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Rafal counted his breaths to pass the time. He kept his eyes on the moonlight that streamed in through his window, bathing the room in a cool blue he had wished, many times before, he could drown in. Tonight he did not wish it. He had not wished it since he had a bed to call his own.
On the other side of the door Potocki pottered about the house, tidying up. Rafal listened as he put out the fire, pushed in the dining chairs, flipped through a book or two. All of this Potocki did quietly so as to not disturb Rafal, who really ought to be asleep by now. When he retired to his room he did so no less quietly, soft footsteps retreating toward the larger room further down from Rafal's. Rafal waited a while longer, listening and counting in his head until he could hear only his own breathing.
He pushed back his covers and tiptoed to the door. Pushing it open slowly, he peeked out and darted down the short hall to Potocki's door. Again he listened, pressing his ear lightly against the thick dark wood. His first night here, Potocki had shown him that he would always leave the door ajar in case Rafal should need him. He need only call or knock and Potocki would be there to help. Rafal had not done so yet. He would not risk upsetting the man who picked him out of the gutter at no personal benefit to himself; he would not risk losing everything now that he had it.
So he was careful not to lean against the door lest it swing open and give him away. Potocki did not snore, so there was no way to be sure without seeing. Rafal slipped inside the room. All was still, but in the light of the moon he could make out the bundle of blankets that was Potocki in bed. He felt himself relax.
He let a moment pass before he drew nearer. He struggled, still, to think of this man as his father, though Potocki said he could call him that if he wanted—certainly, he already referred to Rafal as his son. The first time Rafal had heard him do so, Potocki had been speaking to someone else, some parishioner who knocked too early in the morning. It had woken Rafal, and he was afraid until he remembered where he was. As he tried to calm himself, to quell the instinct to run, he heard a voice drifting from the front of the house. It was angry, hissing, as if its owner didn't want to be overheard.
It took him a moment to recognize it as Potocki's. He had never heard him sound like that before.
The urge to run returned with a vengeance. He struggled to think what he had done to have already upset him so. Was Potocki, at this moment, asking someone to come and take him away? Would he be hurt? Could he talk his way out of it? With his heart hammering madly in his chest, Rafal crept down the hall and peeked as far around the corner as he could without being spotted.
Yes, it was Potocki at the door, alright. And he was angry. From his angle Rafal couldn't see who he was speaking to, but it sounded like another man. He strained to make out their words.
"—that I would be happy to help you," Potocki was saying, "but I fail to see why this couldn't wait a few hours more." Odd—Potocki was an early riser, from what Rafal had observed thus far, and anyway he was already dressed.
"But Father—"
"At least knock gently! The sun has barely risen, and you're here knocking down my door over a sore throat. Imagine if you'd woken my son—he needs his rest! You know he's quite young, and—"
Rafal did not hear the rest. There was an odd feeling in his chest, and he walked back to his room as if in a dream. He got back into bed and stared at the ceiling and decided, when he heard the front door shut quietly behind Potocki and the man as they went out, that it was a feeling of weightlessness. His entire body felt as if it were made of light. Potocki found him still awake and smiling to himself when he returned, a half hour or so later, to wake him and officially start the day.
Rafal observed Potocki's sleeping form now. Like last night and the night before that, he slept curled on his side and buried beneath various thick, worn blankets. Rafal half-suspected that his body ran cold. He watched the dark curls that fell over his face stir with every exhale.
He relaxed further.
He was about to turn and go when Potocki's dark eyes snapped open. Rafal froze. Had he made a noise?
"What..." Potocki mumbled, clearly disoriented. His eyes focused on Rafal's tiny silhouette, standing a few feet from the side of his bed. He blinked and propped himself on his elbows. "Rafal? What's wrong? Did you have a nightmare?"
What could he say? That he wanted to make sure he hadn't abandoned him in the middle of the night? That he was afraid he'd stopped breathing and left him all alone in the world? That he was so small, and he never wanted to be on his own again?
At a loss for what else to do, Rafal padded over. He climbed up into the bed wordlessly. "Oh. Um," Potocki said, but after a moment of confusion he lifted the covers, and Rafal curled in beside him.
Potocki's hand hovered uncertainly in the air above him, and Rafal tucked his head under Potocki's chin.
So, he had been right, he thought to himself. Potocki did run cold. His cool skin smelled faintly of frankincense, still, from mass. He burrowed closer.
In truth, he did not like to be touched. But he had seen other children on the street lucky enough to have parents do this with their mothers and fathers, warming one another beneath awnings and bridges and makeshift tents, and so part of him felt this was the thing to do and part of him wanted to.
"Alright," murmured Potocki. "I suppose it's alright for tonight." And he let his arm rest lightly over Rafal's shoulders. "Are you comfortable?"
Rafal nodded against his chest. He pressed himself closer still. It was only rational, of course, when Potocki ran cold and he ran hot. "Yes," he said. He had some sense that now would be the optimal time to say the word, but his lips were unable to form it. "Thank you," he said instead, and that, he meant entirely, in ways he hoped Potocki understood.
Potocki's voice was a warm rumble near his ear. "Of course. Now, let's rest."
So they lay there together, in a cocoon of blankets and moonlight, Rafal counting Potocki's breaths as they evened out into the slow rhythm of the dreaming. Gradually, he brought his breaths into step with those of the man he would someday call his father, and soon he followed him into sleep.