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There’s a tooth on your bedside table. It’s stained with old blood.
There’s a bullet, lodged in your ceiling. It’s stained with fresh blood.
A mirror lies cracked on your coffee table, dusted with powder. It will reflect back a broken man. He is covered in his own blood.
*
You’re on your couch, a glass of water clutched in your shaking hands. The world is too bright. Your hearing has started to come back, and with it, the loudest fucking ringing you’ve ever heard. Your ear hurts like a bitch.
“Are you drunk,” you say, and it isn’t a question. The blood caked on your face cracks as you speak.
Harry sits next to you, his thigh touching yours. The warmth and familiarity of him is comforting. It shouldn’t be.
But it always is.
“No,” he replies, but the inhale he took before saying it doesn’t match the shortness of the statement.
You put down the glass on the table. It sits there forlornly, abandoned amongst the horrible paraphernalia scattered across. You brace yourself with a hand on his thigh as a wave of dizziness takes you over, then you turn.
Your face is right up close to his as you search his pupils, but your vision is still hazy and your nose is fucked so you can’t even smell if there’s booze on him.
“Don’t fucking lie to me, Harry,” and you weakly put a finger against his chest for emphasis. You can feel his heartbeat. It’s fast, but it’s always been fast.
And why wouldn’t it be right now? He just walked in on you covered in blood. Anyone’s heart would be racing after that.
“I’m not drunk, Jean.” He puts a hand over yours where it slumps against his chest.
“Then why,” bile rises up in your throat and you swallow it back down. “Then why are you here?”
“You said you’d deal with me later.” Harry says this simply, a bit of a laugh in his voice.
Shock hits you, dull at first, then sharp. You refocus your eyes on his face and-
Your fist connects with his nose and neither of you have felt emotion like this in months. Bloodlust rises in you, but in him, it’s tampered by amnesia and some other, mysterious guiding force.
Someone has reset his nose. It’s still visibly been broken, and there’s flecks of blood left in his stupid mustache, but he looks much, much better than he did before.
Shame hits you now, hot and bittersweet in its familiarity. You should’ve been the one to set it. You should’ve taken care of him. You’re his fucking partner.
A lot of thoughts are running through your drug-addled mind right now. Apologies and questions and everything in between. What comes out of your mouth instead is:
“Well shit, Harry, I thought Kitsuragi had your dick wrapped around his little finger.”
At least you’re still the worst guy in the world!
He looks confused. “Why would Kim be involved?”
There’s also a sense of evasiveness in his tone. Interrogate this further. There’s something there, something just outside of your reach.
Suddenly you can’t bear to be touching him. You flinch backwards into the corner of the couch, drawing your knees into your chest.
“Please go, Harry,” you say, with as much force as you can manage. It’s slightly diminished by the fact you’re curled up into yourself like a fucking child.
“Yeah, uh, no can do buddy.” He is distinctly uncomfortable. “Look, Jean, I’m not…I’m not used to this. Being on this side of the equation. But I want to help.” And he reaches out to you, puts a hand on your knee.
It burns.
“Don’t fucking touch me unless you mean it,” you say, but you don’t slap his hand off.
“Why wouldn’t I mean it?”
“Are you fucking kidding me, Harry? You don’t even know me. You don’t even…”
You don’t even love me anymore. If you ever even did.
“I do love you. I don’t know you, but I want to. Why the fuck do you think I offered to blow you?”
Your vision goes dark. You’re back in the tunnel and the train is hitting you like a heart attack. You can’t breathe but there’s warmth around you, pressing into your shaking body. Someone is murmuring. Someone is pressing kisses into your skull.
“Jean,” Harry says, and you’re back on your couch, face wet with tears and blood and snot. He’s holding you.
“Fuck off, Harry,” you say wetly.
“I mean, I could,” he replies, “But then I’ll have to send Kim in.”
You stiffen in his arms. “Kitsuragi’s here? Why the fuck is he here? You wanted this to be some fucked up threesome?”
He lets go of you so he can look you in the eyes. There’s a flash of something akin to interest on his face before it turns into something more awkward. He glances at the door, then back to you.
“She told me.” He’s biting his lip. You see a spot of blood appear.
You want, perhaps more than anything in the world, to lick it off.
“Harry,” you say, and maybe there’s fear in your voice, who could fucking say!
“About the train.”
You still. Everything slows down around you. Even the ringing in your ears takes on a different pitch.
“We checked the train stations first,” he continues. “And then we got a noise report from your apartment complex and we came straight here. I don’t…” And his voice falters. “I don’t understand what she meant. What train, Jean? And why now? Why today? Did I… did I do something?”
Harry has tears welling up in his eyes and your arm jerks forward.
Don’t.
You stop halfway through the movement, your hand outstretched towards his face. Instead of slapping him, you slowly, ever so gently, cradle his jaw.
“I’m sorry,” you say, and he nods shakily.
“I’m going to go get Kim now,” Harry says. “Please be here when I get back. I can’t lose you again.”
And despite everything, you nod.
He leaves, taking his warmth with him. You cradle the hand that cradled him. You don’t cry.
You won’t cry again for another four months, when the unthinkable will happen. But he will be there. He will be there for you. You are not alone. You never will be again.
*
Harry’s in your flat, high as fuck, and he’s shoving your face down to the mirror even as you struggle.
Admit it. You like this. Being manhandled by the one person in the world who understands you. Leave all worries behind, just let Harrier Du Bois make all your decisions for you!
You keep struggling, for posterity’s sake, and he leans down, breathing into your ear with a hand gripped around your neck.
He should press harder. Really start to choke you. That’ll kick you into gear.
“Fucking do it, pussy. Snort that shit up. You know you want it.”
You do. You do want it. But you want him more.
“Fuck you,” you reply, struggling to keep your breathing even so you don’t accidentally inhale whatever bullshit drug is on your mirror.
The weight on your body eases slightly. You can hear him fucking thinking, and this is possibly worse than him forcing you down because who fucking knows what’s going to come next.
“Jean,” he says, and squeezes your neck slightly. “Why don’t we make a little deal, alright sweetheart?”
Every single sense in your body is on fire right now. You fucking love this, don’t you? Just admit it.
“I’m not making a deal with you, asshole. I don’t want to do the fucking drugs. I’m drunk as shit already and I’d rather keep the rest of my faculties so I can take care of your stupid ass.”
Harry laughs, long and low. “Oh I think you’ll like this one, Vic.” He’s speaking right into your ear, hot breath ghosting your face. “You do the fucking drugs, and I’ll fuck you.”
You stop struggling. He laughs again.
“Thought you’d like that. Whore.”
You reach up, dig your nails into Harry’s arm as hard as you can. “I don’t want to do the fucking drugs.”
He palms you through your trousers and puts his lips on your neck. It’s a slow, hot kiss. Then he pulls away, starts shoving you down.
“Do it. Or I kill you.”
Cold metal presses against the back of your head.
You are very, very aroused. You don’t know which you want more, death or his cock.
You inhale the drugs.
He pulls the gun away and you can’t make sense of the feeling inside you. It’s something like disappointment. It’s something like grief.
The drugs hit quickly, kicking your brain into overdrive. You turn to face Harry, who’s tucking his gun back into his holster and something on your face must give you away because he pauses.
“Oh Vic,” he says, an innocent little smile flitting across his lips. He looks unfairly, stupidly hot right now. His hair is drenched in sweat but it’s started to curl at the ends and you want to tangle your fingers in it.
“What?” You snap at him, and your stomach twists with anticipation.
You know what comes next.
Slowly, he pulls the gun back out. He points it at you. “Did you want something, baby?”
Your whole body flushes. Your hands are shaking and you’re kneeling before him and this, this is what you want. What you need.
“For you to fucking kill me,” you reply, because you’re incapable of ever asking for what you want. You have to be forced into it.
Ever so slowly, Harry moves the gun forward. Your lips part involuntarily and he laughs with delight.
The gun makes its way into your mouth, resting heavy on your tongue. You let it cut off your air. You suck on it. You wait for him to pull the trigger.
But the drugs are stronger than you had anticipated and there’s a rushing around you, arousal and fear and overstimulation entwined in a horrific dance. Your flat is disappearing. Harry is disappearing. All that’s left is the taste of metal and gunpowder.
You’re back in the tunnel. This time, you’re watching the light get farther and farther away. You’re screaming. You’re crying.
It won’t end here.
*
Harry comes back with Kitsuragi, whose face is dead serious as he takes stock of the situation. You, huddled on the couch, covered in blood. The bullet, lodged in the ceiling. The mirror.
At some point, Harry must have taken your gun with him. You don’t see it anywhere, and you feel a sudden, perverse sense of betrayal.
“Good evening, officer,” Kitsuragi says. Is it still evening? You glance at the clock on the wall, which doesn’t help anything because it’s quite violently shattered. You can’t remember if that’s yours or Harry’s handiwork.
“Lieutenant,” you grunt out. A spike of pain rips through your head and you make some kind of noise because there’s a blur of movement, and suddenly, Kitsuragi’s kneeling in front of you, gloved hands outstretched.
“Officer,” he says, his tone completely even. “I know you’re in pain right now, but I need you to tell me what’s happened and what you’ve taken so I can help you.”
You are so, very, very sad right now. It’s the clinical way he says it. The kindness of the lack of emotion. It’s the opposite of everything you are. It’s the opposite of what you deserve.
You want him to call you by your name. So that when he eventually scolds you and gives up on you and leaves, it’ll hurt more.
“Call him Jean,” Harry says quietly, and you don’t have it in you to be surprised at his clairvoyance or to protest.
Kitsuragi looks at you for a second. You nod, ever so slightly.
“Ok, Jean,” he says, and puts his hand on your shoulder. The weight of it is comforting. Everything about him is comforting, actually.
You blink a few times to clear your head. “I had a bump of speed this morning but it should be out of my system now. Or at least the effects should’ve been done ages ago. Then when I got home I had…” You hiss out a short breath, try to concentrate. Try to remember. “Maybe 300 or 400 milligrams of ketamine? I don’t fucking know, I’m not measuring my fucking lines.”
Harry lets out a snort. You shoot a glare at him. “If you say anything about horses, Harry, I swear to you, I will fucking kill you.”
Kitsuragi squeezes your shoulder. “Ok. Thank you for telling me. What about…” For the first time, he falters.
“The gun?” You smirk. “I don’t fucking know. I don’t fucking remember. I assume I tried to shoot myself in the head. I missed. Obviously. Fucking idiot.”
“Right,” Kitsuragi nods. “May I touch you? More than I already am, I mean.” He looks at his hand on your shoulder apologetically. “I should’ve asked before doing that.”
When was the last time someone asked before touching you?
“I literally couldn’t care less. Knock yourself out,” you say.
He seems vaguely unhappy with your response, but Kitsuragi always seems vaguely unhappy with you so what’s fucking new.
He begins to run gloved fingers over your face, softly pressing down, asking what hurts. When he comes to your ear, he pauses.
“That bad?” You ask, and you can’t keep the hope out of your voice.
Maybe this time the pain will last. Maybe this time it’ll be permanent, a reminder forevermore of what you can do to yourself.
“No,” he says, and you know he’s telling the truth.
“I think,” Kitsuragi says finally, “You should take a shower before we discuss next steps. It can’t feel good, covered in blood like you are.”
“I’ll come with,” Harry says as you push yourself off the couch with a groan. Kitsuragi steadies you with a hand on your back.
“I’m not going to kill myself in the shower, shitkid,” you reply, heading shakily towards your bathroom. “Then you’d have to clean up my naked body and that would be humiliating for everyone.”
“I didn’t mean it like that, Jean. I just…remembered something.”
You stop. Turn to face him. “Remembered what?” Your voice is flat.
Your shower holds a lot of memories. The two of you fighting and fucking and drowning and crying and once, memorably, all of the above.
“Just that sometimes I would sit with you while you showered. So you wouldn’t have to be alone.” He’s being evasive, but what he’s said is enough to make Kitsuragi inhale slightly, and then disguise it as a cough.
You nod. “Fine then.” And it is fine. You genuinely don’t mind having him there. You’re capable of pretending he’s someone else. You’re capable of clawing for comfort when it’s available.
Once the two of you are ensconced in your tiny, blue tiled bathroom, you strip mechanically and unceremoniously. Your shirt will probably have to be tossed. It’s soaked through with gore.
Harry’s eyes are boring into your back. “Don’t act like you haven’t seen me naked before, Harry,” you call over your shoulder as you step into the shower.
“Technically I haven’t,” he replies. You turn to face him, shitty body on full display. His eyes rove over you and a flush starts high on his cheeks. “How the fuck did I forget you, Jean?” He asks absently.
“Believe me,” you reply tersely, “I ask myself that everyday,” and you pull the shower curtain shut with a snap.
Showering helps with, well, pretty much everything. Your vision is less hazy, your thinking clearer. It takes a while to scrub the blood out of your hair and the water fucking stings when it hits your ear, the bullet must have grazed you ever so slightly, but you’re trying not to think about that yet.
Breathe in, breathe out. Just keep breathing. Focus on the sound of Harry’s voice as he hums songs you’ve never heard and tells you useless facts about the tile flooring.
When you’re done, you step out and wrap a towel around your hips. You steadfastly ignore Harry’s eyes on your body and head out of the bathroom to your shithole bedroom. Harry follows.
You don’t bother turning on the lights. You know what it looks like in here. Pill bottles scattered on every surface. Empty mugs filled with cigarette butts. Bloodstains on sheets that haven’t been changed in months.
A tooth, lying on your bedside table.
You throw on the first clean clothes you can find without looking too much at them, which is definitely a mistake because Harry draws in a breath behind you.
“Is that mine?”
Fuck.
You’re wearing one of his old high school gym shirts, abandoned to the depths of your wardrobe a year ago after an extremely ill advised fuck. You never could manage to get the bloodstains out.
You turn to face him. “Yes. And?”
“I wasn’t lying,” he says, unexpectedly. “I want to know you.”
You sink down onto the bed heavily. Put your head in your hands. “But you don’t,” you say, and you’re glad it comes out flat and strong, “You want to know who you were. You don’t want to know me for me.” And maybe the words are petulant, a little cliche, but it’s the truth.
Harry sits beside you. He puts a heavy hand on your thigh. “Why do you think I don’t want to know you? You’re so…” He trails off.
You bark a laugh. “What? Depressed? Suicidal? A fucking freak who broke your nose and didn’t even bother to fix you up afterwards? I’m a sad sack of shit, Harry. Just like you.”
“Cool,” he says simply. “I was going to say cool.”
“Not as cool as Kitsuragi,” you roll your eyes.
Kitsuragi, who is definitely listening to this whole hideous conversation.
“That’s not a bad thing,” Harry says. “It doesn’t mean you’re not cool. And I don’t care that you fucked my nose. It was hot.” He squeezes your thigh.
You take your hands away from your face and look at him. Properly look at him. He looks earnest. He looks good, in all honesty. Eyes a bit teary, but sobriety looks good on him, and he still looks like your Harry. His face is very close to yours.
“Would it help if I remembered something?” He’s hesitant now, a little scared looking.
This is a bad idea. This will end badly for you. Or it won’t, but that doesn’t mean much. Everything ends badly for you. How could it not? You’re intrinsically damaged.
“What?” You say, hating yourself for how soft your voice is.
He reaches past you, picks up the tooth on your nightstand and cradles it in his palm. “This was from the night I first kissed you. I wanted you so badly, but I thought it was violence I wanted.”
Time gets a little slower. You’re about to do something very stupid.
Your hands are shaking. You raise them up to his face. Softly, gently, you pry open his mouth. He lets you. Of course he lets you. Your fingers slip into the wet heat of his mouth. You feel the space the tooth left behind.
Empty space. Just like his memories of you. But the space is still there nonetheless. There’s room for you in him. You can fill it. But do you want to?
A heavy pause.
You do. You still want him. You know this. And he might not want you, not the way he used to, but there’s still love left in him.
He has a vast soul, oceanic in its entirety, and you are trapped in his currents. Let them drag you down. When you reach the bottom, then you can rest.
You press down on his tongue, ever so slightly. He closes his mouth and sucks on your fingers. You revel in the feeling.
No. You don’t need to drown in him. Together, the two of you can float.
“Harry,” you say, breathless, hoarse, unable to begin to think what you want to say next.
He opens his mouth and releases your fingers. “I know,” he says, “I know, Jean-Jean.”
You laugh once, sad and quiet, and lie down on the bed, gazing up at the nicotine stained ceiling. He slumps down next to you.
The tooth falls from his palm. It rolls under your bed. You will not find it again until years from now, you pick through the bombed out remains of your apartment. You will drop to your knees, and hold in a sob. But he will be beside you, a hand on your shoulder. And you will look at him, and he will know who you are. Can that be enough for you, Jean?
He rolls on his side and places a chaste kiss on the column of your throat. You close your eyes. You don’t imagine another Harry doing this. It’s still him. It will always be him.
Soon, Kitsuragi will clear his throat from the living room, and the two of you will have to get up and face the rest of your lives because you, you are alive. But for now, there is peace.
This doesn’t change the fact that you’re suicidal and depressed and a horrible person. This doesn’t change the fact that violence runs through you hotter than blood. But for now, it is enough.
And I love you, Revachol whispers. Can that be enough?