Lost Days

Sometimes, he waits outside of South Ashfield Heights. He has been for the past six years (damn, been so long already), parked in his car, watching an older man with graying hair go in and out of it. Maybe James hopes to find the right words to say, the best explanation possible about Mary (I killed her) and what he was doing and tried to do (kill myself, but some guy yanked me out of the water). Maybe the words will come to him, Pop will understand and drag him back, and it'll be simple. It'll be simple and quiet--

But he's not oblivious, and James gives up after about ten minutes this time. He drives away from the apartment building and doesn't look back.

He convinces himself he'll try again another day, that he'll try again tomorrow and think of what to say.

But James knows just as well that it doesn't matter. It'll be twenty years from now and maybe Dad will be dead and he won't even say the right thing at his grave.

Regardless, he can lie to himself, lie that he'll try again another day, that the words will come and everything will be fine.

So he drives on, heading across town. It's the same little spot in the corner of Ashfield, more like a shack than a bar. Windows are practically boards and the smell is horrid, but he doesn't care, hasn't cared for a few years now, and won't care ever again.

He parks, steps out, raises his hand to knock on the door to see if Garret is open. The door isn't locked, it's ajar, and he hears a crashing sound and Garret practically squealing like a pig,

"FUCK! What the fuck?!"

James would rather walk away, but he steps inside instead.

Garret is looking over at something on the floor. "Who the FUCK put a dead body in here...?! Shit!"

Dead body. Huh.

That doesn't manage to faze James in the slightest. Curiously, he approaches, tilting his head to get a good look over Garret's shoulder, who's spitting and cursing.

The man is facedown, wearing a dark jacket. Jeans, shoes, brown hair -- average guy. Probably got brown eyes, too.

Breathing? Doesn't look it. James pushes Garret out of the way and struggles a moment to turn the body over. When he presses it to its back, he stares at the face.

"Harry?" he mumbles.

"Shit, you know him?" Garret stammers out.

"Yeah. He's just." James isn't sure how to react. "Out of it. Not dead." Probably is. Why? "I'll help him out."

"Friend of yours?"

After shifting part of Harry's weight against him, the body limp, James mumbles, "Yeah. Sure."

-=-=-

For a moment, he thinks that maybe Harry really is dead. He's pale, and he recognizes the sight of blood immediately on his shirt -- he's damned cold and he listens for breathing. James is almost sure there's nothing until he hears a gasp and a coughing fit.

Good, good.

James hesitates a moment, and locks the door to the bathroom.

It's not a flattering room; windows are stained and chipped and nailed to the wall, the smell is rancid, and other patrons have taken the time to spread lies and rhymes on the walls with ink. It's a sight he's adjusted to, and naturally he has seen much worse; this doesn't bother him.

He helps lean Harry against the sink, practically in a way that the other man is sitting on it. He doesn't hold his head up very well, so James presses his hand against the side of his face to support him. There's practically no warmth in him, and it shows the way Harry groans a little and presses towards the touch.

A part of James twitches. The reaction makes him horridly tempted.

"Harry?" he calls faintly, but it doesn't seem as if the older man hears him.

He starts to pull his hand away, but there's a noise of desperation; Harry grabs onto James's sleeve in a grip that's so pathetic that a kitten could beat him down. It's, at the very least, pleasant insistence to keep his hand there, so he does.

It gives him a sigh of relief from Harry.

James shivers, not because Harry is cold.

Slowly, he turns his hand to gently tip back the other man's head; he leans forward, placing his mouth over part of Harry's throat. The older man breathes in suddenly, maybe surprised at the sudden heat, and makes a murmured plea for more. When James slowly sucks on his skin, Harry shudders under him.

It's not like he's gay, James thinks. Of course, he's only fucked one guy, and that was Harry. Hell, what was it-- definitely six years ago. He hasn't seen him ever since, never expected to again. God, though, after Mary got ill, fucking Harry was--

Not. Exactly something he should have done. James has no explanation for it.

But at the moment, he can think -- he'd probably seriously do it again, if Harry let him.

He pauses and readjusts where his mouth is, where he feels the beat of the other man's pulse -- he sucks harder and Harry moans softly. Hearing him respond like that makes him... hell, it makes him want to do more. He can barely even remember what it was like, having Harry under him. He was confused then, he's a bit less now.

Besides, Harry is cold. James can lie to himself again, that Harry needs this, because James is so good at lying to himself.

There's more kissing to the other man's throat, warming the skin and making little sounds come from Harry, who either doesn't mind, doesn't care, or just isn't aware enough to be anything but receptive, which James takes full advantage of. Part of James hates himself for it, but he feels almost as he did before: repressed as hell, and getting too horny to care about the consequences, but he gets the feeling that Harry is too nice of a guy to hate him for anything.

That makes him feel guilty, too, and maybe he hasn't learned a damned thing since being at Silent Hill.

He's sliding his hand under Harry's shirt, and the older man is sensitive enough to groan a little at a simple touch (it's been six years since he's touched or been touched by anyone else, maybe it's the same for Harry). Hands hold into his upper arms, no further strength to be anything tighter. He hasn't a clue why Harry is so weak, but he doesn't ask himself, doesn't ask him, just touches in right spots to make the other man moan. Sometimes it sounds lustful, in some spots painful, but James can't find any traces of Harry being injured.

James presses for a kiss, completely invasive and Harry not giving an ounce of struggle, shuddering into his mouth and letting him be as rough or gentle as he likes. The lack of resistance is appreciated; he can bite, his tongue insistent at tasting, but he isn't violent.

Not. Not like last time.

"Oh God," he listens to Harry whisper when James cups him between the legs, head jerking away from the kiss. "Please," is more of a moan when he starts to squeeze and tease him.

It's not as if James can wait long himself.

It takes too long to undo their flies and fold down their trousers just enough, just enough that James can roll his hips and hiss softly when he presses his dick up against Harry's. The older man is groaning louder and James can't give a damn if the barkeep can hear them on the other side of the door and wall; he's too wrapped up in this. It takes him a moment to find a way to properly hold onto both of them in one hand and not squeeze together too much, but he doesn't regret hearing how Harry responds and finds the strength to squirm a little against him, starting to pant already.

James doesn't think they'll both last very long, doesn't think it'd be a good idea if they did anyway.

The stroking -- it sounds much more wet than when it's just he, himself, and his hand alone, but with company there's more. There's the panting and sounds getting stronger being moaned and helpless in his ear, hands holding onto his arms a bit more tightly and more desperate, hot breath against his own skin. There's more, and more, and James would like even more of it, but he's not going to press his chances.

This is plenty. This is enough. He already feels how sweaty and wet they both are, and how much his hips are merciless against poor, weaker Harry, and how much apologizing James is going to have to do when they're done.

When Harry comes, it's a desperate noise that's not quite a yell, but louder than what he's been, leaning his head back with more strength than before. It takes James a moment to follow him, but it's not very difficult.

He listens to Harry pant, still clinging on. Quietly and almost gently, James is cleaning off his hand from a sink next to them before he sets back buttons and zippers the way they should be for both of them.

Suddenly, Harry jerks and shoves him away. It hurts a bit more than it should, and he watches the other man clutch at the edge of a nearby sink, lurching and vomiting (is that... is that blood?) into it.

"Shit," Harry mutters, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Sorry."

What the hell is Harry apologizing for? James stares at him a moment; Harry moves away from where he was leaning against, then stumbles, apparently not yet having the strength to hold himself up. Wordlessly, James catches him by the shoulders and helps him up, helps him lean against his own body.

"What's wrong?" James figures asking 'are you okay' would be the dumbest thing to do at the moment.

"I dunno," Harry mumbles. "My head hurts." His eyes slide shut, not that he was really looking at James to begin with.

He isn't really sure why Harry is away from Portland. That's a bit far off from Ashfield, and James knows it'll take too long to take him back there.

He might manage just a night with him in his rotten, hole-in-the-wall type of apartment, far enough away from South Ashfield Heights. Far, far enough.

But just close enough that he can keep lying to himself.

"You'll feel better," James says, not really knowing if Harry will. "C'mon."

It's not as if James can help him, but it's worth a shot. The guy did save his life once (maybe twice), so James owes him plenty.

He'll take him home, until Harry feels better.

(was that blood?)

-=-=-

If wishes were horses.

Beggars would ride.

-=-=-

It's at the middle of the night when he thinks that Harry ought to be sleeping -- and why the hell not, the guy slept on the way home, and seemed pretty content to be dead to the world when they got inside the apartment. (And he'd have given up his bed for Harry, but James admits he's not quite as nice as him and dumped him to the couch, see you in the morning evening afternoon dawn dusk but he owes Harry better than that saved his life twice.)

He thinks he should be sleeping, but he hears a loud thud, he figures differently.

James it up and out of bed, shoving away sheets and ignoring the stick of sweat from the heat and humidity. Out the bedroom and around the corner, and he's at the kitchen, observing the light leaking away from the open refrigerator.

He hears the sound of something sloppily munching on whatever; it's loud and crackling and juicy and soft, and James tenses a bit. It's been six years since Silent Hill, but the instinct to swing or shoot has yet to die away.

Carefully, he walks as noiselessly as possible and reaches to rummage through a drawer, finding a knife (Angela you can't have it back) and holding onto it tightly as he raises it and approaches the fridge.

But he stops, and he stares down.

It's Harry; he's crouched in front of the cool air of the refrigerator, and he's shoving the remains of an old ready-to-eat, pre-roasted chicken dinner that James had picked up from the grocery store three weeks ago -- meat's probably long since been spoiled -- and it occurs to him that Harry is devouring it all, bones and meat and skin and fat and all.

Something is wrong, the way Harry is staring at nothing in particular, but moving as if aware. His eyes are the right color, but he doesn't seem to be awake and he reaches for a pack of uncooked hot dogs and tears away the plastic and starts eating that, too.

James wonders why he doesn't feel all that sick to the stomach. Maybe he's tired, or maybe he's just that fucked up in the head.

"If you were hungry, you should have said something," James finds himself mumbling.

Harry jerks his head, dropping the package of hot dogs and actually stares at James. He finishes swallowing, and that out-there-not-looking-at-anything gaze is gone and away.

Harry shivers.

"I'm cold," he mutters. "What... what the hell was I...?"

"It's not a big deal." It was about time to throw out that chicken anyway and he's never really even liked hot dogs, but he can't really cook either.

Harry stands and stumbles away from the fridge, as if it's a lurking monster ready to tear off his flesh; James shuts the door, a little disturbed at himself by how calm he's feeling, as if this is typical behavior from the other man.

"James...?" The older man's eyes are darting, confused. "James, what--"

He cuts him off, kissing him and tasting the ugly mix of raw meat and rotten meat; that makes him feel a little ill, but a little excited too. It's bizarre how cold Harry really is, and he wonders why (but James will warm him up just fine). He leans his head away and licks around Harry's mouth, who's shuddering and looking unsure, but not shoving away James. Harry's too damned nice to do anything like that.

Quickly, he's licking over the fingers of Harry's left hand and tasting that awful awful taste and hey, he figures, it could be worse, and he doesn't regret it because of the way that the other man is making little noises in return.

But damn, Harry is cold.

"James." The way that Harry says it sounds like he's got something important to say.

Honestly, James doesn't want to hear it. He feels so damned selfish, knows he is, and would rather just fuck the other man right now, but he pulls his head away and looks at him. Because he seriously owes Harry. "Yeah?"

"Where the hell am I?" Harry tugs his hand free from James's grip, and his eyes are wider. There's worry. James barely remembers that, yeah, Harry's got a kid and maybe he's seriously worried about her.

"Ashfield. Found you in a bar," James replies evenly enough.

Harry looks absolutely baffled. "Ashfield? But I was... I was just at home! In Portland! I was waiting for-- oh shit. Shit." He steps back, just enough that he bumps into the counter and holds his head. "That woman, and then that monster oh fuck--"

"Harry?"

"It stabbed me in the fucking chest! How the hell did I--" Harry somehow gets paler and looks sick, which -- considering what he just ate -- isn't a big surprise, but James somehow doubts it has to do with what he just devoured. "Phone. I... I need to use the phone. James--"

"Yeah. Okay."

-=-=-

Ten minutes later, Harry is looking absolutely miserable.

He had attempted to call home, see if his daughter Heather (Cheryl) was there. According to the phone, the number was discontinued. He tried again, and again, and again, and nothing. No, he said, his daughter didn't have a cell phone, isn't working anywhere right now, school just go out.

James gave him a stare, and pointed out it was late August.

Apparently, according to Harry, it was June 20th.

It's quiet, Harry is on the couch shivering, and he says nothing more.

Logically, James should be doing something useful. Consoling, helping, whatever. But it isn't in him to give up much, because last time he was ready to give up his life completely to be with Mary, and then Harry dove in to rescue him.

A part of him isn't so sure he's entirely grateful for it, but he knows that he should do something to pay back the other man.

And no, fucking him isn't an option. At times, James onestly hates himself and his body.

"In the morning, I... I've gotta find a way to Portland." Harry's voice is too damned quiet, but James can hear him fine. "James, thanks for you help, but... but I..."

"I'll take you there." Why the hell not? What's he got in Ashfield, save for a father he can't find himself facing ever anyway? He works in some corner store just a few blocks away and has nothing for himself but memories.

What the hell does James have to lose? Not a fucking lot.

"Are you sure?" Harry asks, concerned.

James wants to laugh. God, isn't that why he wants him so bad. Mary, before she got sick, was almost just as naively kind, but that disease made her ugly in so many ways, in and out, and Harry's got that painful kind of niceness. And Mary, Mary always wanted kids--

Yes. He's incredibly sure. What the hell does James have to lose? And he owes Harry anyway, why is Harry questioning if it's okay.

"Yeah," James answers. "Not a big deal."

Harry smiles at him, like nothing's ever gone wrong between them, like they're the best of friends and always have been. "Thanks, James."

"Don't mention it." Please don't. What a stupidly nice guy.

-=-=-

Harry doesn't question why he gets the couch. Doesn't complain.

Which is why James is surprised when he's starting back to his bed, but finds that Harry is right behind him. It nearly gives James a heart attack, because he swears he didn't even hear the other man step inside. How the hell did he do that?

"Cold," Harry is muttering.

When James touches his face, he knows it's true; it's like ice.

Wordlessly, James drags him to bed, and is throwing the covers over both of them. It works for James, because it's too hot and Harry is just cold enough for him. He's wrapping his arms around him and pushes his hands under a shirt and touching cool skin. Giving heat, taking cold.

He's shivering against James and doesn't try to squirm away, not even when James forces his hand down the back of his pants and squeezes his backside; it makes Harry suck in air sharply and suddenly hold onto James, but the key part is that he's not pushing him away.

Lets him touch, lets him do as he'd like.

Harry's nice enough to give, and James is selfish enough to take.

But he doesn't fuck him, doesn't pound him into the mattress, but god he wants to and the temptation remains. The idea here is just to keep Harry warm, so James only touches him, squeezes in the right spots, pinches in others.

Even when James kisses Harry, the older man is cold. The mouth is wet and everything it should be, but it's so damned cold.

James starts to honestly wonder what happened to him, starts to really be curious.

Maybe even care a little.

-=-=-

If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

The meaning is strange. Wishing for something or wanting it is not the same as getting or having it, or some such.

Something like that.

He's an author, and he doesn't really know.

Nor does he know, why the phrase seems so important.

-=-=-

When he wakes, he hears a hiss and something slithering by his feet. Instinctually, James kicks and wriggles out of the sheets, staring into his bed.

There's nothing there. Just his bed.

He can't think immediately, but he still remembers that Harry is here. He frowns and sits up, glancing around until he sees him. Gets a good look at him.

Harry is crouched in the middle of his bedroom, back to James. He's got that familiar brown jacket, but it's worn and bloody, stained like the rest of him, and he's willing to bet that the other man is cold, too. He can see him shiver, rocking a little as he moves and mumbles something nonsensical to himself.

He sees him move, digging a knife into the carpet, carving away.

Perfect circles, symbols that don't mean a damned thing to James, and he can't follow it.

"Harry?"

Immediately, the older man drops the knife, then stares at James, just as baffled.

He hears the hiss again and jerks his head to find the source, but he doesn't see anything wrong.

"Let's just." This is fucked up, but James figures that's not new. He doesn't really think that he can do anything to truly help Harry, especially that desperate expression the other man is giving him, as if James is going to know what the hell is going on. But he doesn't, and Harry probably knows that, too. "Let's just get going, all right?"

Hopefully, Portland will have the answers they want, but James knows better than to be optimistic.