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He wakes up clinging to the rough wood of the desk, drool slipping out of the small hole in his mouth as he gasps for air. It takes him a second to come to his senses, thrashing in his uncomfortable wooden seat, not made for a posture like his. Maybe investing in an office chair would do him some good.
But his nerves are shot, he can feel his heartbeat in his throat and there's this vague, distinct but familiar ringing in his speakers that just won’t go away. Harry looks down, only to realize that he’s fallen asleep in his office. Again. Second time this week.
Papers are sprawled out all over his desk, his small desk lamp being the only thing illuminating the room. Its bright white shining bulb blinds Harry for a second when he accidentally stares right into it, and he winces at the pain in his sensors. He reaches up to rub what would be his eyes with his knuckles, then turns at the clock that hangs above the door that’s a couple of feet away. 4:25 AM. Jake would be getting up soon for his shift.
The ringing of his speakers still hasn’t gone away and a sharp pain shoots through his wrists as he scans over the papers on his desk. His heart still feels like it’s about to shoot through his esophagus and out of his mouth. He slept on his hands, it makes sense as to why pins and needles prickle his skin, beneath his white button up. His throat aches. He left his bag in the locker room– he needs to get that.
But there’s this dread– this unwavering dread that won’t leave his chest, and everything feels so heavy, and suddenly Harry can’t get up from his chair, and he’s practically gasping for air, and everything is weighing down on him, and his legs feel like jelly, and the ringing in his speakers is getting louder and louder–
And suddenly, there’s a figure in the corner. A tall, skinny figure, with a candlestick phone for a head. Even if Harry can’t see their face, he knows who it is, and he reacts instinctively, pushing himself out of his chair. It clangs against the floor and he flinches violently at the loud sound, immediately reaching up to protect his head from whatever was going to hurt him. But nothing was there, and suddenly, he feels like the stupidest man on Earth.
Harry turns up, and the figure in the corner of the room is gone. His heartbeat is thrumming against his fingertips and his breathing still hasn’t calmed down– the room is spinning and he can’t get a grasp on things. There’s papers all over his desk, his hands won’t stop shaking, his throat burns, his chair is still on the floor, and everything inside of him is screaming for him to get out of this library and go home– but he’s frozen. In shock, fear? He isn’t completely sure.
After a couple of seconds, that felt more like hours, Harry yoinks his handset off of his head and puts it close to his head. He turns his fingers up to his dial and he begins to put in a number. After degrading himself when he messes up twice in a row due to his trembling hands, he finally manages to get the phone ringing.
“Please pick up,” he mutters to himself, and after the fourth or fifth ring, someone on the other side finally picks up.
“He–hello?” Jake’s voice is obviously groggy, insinuating that he’s just woken up.
“H–hey, um–” Harry says, and immediately shuts his mouth when he realizes how shaky and disoriented his voice is.
“Harry, are you–you okay?” Harry hears shifting come from the other side of the line. He can only assume that Jake’s getting out of bed. His tone of voice is on high alert, concerned for his roommate.
“I–I’m fine, I–” Harry chokes up. He presses a hand to his receiver to quickly shut himself up. “I–I’m sorry, I–”
“Hey, hey,” Jake says, and more shuffling occurs. “It’s okay, where ar–are you?”
“The–the library–”
“I’ll be there in five minutes, okay? Do you wa–want me to stay on the li–line?”
More shuffling can be heard from the other side of the phone, and Harry nods. He quickly realizes that Jake can’t see him, and therefore mutters out a weak, “yeah, yes. Please.”
“Okay, okay,” Jake says. Harry can vaguely hear the door open, and a quiet voice on the other side of the line that doesn’t belong to Jake. “Nothing’s wrong, Roger. You have work in a few hours, go–go to bed. I’m ju–ju–just picking Harry up from the library.”
After a bit of banter that was practically ineligible, Jake says into his handset, “What happened? Are you safe–safe?”
“I–I am, I just–” Harry murmured, voice so shaky that he’s hiccupping. “I–I was asleep, and then th–th–there's this–this figure that–that–”
“Deep breaths, Ha–rry. Deep breaths,” Jake reminds, painfully aware of how useless he is without being there physically. “Do you have any water?”
Unable to say anything else, Harry just hums in agreement. He struggles to catch his own breath, trying to focus on Jake’s voice on the other side of the phone instead. It was somewhat working.
“Take a cou–couple of sips o’ that,” Jake says, though it comes out more like a demand than a question. Harry just wishes his legs would actually move.
“I–I can’t–” He takes a couple of breaths to calm himself before continuing. He’s eternally grateful for Jake’s patience. “I–I can’t move.”
“...What do you mean? Are you– are you stuck? Did something fall on top of you?” Jake starts slinging questions and Harry takes a deep breath before continuing, somewhat getting a grasp on his shaky voice.
“I–I can’t move, I–I’m scared,” Harry finally admits. Shame runs through him like a waterfall as he admits this– he’s never properly told anyone, much less his roommates, about his silly fear. He feels like a child, afraid of the imaginary monsters that would live beneath the bed.
“Scared? Can you talk me thr–through what you’re going through ri–right now?” Jake asks, voice softer than before. Harry tries to swallow the large lump in his throat, but it’s not helping much.
“I–I don’t know, I–”
To say that Harry feels stupid is an understatement. He’s supposed to be the mature one out of the group. The one that keeps things in check, the one that makes sure everyone else is doing okay. The one to make sure Roger doesn’t wallow in alcohol and his own self hatred again– the one to make sure Jake isn’t having nightmares about looking for his son again–
He has to admit to himself; it’s stupid to cry over someone who isn’t even in his life anymore. Abel Brannigan died decades ago, and there’s no way he’s capable of hurting Harry, or anyone for that matter. Everything is at peace. Everything will be okay, Harry just needs to keep telling himself that. That it’ll all be okay, no matter what happens. He’s supposed to be moving on. He isn’t supposed to be thinking about everything that happened. He isn’t supposed to–
“Harry? Harry, ya wi–th me?” Jake’s voice rings and Harry blinks hard.
“S–sorry, I–”
“I’ll be–be there in a minute. Gr–grab your stuff and me–et me out front.”
“Okay, okay,” Harry says, but it sounds more like he’s trying to soothe himself. “I–I’m sorry for–for, uh, I’m sorry for being so–”
“It’s okay, we can—can th—throw around apologies after you c—come outside.”
“O–okay,” Harry takes a shaky breath. He uses his free hand to wipe away the tears that are still falling from his sensors. “I–I’ll see you, then.”
Jake hums and Harry disconnects the call. He finally looks up from the ground. The silhouette is still gone. Abel can’t hurt him. Harry will be fine. It’s just a dark library, with nothing but himself and the quiet melodies of the old books that decorate this ancient building.
Right, his bag. It’s in his lockers, behind the front desk. Shit. At least there’s a flashlight on his desk.
His legs are unstable, as if he’s about to collapse, but Jake is right outside, waiting for him. He needs to pull it together, to get out of this office before it suffocates him.
Harry first reaches for the flashlight on his desk. Every employee gets one because of how dark the library gets at night, and Harry cannot be more grateful for the device. He switches it on and turns off the lamp. He’ll just deal with the rest of the forms tomorrow, during his afternoon shift. He’ll have time. He always has time.
Keep looking over your shoulder, make sure the light is always on. Who knows what’s hiding in the shadows of the library? Memories are preserved here, after all. Memories of men that cause Harry to make sure that he’s not shaking. To make sure he’s scared. What if something comes out of the darkness, what if it all melts away into a puddle of nothingness, what if his breathing alerts someone, what if someone breaks into the library and tries to steal precious books that he’s spent the last three months of his life preserving–
By the time Harry’s fumbling with the locks at the front of the building, his hands are violently shaking. Just open the door, just open the god damn fucking door–
The knob twists and he’s pushing the wooden thing open. The cold air of autumn hits him like a bat, and through blurry sight, there’s a car and a figure leaning up against the car. Except Harry can finally see who it is.
As soon as Jake’s sensors lay on Harry, his heart hiccups in his chest as he drops his cigarette, stomping it out, and sprinting up to Harry. He skips the steps, hopping and nearly tripping over them as he puts his hands out to engulf his roommate in a tight hug. Harry melts into Jake’s touch, legs giving out as he can’t even get himself to hug Jake back. He senselessly buries his dial into Jake’s shoulder, taking in the thick scent of cigarettes as a sob escapes him. Tears practically drench his roommate’s sweater as he finally finds the courage to bring his hands up and squeeze the fabric of Jake’s sweater. Harry is clearly shaking, and Jake wishes he understood why.
“I–I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I–” Harry gasps for air, not completely sure what to say other than throw around senseless apologies until his throat is so parched that he can’t say anything anymore.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Jake whispers, tracing his fingers over Harry’s back softly in an attempt to soothe him from whatever had gotten him so shaken up. “Just breathe, o–okay? Just breathe, it’ll a—all be okay.”
“I–I saw him, and I–I didn’t know what–what to do, and I–”
“No one was there, Harry. It’s okay, your mind was playing tricks on you. Can I–I help you to the car?”
Harry shakily nods and Jake pulls away from Harry. He was a mess, his sensors still blurry with tears and his face still wet. He sniffles, looking up at Jake, who brought his hand to Harry’s face to wipe away the tears. “What did you see in there?”
Harry turns to stare at the ground. Despite the warm hands that hold him tightly, he still feels ice cold. “I–I just–”
He should tell Jake, shouldn’t he?
“Can–can we just… go home?” Harry asks weakly. He feels like a child, upset after being pushed in the mud. Stupid, worthless child.
Jake doesn’t hesitate to nod, though his curiosity was biting at him to push further. He couldn’t. Harry will come to him when he’s ready.
“Yeah, of course,” Jake says. He pulls away from Harry and leans down to grab his bag, slinging it over his shoulder with a satisfied sigh. “You don’t have to—to tell me– us anything. You kn–ow that, right?”
Harry nods once more. He’s beginning to regain his voice. “I–I do. Thanks, Jake.”
Jake smiles. “Anytime.”
–
The car ride was silent. It was usually silent, since Harry enjoyed spending his own time either reading or drafting up ideas for his novel. But all Harry did was stare out of the window, slouched in his seat, as Jake drove in silence. It was mostly comfortable, aside from the way Harry would irregularly grab his opposite arm with his other hand. Jake noticed it immediately, but he didn't push.
By the time they had gotten back to the apartment, confusingly enough, lights flooded through the dark hallway, and down the hall, Harry and Jake could see the lights from the kitchen illuminating the area. Another thing that threw Harry off was the smell of baked goods that filled the apartment, sugary and seemingly fresh. Roger should be asleep, shouldn’t he?
“Is that Roger?” Harry asks quietly. Jake shrugs and the two make it through the hallway, until they finally make it to the kitchen. In front of the stove, stood Roger Jones, humming along to some tune he made up in his head. He’s pulling an oven mitt over his right hand, in his own little world. But when he turns around to see Harry and Jake, he shrieks, arm hitting the counter when he finally realizes who the two figures standing in the hallway are.
“Oh, hi,” Roger says, quite startled. “Sorry, you scared me.”
“Rog, what are you do–doing awake?” Jake is the first to ask. He approaches the counter and places Harry’s bag down. While Harry stands there, unable to move. His feet feel like they’re glued to the tiled floor.
“Bakin’ cookies,” Roger says proudly. “Which I timed perfectly, because this means that we all get to enjoy them fresh!” He pulls on the oven door, and with an oven mitts on his dominant hand, he carefully reaches in and pulls out the pan, setting it down on the counter. The aroma of baked goods somehow fills the kitchen even further. Jake wasn’t entirely sure how that was possible. It makes Harry nauseous.
“Y–y–you have work in tw–two hours,” Jake replies unenthusiastically.
“Early start to the day,” Roger says. He pulls the mitts off of his hand and turns to look at Harry, who seems lost in thought.
Before Jake can say anything else, Roger glances at Harry, noticing the way his gaze is set on the floor. He bites his tongue and decides to walk up to Harry, who doesn’t notice him approaching. Roger looks up at him and without a second thought, wraps his arms around the taller man’s shoulders. It completely catches Harry off guard but he’s quick to hug Roger back, tightly gripping the back of his dark shirt. Just like how he had done with Jake.
It was nice, Roger has always been a warm guy. Their stomachs press up against each other, as if to ask if this was okay. But Harry pulls Roger closer, and Roger takes that as his final answer. Harry can’t control himself, and before he knows it, tears are welling up in his sensors again.
“I hope you’re okay,” Roger mumbles into Harry’s speaker. He was balancing himself on his toes in order to keep his arms around Harry’s shoulders, squeezing his roommate as tightly as he could.
“Th–thank you,” Harry says, squeezing his sensors shut to try and not cry. He feels like he’s done that so much already– it feels stupid for him to cry even more.
They’re both pulled away from each other when they hear a quiet ‘ouch!’ come from behind Roger. Harry takes the opportunity to wipe his own tears away as they look over to see Jake standing next to the tray of cookies on the oven with his finger to his receiver, blowing on it quickly.
“You didn’t tell me the cook–ies were gonna be so damn hot,” Jake snides and Roger laughs.
“They need to cool down, what were you thinking?”
“Clearly I was—wasn’t thinking, since I touched the cookies without think—thinking.” Jake sneers which gets another giggle out of Roger.
“Obviously.”
–
Just one movie, Jake argued. Even though he had work in just under forty five minutes. So they settled on something quick, something they’ve already watched. So much good cinema came out during their times as phone guys– it especially upset Roger, who loved watching movies as a way to put everything else in his life on standby. Fantastic Mr Fox, they all decided on. Something quick, easy to watch, and a movie with dialogue that Roger couldn’t stop quoting.
The plate of cookies was sitting on Harry’s lap, and as they all watched in silence, Harry couldn’t help but constantly run his hands over his fists. Jake was the first to notice, but it didn’t take long for Roger either.
So Roger lowered the volume on their television, and Jake was the first to speak. “Harry, you alright?”
He hadn’t even noticed he was doing it, until he realizes Jake glancing at his fidgeting, and he impulsively places his hands to his sides. “Um, yeah. I don’t wanna concern you–”
“You’re our fri–friend, we want to help you,” Jake reassures. “If anything’s both–bothering you, y–you can talk to us.”
This sort of thing might happen again, and maybe it’s better for Jake and Roger to know what’s going on if this happens again. So Harry takes a big breath, almost like he’s trying to swallow his own words.
“Uh,” Harry begins, tracing his fingers over his knuckles once more. He’s fine, he’s safe. He knows he is. Nothing bad can happen to him here. “I–I thought I… I thought I saw someone.”
“Yeah?” Jake says, voice soft again. “It–it was just you in the library, wasn’t it?”
“It–it was–” Harry's voice cracks and he mutters a soft dangit beneath his breath. He can’t cry now. “It was just me. But–but, uh, I had a nightmare, which sounds pretty stupid to–”
“It’s not stupid at all. It was a nightmare, and nightmares are pretty bad,” Roger reaffirms. Without thinking, he reaches for Harry’s arm, almost hugging it in a way where he wraps his own arms around Harry’s. It was surprisingly comfortable, and slightly catches Harry off guard. He tenses for a moment, before relaxing into the touch. His breathing is slightly hitched, uneven, and Roger’s gentle touch cues Harry to continue.
“It–it was– um, about this, uhm,” Harry stumbles over his words, but Roger and Jake have the patience of a saint. It takes him a couple of moments to properly get out the words that he wants to say. “There–there was this guy I knew, and–and he wasn’t very… nice to me.”
Harry’s forcing the words out of his mouth at this point. He’s unable to control the jumbled up sentences that leave him, and he just hopes that he’s making enough sense. Jake grabs the tray of cookies that sits in Harry’s lap and slides them onto the coffee table. The air in the apartment feels tense, but it's comfortable. For once, Harry feels listened to.
He relaxes into the cushions beneath him and feels another hand rest on his, and he looks over to meet Jake’s sincere gaze. Jake’s smaller hand grounds the dark rotary phone in a way he didn’t entirely know was possible. It’s like his skin craves more and more touch– the warmth was addicting, in some weird way. It was probably because Harry had gone the longest without touching someone this tenderly. Jake and Roger know how to make him feel like he belongs.
“It– you guys know Abel Brannigan, right?”
Roger and Jake exchange a look, before both nodding. Jake nods quicker than Roger, Harry notices. They’re both confused for a moment, but the realization hits Roger first. His sensors widen and he squeezes Harry’s arm tightly. Tears prick at Harry’s own sensors, fighting back the ache in his throat that makes him want to cry.
“Oh, Harry,” Roger is the first to break the silence. He inches a little closer to Harry, now tracing the small, off–coloured red patterned bumps on his upper arm. He leans his body up against Harry’s, sharing their body heat. Roger rests his head against Harry’s upper arm and sighs deeply, though there’s melancholy in his voice. “He’s–”
“He’s dead, Harry,” Jake interrupts. “He–he can’t hurt you.”
“I–I know, I just–” Harry inhales sharply to catch the sob that threatens to escape. Thankfully, it doesn’t. Instead, he tries to focus on the warmth that Roger is considerate enough to share with him. It’s a gentle comfort, something he didn’t realize he needed until now. “He–he messed me up. Bad.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Roger asks. He’s much calmer in his approach, compared to Jake’s abruptness. Either way, Harry knows it’s coming from a place of kindness.
“It–it was fine at first– I didn’t think about it, but then I woke up and saw–saw this figure in–in the corn–corner of–of my office–”
“Breathe, Harry. You have time.” Roger squeezes his roommate’s arm. Harry takes a moment to inhale and exhale through his receiver. He was being listened to– there was no need to rush. No need to push through all of these bad feelings that someone like him shouldn’t even have.
“Water?” Jake asks and Harry shakes his head.
“I had a nightmare, and I saw this… silhouette in the corner of my room. I–I didn’t… it looked like Abel, and it scared me half to death.”
“That was wh–en you called me?”
Harry shakily nods. Jake’s grip on Harry’s hand tightens. Not in anger, but rather in reassurance. That it was all going to be okay, no matter what happened.
“I–I panicked, and I didn’t know what else to do– the walk back to the apartment was only about half ‘n’ hour, and I didn’t want to bother you, especially since your shift starts at six–”
“Harry, Harry,” Jake interjects. He uses his other hand to place it on Harry’s shoulder. He can feel his heartbeat a little quicker in his chest, but he swats it away. He meets Jake’s stern gaze, and with a soft frown, he says, “th–th–that doesn’t fucking matter to me— us. We will drop every–everything for you if y–you need us. I could be in the middle of an interview for my dr–eam job, and that wouldn’t fuckin’ matter to me if you n–need us.”
Somehow, that manages to put a crack in the floodgates, because Harry can’t control himself when the tears that he was desperately trying to push away finally escape him. He hates that he can’t control it– hates the way he cries over something that’s as stupid as this, hates the way he has to be cradled in order to be comforted.
But Jake and Roger don’t seem to mind. Jake releases Harry’s hand and brings his arms out, pushing himself forward and enveloping Harry into a tight embrace. Roger wraps his opposite hand around Harry, getting a good grip over the fabric that covers his torso, and he gently squeezes.
It’s all so much– being squished in between two warm bodies that want nothing but the best for Harry. But at the same time, it’s nice. It’s nice to have that support that Harry’s been lacking for decades. It’s nice to finally have other people hold you, to listen to you without being scoffed at. To not hurt you when you need someone the most.
(Roger and Jake call in sick afterwards.)