contacts. Unfortunately, this process involves taking shifts that no one else wants, including night shifts.
There is only one positive to the absolute destruction of sleep schedule.
No one cares how long the breaks he takes are. Which is why he's taking his time now, leisurely smoking his second cigarette, watching the smoke unfurl from his lips and dissipate into early morning sky. After he's finished, he checks his watch for the time – grimaces when he notices twenty minutes have passed because while no one may care how long he loiters outside smoking, twenty minutes is a bit excessive.
Oh well. He shrugs off the momentary (and quite frankly, uncharacteristic) pang of guilt and departs from the alley he'd chosen today to smoke in.
It takes only a minute to walk from the alley to the entrance of Firefold, so he doesn't bother hurrying, hands in his pockets, eyes to the sky.
Maybe that's why he isn't able to avoid bumping into someone as he steps back onto the sidewalk (because for all his prowess as a player in the mafia, he's not one of those paranoid bastards that practices hyper–vigilance). It's only his reflexes that prevent the both of them from falling and to steady both himself and the clumsy bastard who'd bumped into him, his hands end up on the shoulders of the other person and him taking a half a step back to support them both. When he lets go and the other person pitches forward rather righting themselves, clinical worry pushes aside his irritation and he briefly scans the body in front of him for any obvious reasons that would cause unresponsiveness.
Shorter than Shamal and probably younger too, pale, underweight, shaking, barefoot. The hem of his pajama shirt was smeared red with what was most likely blood. How strange.
But also not terribly helpful in narrowing down the cause of the problem (or problems) plaguing the other man. Boy? Eh. Boy.
Something is pushing him to be closer to the boy in front of him and with a shrug, he complies, steadying them both as he does so.
"Anyone home?" He asks it without any expectation of a reply. When he's given nothing steady breathing in response, Shamal rolls his eyes and slides one of his hands from the boy's upper arm to his chin, in an effort to tilt the boy's face up so Shamal can determine if his pupils are dilated or not.
But when his hand brushes the soft skin of the younger man's neck, something deep within Shamal snaps to awareness, like a dog perking up at the sight of its master.
Holy fuck. Holy fuck. Holy fuck. HOLY FU –
It's a – holy fuck. It's a fucking Sky. There's a fucking Sky in his arms right now – holy fucking –
The last thing Shamal thinks before his vision blackens at the edges and his knees buckle – pulling both himself and the Sky to the ground, is an unintelligible string of curse words.