Archive of Our Own

"Ring-ring, brother!"

You open one eye, mumble something into the phone, but you don't understand what exactly.

"First come first served! Where are you?"

What does he mean where you are’?

"At home, where else?" You sound terrible, by the way. Just a note.

Harry—because who else would call you at the crack of dawn—makes such a mock-surprised sound that it wipes you out of your sleep. No one in the world could so quickly induce a Jean-like urge to punch them in the face.

"What about work?! The sun rose, scared all the idiots!"

You wince, so lazily. No, seriously, you sound like you've been fed sandpaper since childhood. Wait a second, let’s see... There's no sandpaper around, and the wall clock says... ten. Ten?
That’s no good.

For the record, mister: you have to be at work at exactly eight-thirty every morning.

"Fuck, did I oversleep?"

"I don't know. Probably." He says this too cheerfully. He's probably already got you covered at work.

In your head, escape routes are scurrying uncertainly just like barely awake ants. You *have* to go to work. Even when you feel like putting a bullet in your skull.

Why did you oversleep in the first place? Uh...

You tilt your head to scratch the top of it, and the image before your eyes tilts slightly. Wiggling away like a little snake.

Damn. Are you sick or something? Who cares anyway.

Well, it's a good thing you didn't go to work, huh? You'd have infected half the station.

Nobody's waiting for you there anyway.

That's not true. "Nobody" is on the line with you right now. And besides, you've been awkwardly silent for a long time.

“Did you fall asleep?”

"Yes."

"Hmm..."

While your thoughts, like insects and amphibians of various shapes and forms, are trying to at least figure out who's who (and what they're doing here), your partner's crazy ideas are clearly plotting something by themselves. He just said "hmm," but there's probably a whole brainstorm going on there.

You usually have brainstorms, too, but right now they're on strike. Or a food riot.

He's probably thinking: aaaalriiight. Jean isn't the guy to skip work. Something's happened, but Jean himself doesn't understand what. Something's wrong with him!

Before Ant A and Ant C could fully process the logical conclusion, you blurt out:

"Don't even dare come to my fucking place! We have a huge-ass workload—"

"Why aren't you working then?" He's having too much fun again, the bastard.

"I’m telling you. I'll triple-lock the door."

"Well, I don’t even mean to barge in! We're all over the place, and Kim wouldn't let me go, I think, and like... Well... Huh?" Through the fading gurgling static, you can hear him turn away from the phone. Kim's monotonous voice echoes on the other end. For a moment, you think you hear Judit’s stern tone.

After a couple of monosyllabic remarks, Harry, unfortunately, sounds as loud as before.

"Kim said, I can go to you after work only. We have a ton of important stuff here, though… So. You get the idea."

You ‘get the idea’ of him banging on your door in about two hours, because he'd be so restless he'd have to come over and check on you. Work protocols, he’ll call them. Which is not… What they are. Harry's just like that.

is he worried? No, he just needs an excuse to clock out early.

Yeah, and incur Kitsuragi's disapproval?

They probably agreed on something, but the little shit isn't telling you directly. He knows you really don't like protocol violations. Because Monsieur Du Bois breaks protocols more often than he breathes.

"I *don't* get it. Anyway, get back to work."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Don't die out there!"

Yeah, right. Whatever... Speaking of dying.

You rub your chin tiredly. Just now, having barely woken up, you feel an unpleasant weakness. It's true, everything in your vision is swimming... You don't even want to walk back to bed. Or can’t, more likely.

You're such a wimp. Oh, are you fucking sick? Too bad. Go to work. No one needs you sick and weak.

Come on, you're already working like you've got the devil on your back. Falling ill is the most obvious prognosis after your twenty nervous breakdowns and fifteen unsolved cases.

Weak-ass.

Shut up, will you!

Your chest hurts. At least it's not your head. If it were your head, you wouldn't be standing here. Your cluster headaches aren’t about to start anytime soon, or so the doctors said.

You sit down, right on the floor because you have no more strength to move anywhere else. The walk from the bed to the phone had drained you dry.

You don't even notice how you nod off. Thud.

BOOM, BAAAAM, BOOOOM.

Dolores fucking Dei, no way! What, already?

Fuck him, you're sleeping. Being curled up against the wall is nothing close to a comfortable place or position, but whatever.

"Police, open up!"

Quiet. Pretend you're dead.

"Re-va-chol Ci-ti-zens Mi-li-ti-a!"

The neighbors are probably completely convinced you're the district’s madman.

Suddenly, silence again. Is he gone?

You hug the wall with your arms, as if you could hear the stairwell through the corner of the hallway.

Still silence, then a timid, barely audible:

"Jean?"

Okay, you're not dead. Okay. You should tell him exactly that, otherwise, he'll really get scared now.

"Nobody's home, fuck you!" The suddenness of your scream burns your throat. It's quiet behind the door. Only for a second, because Harry immediately yelps hearing you cough.

Now he's definitely worried. Well, shit.

Okay, let’s settle this. Sleeping on the floor alone is sad. And bad for you.

You almost fall back down on your first attempt to get up, but so be it. Knowing Harry, if you don’t come up now, he'll also say you're drunk and, just in general, will tell everyone to fire you or something.

Or he'll just kick the door down, who knows.

You lean heavily against the doorframe as you fumble with the lock.

Click—and Harry's inquisitive gaze is inches from your face.

"You're sick!" he proclaims.

Who’s really the sick one here?

"Uh-huh. Okay, now get out of here."

A very weak protest on your behalf, because if Harry had poked his nose in the doorway, it would be incredibly difficult to kick him out. Honestly, it's not like you really wanted to. Being sick alone is a little lonely.

What? Who just thought that?

Well, anyway... you used to plop down at each other's places so often.

But not during work hours!!

Okay, usually during work hours.

You're so desperate to show off that you're better than him, it's almost pathetic.

"No! I'm going through a police check. A comrade is in trouble."

You give him the most irritated look possible. Before you can think of a snarky retort, he spins you around by the shoulders and pronounces something about bed rest. You don't catch it, because the sudden 180 degree movement makes the already murky world blur around you.

This already feels like a nightmare. You should have kicked him out right away.

You don’t have it in you to really *kick him out*, who are you even kidding.... Doesn’t matter anymore.

Harry clearly notices that he's crumpling your already rumpled complexion, so he loosens his grip. Just a little.

"No, really. Go to bed." He peers over your shoulder. "Oh, what a mess you've got here! It’s worse than at my fucking place!"

"Stick to the fucking case, detective." you mutter.

The bed has cooled down while you were gone. At least it won't feel so bad for the first maybe five minutes. The cool sheets are so calming that for a second you even forget your partner is lurking in the background, rummaging through your stuff.

"You don’t have a thermometer, are you kidding me?"

"Do you?"

"No."

A meaningful hum.

You don't even bother to look in his direction when he stumbles into the room after rummaging around the apartment. He's kneeling, leaning his elbow on the edge of the bed. Out of old habit—probably unconsciously—he covers your hand with his. Just like that, a small pat.

You smile despite yourself.

So sweet, like it's something very normal between you. As if you hadn't had all these years of fighting, as if there hadn't been any drunken tears, screams, or nosebleeds.

It happened, it all happened, and that's what made you both like this.

"My calculations show that your fever is at supposed thirty-eight Celsius or somewhere like that. 'Cause you look like complete shit, no, beyond that.”

"I feel like a hundred reáls," you note for some reason.

"A hundred million?"

"Just a hundred."

"Ah."

When you exhale, the sensation almost burns. Nasty and unpleasant. How disgusting it is to be sick, huh.

Harry squeezes your hand lightly beneath his.

"It's okay, it's okay. If it gets really bad, I'll finish you off myself."

The idea of ​​your own misfortune vanishes in a flash, replaced by an incredibly bubbling indignation.

"Shitkid, do you want me to bash your head in?"

Harry grins like a particularly cheeky firefly. He's about to start chirping, so pleased. "Asshole," you mutter, hiding your face in the fold of the blanket. "Get out of my sight."

He laughs warmly, leaning in and touching your forehead.

He falls silent and exhales quietly.

"No, really, you have no medicine at home? How come?"

You don’t think you even have magnesium... Somehow. You couldn't care less. This is something that shouldn’t bother him either.

Just don't tell him that.

"I don’t fucking care, to be honest."

"Well, I do! Don't say that." He sounds very serious.

So serious, it even makes you a little sad.

You give in.

"So what, you want to go to the drug store for me or something?"

Harry is practically glowing with happiness. You raise your eyebrows skeptically and, out of an odd habit, say:

"Do you even have any money on you?"

"A hundred reáls! Or how did you say it..." He rustles through his pockets, stirring up dust and loose threads. "Well... A little less than that."

“That's what I thought, you bum.”

"Leave me the fuck alone! I'm saving your life here, and you’re complaining about my financial... Oh, by the way. Jean, Jean."

"What?"

He calms down a bit, even his perpetually hunchbacked shoulders sag. As if he's remembered he's done something wrong.

A lot of things, but that's not important right now. Come on, he volunteered to help you be a little less pathetic while you're sick, stop being a bitch for a second!

He came because altruism will make him look good in the eyes of your colleagues.

Do you even believe that yourself?

"Where do you keep your prescriptions?"

"For what?"

"Well... Antidepressants. And for your headache, that... what do you call it?"

Oh?

"Shit, I don't have those in my cupboards either?"

Harry makes a pitiful face, like a lamb abandoned by its flock in the rain.

"You didn't even notice?"

You scratch the tip of your nose.

If you say that you don’t care again right now, it'll be terribly stupid.

"I don’t really ca..."

"Jean!"

He winces at the way you wince.

The lost lamb in his features grows more and more miserable.

You look away and fluff up the blanket.

"The last time they were in the kitchen near the stove. I think..."

Your partner looks very dejected.

Is he really that upset that you forget to take your pills? So, you can’t really say that you *forget* to take them sometimes, it’s more of an act of casual self-neglect. You don’t want to admit you’re actually giving up. It’s not what this is. You just have more important things to do than take pills and watch your medication load.
You’re not some kind of a sick, sad man, not counting present tense. You don’t need pills to live and you don’t need anything at all, actually.
You don’t need him here with you, and you still let him in.

He's not upset at you not taking your meds; he's playing smart and righteous, because he’s the one not fever-ridden and it makes him feel stronger than you.
Next time he shows up you should really punch him in his teeth.
For now, just lay low. You’re useless like that.

The tip of the duvet cover flies up, tickling your nose and causing you to sneeze loudly.

The lock clicks, heels shuffle, and the blinking light on the stairs fades.

Can't you just admit that he still loves you, even how he is now?

He doesn't remember shit! Nothing. No screams, no ashes, no drunken tears.

But… He remembers *some* things, like the way he pats your back or touches your hands in an attempt to draw your attention. How he looks at you when he thinks you’re not looking back. There’s something so familiar in the ways he’s acting, yet you can’t quite believe what you’re seeing.

He’s dead. You’ll be soon too. He’s smiling and you see someone you have never seen before.

Your eyes sting as you tiredly wipe the sweat from your forehead. What are you even thinking? Cut it out.

You should sleep while he’s gone, even for a little bit. It’s no use wallowing in it all now.

The lock clicks again, shoes scuff around. Light flickers in your eyes. How did he let himself in?... Wait a second, did he fucking steal your keys?

He used to have a spare pair, but he drowned it along with the motorcarriage and your trust.

Harry's clearly running on the spare engine today, given how fast he came back. You think you weren’t out for long.

The thin bag shuffles, the hems of his jacket rustle.

The shaggy head bends over you again, amid the frozen air and the unpleasant warmth.

An offering of reconciliation. Three green and white capsules in the palm of his hand.

"First these, then the fever reducer... Am I doing this right?"

You have a vague feeling there’s no right order to take your prescribed meds with fever reducers, it’s all the same. You have a really funny thought that he wants to offer you a full-blown dose of your antidepressants without asking how long it has been since your last one. It could kill you.

You mumble something vaguely resembling agreement and take the mug from his hand.

It used to be like this all the time. Either you giving him his medication when he was hungover or him, vice versa. Be it Drouamine or something else.

Pyrholidon...
Are you sure he didn't slip you anything? You didn't even think to check.

Even if he did, it serves you right. You'll puke your guts out and fall asleep anyway.

You take the second batch of pills from his hand. Two cloudy white ones, with a notch down the center.

You can't resist and spit out a poisonous:

"So what did you put in there?"

"...Huh?"

You bite your tongue, but it's too late.

Harry thinks for a moment.

"The healing properties of chemically charged, high-quality bacteria, dude. Zero carcinogens, 100% plant-based synthetics."

You look at him like he's gone completely insane.

Harry thinks for a moment longer. So intently, his brow furrowed and his forehead wrinkled.

"It's really just a fever reducer and your antidepressants. Look, look! My hands aren't even shaking." He nods, holding his hands up, and despite what he's said, they're shaking slightly.

Maybe it's the coffee? He doesn't look like a man in the midst of a severe alcohol-nicotine-drug intoxication.

Can you at least not worry about him while you're sick?

Quiet! Quiet. You're not worried about anything. This is a police check on a comrade.

But no, sir, he seems fine.

And what about you?

You sigh and down two white pills, sipping at the mug.

You've given him an awful lot of second chances, what will change on the one hundred and fourteenth? You can’t know if he’s been using again. Even if he has, what can you do?

It's not like you can do anything.

Kim can. Kim apparently has more influence over Harry than you do. Kim is generally better at... everything, to be honest.

And yet Harry sits on your bed, smiling stupidly.

It's not about which of you is more useful, is it? You're just really, really important to him.

It's like you're from the same mother, but actually from different ones.

If you were drowning, would he have saved you the way you saved him?
Don't be dramatic. He's done a lot for you.
What exactly? Gave you paranoia and nervous breakdowns?
You had those before him. You're terrible on your own, without his guidance or his antics.
You've been dragging each other down since you first set foot in the station.

Stop playing the victim.

Stop pretending that despite your differences, he wouldn't die for you.

That's police code, isn't it?

What an interesting code—sitting at your partner's house and giving him some water while he's ill, but fine. If it makes you feel better.

The ants in your head compartment have quieted down and are thoughtfully passing reeds to each other.

You sigh, yet again.

"I'm so fucking tired of sitting."

Harry's withered face seems physically incapable of softening, but somehow it breaks into the warmest smile you'd ever seen.

"Lie down, I told you."

What's wrong with him? Something's wrong... Somehow...

Your gaze is unfocused, the blanket's heavy weight pinning you down, preventing you from moving.

The cruelest, coldest man you've ever met looks at you like you're the most precious treasure in the world.

This same cruel man gently runs his hand through your hair.

You smile slightly, burying your face in the edge of the blanket.

"You're sleepy." he says, barely audible.

But you really want to think a little more...
Just a little.
It shouldn't be like this. It hasn't been like this for a long time. Your head is too fuzzy to concentrate on anything right now.
These small acts of tenderness were normal between you, before everything went wrong. Maybe it was a year ago. You think it's been a year since.

His hand is heavy. It rests comfortably on the top of your head.

"Do you need something?"
"From whom, from you?"
"I mean, probably."

Factories clank outside the window. A distant, booming rumble echoes, gust after gust lapping at the cold walls. Ebb and flow. Birdsongs dive, climb out of the incessant noise, then dive back in.

So quiet.

Nothing happens. The city stutters, coughs, and breathes a sigh of relief.

Just like two, just like three, just like five years ago. The sun rises, and the streets fall silent.

You want to sleep, but your throat is so dry. You forgot it was until the uncomfortable grating feeling makes you cough.
You *really* don’t want to try to get up.

"Brother, get me some water."

It's the first time you've called him that all day. "Brother" is a joke between you. It's a habit, the *bröderbund* moniker being something you used to laugh about a lot.

For you, he's the most distant person in the entire universe.

Harry pats you on the shoulder, gets up and disappears into the hallway.

You're almost falling asleep when he gently shakes your hand.

You sniffle angrily, but sit up.

"How are you feeling right now?"
"Like crap."
He's worried, and you're not used to it.

It's not that he wasn't ever worried for you before, it's just...

His hand ruffles your hair again, this time settling on your forehead.

"Of course you’re feeling like crap, I could fry eggs on your forehead.”

You sigh.

"You should get to work. What are you, my mom?"

The idiot has the nerve to puff out his chest proudly.

"Yup."

You put the glass down with one hand, and the other hits Harry on the leg. "Go on, get the fuck out, why the hell would I need you here?"

"What if it gets worse?"

You really want to ignore the anxious note in his tone. A whole melody of notes. In fact, the way he hasn't left your side all morning, it's like a symphony is playing there.

"It will come to pass. There are more important things."

"It's not true."

"What do you mean 'not true'?"

You sigh again, this time with feigned irritation.

"Fucking watchman," you rumble into your hand.

He leans over, having misheard you.

"Huh?"

"You're a dumbass. I'm sleeping."

Harry snorts angrily and falls silent. He's apparently doing his mental gymnastic somersaults.

As you fall asleep, you still feel the hand on the top of your head.

He won't leave because he needs an excuse to skip work.
And because he loves you.
He doesn't know how, but he loves you.

You hear a soft, soft singing, more akin to howling in your opinion, but that's the small stuff.

It's hot. Tar and soot and dirt.

The next time you open your eyes, nothing makes sense anymore.

Ants, termites, small crustaceans, and just plain wriggly creatures. Click-click-click.

A cold island materializes on your forehead.

"You're a fuckin’ bonfire! Wait, I'll be right back."

Gnarled branches and blinding blackness. Wait a second, what are you even thinking about?

Butterflies and thin wings...

The figure holds out a glass, carefully guiding your hand so you don't spill it all over yourself.

"Drink, drink up," he whispers, "As much as you can."

You're struggling.

You finish the glass, your breath going back to convulsive gasps, like a fish drowning on dry land.

You shiver, even though it's very hot. Whitish blades, again—again?—the moths, puddles spreading like a tablecloth, the rumble of a huge, insane machine.
You're suffocating, surrounded by so much shivering warmth.

"Lie down, come on, lie down, it'll soon feel better." Something warm threading through your hair, soothing you like a little kid.

A small cuckoo chick.

Suddenly it occurs to you that you know nothing.
It's dangerous here. There's nothing here. You're scared.
There’s soot and pale snow and so, so many swirling flakes of frozen rain.

You growl like a cornered animal, your unseeing gaze fixed on the figure before you.

The figure freezes, suddenly realizing something.

Who is it?

A sniffle and a cautious whisper.

They understood something you couldn't.

"It's me, it's me, Jean."

Raindrops and heather drizzle.

Tobacco and cardamom.

Cold, withered fingers.

"Harry," you mutter, a word foreign to your dry mouth.

You don't understand anything as arms wrap around your frozen shoulders.

‘Harry’ chuckles softly at a joke only he understands.

A willow tree, rusty shutters. An alley with a single burning light.

"Lie down now. You scared the hell out of me."

Scared him? Is everything okay? What happened?

"Harry. Are you okay?"

Harry laughs again, albeit a little sadly. His hands release your shoulders.

"Okay, sleep now."

"What about you?"

"I'm not going to disappear, honest. You need to rest."

You don't believe it, still you drift off, mindlessly.

Cobwebs and rotten ice.

"Bro."

You wheeze lazily.

"Hey, bro."

You bury your face in the pillow, but still crack an eye open.

"What time is it?" - you say.

"Jean."

Jean-time—that's a lot.

"Jean!"

"...What?"

A trembling hand caresses your hunched shoulder.

"Jean," a broken record, this one. You finally turn sideways to him, raising your eyebrows skeptically.

"What do you fuckin’ need…"

Harry hesitates, scratches his head, turns away for a moment, and pinches the tip of his nose.

"You, uh... You remember who I am?"
He's terribly embarrassed for asking. And rightfully so, because what the hell is he on about.

"What? Shitkid, do you think I have early-onset dementia or something?"

Harry's embarrassment deepens, but relief gleams in his eyes. Did anyone catch on?

"You just didn't recognize me."

You frown. "When?"
"Well, a couple of hours ago. Your fever spiked."

You rub your temple vigorously. That's why your head's spinning so much. Probably fever’s still high enough to give you so much trouble focusing on Harry’s face.

"Yeah, might have been a fever dream. Leave me alone now."

So you needed to listen to any random phrases Harry's brain generated in a drunken stupor, but you can't just recognize him once? What a hypocrite.

"What, did you shit yourself? Yeah, serves you right." You feel a little guilty when Harry looks at you even more sadly. Just a little guilty. He deserves it.

Silence falls between you.

"Nah, wait. Who the fuck are you?" you suddenly blurt out.

Your partner bursts out laughing. It sounds like he's crying.

"Fuck you! Fuck you, this isn't funny!" he chokes on his giggles, wiping his nose with his hand.

There's little laughter here, only bitterness and letters erased from the pages.

His unopened mail and your torn glove.

He's scared. You don't understand why.

You find yourself thinking that there's no point in comforting him.
Serves him right. Serves him right, serves him right, now he understands.

"It hurts, doesn't it?" you whisper sardonically.

Harry buries his face in his hands.

"I thought," he sniffles, "I thought we were both crazy now. That you'd never recognize my face again."

Serves him right.

It's so much worse than looking at your friend’s sprawled body on the ground. Some wounds can't be fixed with some gauze and proper rest. You're here and alive and well. You don't know who he is. He begs and begs and begs you to remember, but you're just still here.

It must be cruel for Harry to experience this from the outside. After everything he's lost and raised from the bare earth.

From the earth where he stood alive, untouched by the burden you've carried all this time.

He loves you. He didn't want any of this, and he strove for it, and he gave it all up, and he gained everything once again, but he still loves you.

"I wouldn't do that to you."

He snarls.

"You don't know that."

No, really, what would Harry do if it was you in his place? Would he come back for you? Would he beg you to remember him?
He wouldn't have left. He'd have been torn and grieved.
Really?

"You'd simply no longer need me. Stop fucking bullshitting me."

He plays the angel, as always.

And he can't even argue with that. He loves you, but it's true. You're no longer needed. He figured it all out on his own.

Why is he still here?

Let me go. Everything will be okay, but it will be different.

"I don't want to lose you," Harry whispers. "I want everything to be better."

He already has, and things will never be the same.
You're bitter. Your head is pounding.
If you send him away now, nothing will change.
And you still dared to cling to the hope that everything would be comfortably messed up again.

"I've never wanted to punch you in the face as much as I do now."

"I know. I deserve it."

"You came to show me how good you've become."

Harry stares at you, clenching his teeth.

"That's not true."

"I know you inside and out. You'll show off, make me think everything's getting better, and then you'll just fucking destroy everything. You think I don't understand shit? You think this hasn't happened before?"

You'd sat next to each other so many times, usually at Harry's house. He'd hug you, despite your angry outbursts. You'd smoke and laugh afterwards like nothing happened.

He'd smash glass, get mad, make you scared of him.
You didn't leave.
He told you to your face that you were nothing to him.

You were still there.

He went back to crying and apologizing, drunkenly burying his face in your shirt collar.
You wanted to end it all.

When he threatened to kill himself, you said you'd strangle him with your own hands.
When he assured you he'd definitely quit and everything was getting better, you screamed that he'd come crawling back to you for a flask.

It was always like that, the two of you dragging each other into the abyss. The Pale, Oblivion, or whatever Harry likes to call it.

Why didn't you leave?

If you left him, what kind of person would you be?

You're pathetic and disgusting on your own. Without him.

You're nothing without Harry. And he looms over you, reminding you of it time and time again.

... Speaking of antidepressants. It seems like you really forgot you needed to buy a new batch.

How is this even connected? Well, negative self-image and all that. Horror and death being old guests inside your head. The fact that Harry is probably really getting better, and you're dragging him down with you.

"What do you know?" Harry hisses. "You weren't there when Kim and I..."

You almost spit, but it'd be too bad to stain the bed.

"You were never there, you stupid fuck. I gave my all for you. So what? So that everything would be fucking great for you when I..."

You will die without him and he will just move on like nothing happened. Because you weren’t even a blip.

You haven't changed at all. A laughingstock. Hysterics in front of the healed one.

Harry's eyes soften.

"Jean, I..."

He came to mock you. To say, "Look, I'm now perfectly capable of dealing with all the shit I caused! I'm all disco, and you're just a corrosive scum." Fucking bastard.

You rub your eyes stubbornly. Why do you even care?

Because he still came. He's here.

"What? I’m nothing to you now, right? All the destruction you brought upon everything you’ve worked on is undone. And I'm just a fucking anchor. A callus." Your voice cracks like a young boy's.

You're not offended by him being actually better, that’s not it. You wanted him to get better eventually. You did everything you could to make that happen, so that none of the *everything* you’ve done would even matter anymore.

You want him to be hurt. Because he's always hurt, badly. This Harry—gentle and understanding—is a temporary guest. Screams, fights, and countless relapses follow.

Every time you think things are getting better, Harry aims for your lungs. Steals all the air from them, squeezes the life out of you. The gravity killing its little satellite planet with so much pressure.

Your partner carefully, with extreme caution, extends his arms towards you.

He expects you to grab onto him with a death grip and make him sorry. He expects your fist to his face.

Despite yourself, you don't move. You don't even look up.

Harry slowly, slowly rests your weary head on his shoulder.

"I'm not leaving," he says quietly. "I want to help you."

He remains silent while you inhale deeply through your nose, then adds:

"You're a fucking idiot if you thought I'd leave you."

It's your turn to laugh stupidly, burying your face in Harry's collarbone.

"Shut up."

You feel yourself starting to tremble. Harry yelps.

A cold hand on your forehead again.

"We're squabbling here and you're shaking like a leaf."

He throws a blanket over your shoulders and wraps you up.

You look like a disgruntled, bearded baby in a blanket.

Perhaps to Harry, you are.

He came to mock you. He hugs you, lulling you into a false sense of security.

Get ready, he's about to hit. Strike first, don't give in.
You're so tired of doubting and giving second chances.
And just tired.

Your eyes are drooping, and Harry is sitting next to you, resting his chin on his hand.

You still haven't found out what time it is. Although it looks like it's starting to look brighter and brighter outside. Early morning, then.

You wonder if Judit called. Probably so, but Harry hung up and didn't tell you.

"Woman... Judit called, by the way. She told me she’ll come by, just for a bit."

“In the middle of the night? Doesn't she have to sleep like normal people?”

“She's been trying to tuck her youngest daughter to sleep all night, she said she still wanted to come by after she's done. Guess she's worried for you.”

Ah.

Well, at least someone is responsible in this precinct. For both the colleagues and the children.

You don't have children.
You have Harry.

Or is it that Harry has you now... damn.
Fuck it all.

Harry scoops you up in his arms, helps your head hit the pillow.
He'll leave. You're broken, a rusty clockwork mechanism whose springs are only good for cutting one’s fingers.

Harry has a different life now, don't you understand? He only came to laugh at you.

Lies. You won't let him up and leave you.

"If you leave when Jude gets here, I'll break your fucking teeth."

Harry blinks. "I didn't plan to."

The truth is, you wanted him out.
If you had no pride, you really would have said a pathetic "don't go."

He seems to understand and says nothing.
He must be lonely too.
While you're warming up—or cooling down, you can't tell—Harry is bustling about in the kitchen. He's either washing the dishes or breaking them.

A gentle knock echoes under the clanking of cheap ceramics. Harry probably can't hear, so you quickly hobble to the door.

Okay, stand up straight. Otherwise she'll worry.
Or won't she? What are you, five?

"Oh, Jean! Terrible, you look like crap." Judit's soft curses certainly sound really comical. Don't tease her; you're not fit to fight.

"You look like someone who plants twenty forget-me-nots for their sins after saying ‘fuck’ once."

She tilts her head skeptically.

"What? You must be really sick." The corners of her mouth twitch slightly.

"Get ouuut."

"I won't." Look at you! Remind me why you're gathering half the precinct at your house?

Never mind. You can't kick her out, can you?

You groan like an old man and comically extend your hand.

"Okay, ma'am, please come into my pigsty. Tea, coffee?"

Jude rolls her eyes and walks past you, hastily kicking off her shoes.

You settle for angrily breathing in your blankets, voices of your colleagues lingering in the background.

It's stupid, Jude coming in like that. She has other stuff to tend to, not your sorry ass. Still, you listen in.

“Probably a common cold, what are you so wired about? You urged me to come, is it really that bad?”
“No, no. It's something else, I'm telling you. It feels like it's not gonna just get better after today, I don't know.”
“Really? Hm.”

Harry sighs.

“You brought a thermometer?”
“Ah, yeah..”

“Tell me you have everything you need… It’s pretty early, don't think any stores are open now, so..”

“Yeah, I fetched some things for him, it’s fine.”
You see Judit scratch her temple nervously as she smiles. The small fragment of the kitchen you can catch in your vision is dimly lit, a single lamp tipping your colleagues’ silhouettes in dry honey.

“It’s a little bit silly, don’t you think? Not like he’s a ten year old. Maybe you should…”

Harry shakes his head vehemently, making you frown in confusion.

“I need to make up for what I did,” - he says and your stomach drops. - “Even if it’s silly. I’m not leaving him sick and confused. He didn’t leave, so I won’t.”

You feel angry tears prick your eyes and you turn away from the light, rubbing your face with the back of your hand.

He would never say this to your face. He thinks you’re already sleeping. You dimly think if he wishes you heard it.

The worst thing is you left him there to die. He knows this – and he still loves you.
You left, cold spring rain and rowan branches. Letting him rot while looking at your own molding hands.
He wanted to get worse, he did it. You were cast aside, a broken destabilized satellite. Of course it would have ended like this either way. You never thought you would actually look at someone who you’d give all your blood to only to find out he doesn’t *see* you at all.
His glassy, confused stare is what still haunts you in your dreams.

The damage was clear. He actually did it. He killed himself and left you behind.

Then, timid ways smoothing over hard, unwelcoming edges. You see someone familiar in him, he sees someone familiar in you, if only just for a moment. It’s coming back together, painfully slow. Time over mind. Mind over time.

Your best friend killed himself, yet his mirror is standing next to you, smiling so peacefully.
It’s over, he says. Let go. Don’t look at me like that, I’m not him anymore.
But you do, over and over again. You do and it hurts you both.

You left him to die and he still wants you to live.

It’s probably the fever making you all teary-eyed. Yeah, it is. It’s fine, no one can see you in the dark.

You drift off to a restless sleep, warm faraway light still brushing against your closed eyelids.
You hope you don’t wake up.

You sleep in bouts, being shaken awake by a very concerned Harry to drink some water. It's bright outside, then it's dim, then it's dark again.

It's getting harder to breathe once your room is dark.

You gasp to alertness, feeling so unbearably hot it makes your skin crawl. There’s no one there. You’re alone now.
You blink, blink again – and there’s nothing. Blind darkness surrounds you. You’re pretty sure this is what death feels like.
You claw at something, anything that could make you feel again. There’s nothing. You’re nowhere - and you’re going to be there forever, till the end of time.

You don’t see anything and that’s okay. You don’t feel like you should be getting all worked up about it. It’s scary, sure, but it’s fine. This is what you deserve after…

Wait, where’s…

You hunch over yourself; breathing feels disgusting, like swallowing a mouthful of tar. Sweat drips down your neck.

Something suddenly wipes it away, a familiar cool sensation - and you lean into it, surprising yourself. Someone speaks to you, just like before - but this time you don’t understand anything that’s being said. You regret it a little, too concentrated on breathing through suffocating air.

You think you’re being given something, a little white dot on black matter. You hope it kills you for good.

“Let me die,” - a wheezing sound escaping your lungs, - “Just let me die. You don’t need me.” - a gasp so painful, like you're being burned alive, “Fuck off..”

Your mouth is moving, but you hear the words from so, so far away. A comforting weight rests onto your head, patting gently. You breathe, you really try to, but the darkness is swallowing you completely now. You think of not even saying goodbye.

It’s bright outside again when your breathing finally evens out.

You wake up to Harry crying in his sleep.
His head is laying atop of his hands, lonely tear tracks haloing his tired face.
You stare at him for a while, until you notice something has changed in your complexion. You feel a ghosting presence of a needle in your arm, patting it and finding nothing but a couple of red dots there. He couldn’t find your vein on the first try, it took him a little bit of prickling around with shaking hands and quietly apologizing to no one who could hear him.

He probably gave you something strong to fight the fever off. You hope it wasn’t too expensive at the drug store.

You scowl a little as you extend a hand to rouse him, giving a firm shake to his shoulder. Harry hums, snorts, blinks wearily and finally meets your gaze.

His green-gray eyes are tinged red. He seems vaguely aware of that, blinking rapidly and brushing a quick hand against his eyelids.

“Hey.” - you croak.

Harry’s awfully silent, just staring at you intently.

You bite the inside of your cheek, suddenly uncomfortable. You remember now. You thought some things and said some things and… Frankly, you’re just surprised he wants to talk to you at all.

“Don’t cry onto my mattress, I know I’ll have to wash it again soon, but…”
The joke falls on deaf ears, somehow making Harry’s lips tremble even more. He looks so vulnerable like this, crouched next to your bed, head tilted slightly to rest on top of it. His hands now grip his hair vehemently.

“Fuck,” - he whispers. “Jean. Fuck.”

You don’t really know what to say. Maybe it’s better to not say anything at all.

Your hand pats his matted hair.

He probably thinks, is this what I’ve done to you? Is this what you’ve done to me?

Half a year ago you could have probably been at each others’ throats by this time. You’re both too broken for that too now, apparently. Maybe. You hope not.

The air is still when you both lapse into complete silence, Harry’s breath hitching only slightly.

You belatedly realize your eyelashes are wet as well. It’s not about you right now anyways.

“You slept for the whole fucking day again and scared me to death. I miss you,” - Harry finally speaks up again, - “And please don’t say anything like that to me ever.. and.. And you’re such a fucking idiot-...”

Your mouth twitches as you sit up, Harry rising to sit next to you. He looks so awful, he probably barely caught any sleep alternating between wrestling with your feverish antics and recovering from them afterwards.

It’s been a long night. And a day before that, one you can't quite remember at all. You barely grasped onto any consciousness then.

“You should go back to sleep. Just not like… Crouching on the floor.” - you say. “And… I’m sorry. I miss you too.”

It’s probably whatever Harry gave you, but you feel a bit better, although you're still shivering. Harry gives you one last quick glance, eager to say something else, but having plopped onto your bed he quickly gives up, blinking blearily. You scurry away to give him room to lie down.

It is, in fact, a little silly, but not in a way Judit called it silly. You're ill and it's unraveling you both. You say stupid things and Harry says them too.
It shouldn't matter.
But it does.

You sigh as you fix your filthy, sweat-soaked blanket over Harry's shoulders. Should probably look for a clean one in the drawers, just for him. You're pretty sure you had one recently washed.

You'll do it later, you think to yourself. Hopefully your head won't spin so much and you'll manage to find something.
—————

The sun is so bright it hurts your eyes. You wish you were more alert at night.

“Is it true that it's painful to look at the sun for people with light-colored eyes? Because of little pigment in them and shit.”

Harry is pouring coffee from the pot while you sit hunched at a kitchen table. It feels very nice, actually, if it weren't for your pulse being so high all the time and your hot breath tickling your hands every time you exhale.
For a moment you can pretend it's a very normal afternoon after a very normal day at work. Except it's the day after. Or not. It's gotta be Saturday today. Or is it already Sunday?

You used to have sleepovers all the time, like you were twelve or something. Discussed cases a lot, sometimes drunk a little bit or a little bit too much.

“It's painful to look directly at the sun for everyone, dumbass.” you retort.

Harry stops pouring the coffee.

“This is it. You have a penalty on coffee for being mean.”

“Wait, what the fuck? I'm just being honest! I don't fuckin’ know! …Pour some more.”

“No.”

“Fuck you very much, then.” you take the mug and take a cautious sip, like it could turn out to be poisonous. It just tastes as bitter as ever.

A beat.

“Take your temperature, by the way. Here.”

You take the thermometer from Harry's hands and shake it, a red upturned line of the mercury stopping at thirty-six.

You wait.

“How much is it?”

“Thirty-nine and one.”

“Holy shit.. How is it even possible to have a fever so high without it ever going down?” Harry scans your face. “I should get you to a hospital, I think.”

“Only been two days like this. Two, right?”

“Three, technically. That's too long. I don't think it's a common cold.”

“Hm.”

So it's Sunday then.

He's right. You've bathed in nothing but sweat. It's literally frying your brain, you've been unable to form a coherent thought for a while now.

“Alright, let's just say this looks like absolute shit. I've never had a really high fever for more than a day, and like, it spikes at night and settles down in the morning. *Everyone* has the same shit. Yours is like, crazy high all the time, and I took your temperature at ten in the morning and it was the same as right now, mind you. Also no fucking fever reducers work on you, or they make it slightly better. I'm afraid to even think how high it was when you had a spike the night before. Probably a forty? Fucking hell.”

You watch him ramble and scrub at your beard. Huh, yeah. That's odd.

“Maybe it's an *uncommon* cold. A very rare one.”

“Wow. An opinion from a professional in the medical field.” Harry nods sarcastically. “My regards.”

“Alright, genius, so what's your theory then?”

“Uhm. Not enough info. Have you drunk or eaten anything out of place.. You’ve fallen ill Friday, right? Or you felt bad the evening before?”

Harry shifts the weight onto his elbows plopped on a table, a spark in his eyes. This is a case for him. He's taken a suspect for questioning.

You think for a moment, sipping at your coffee.

“I clocked out on Thursday and then went straight to Frittte, if you care.”

He arches a bewildered brow.

“For what?”

“For a beer.”

“So you got drunk after work.” he considers this, picking at his beard.

“Just a little bit. To take the edge off.”

“Really?”

You hum.

“Nah, were like, I don't know, five bottles.”

“Getting drunk on a Thursday? You weren't planning to barge in on Friday hungover, were you?”

“Nah. That's what you would do. I have class.” your breath hitches once the words leave your mouth. Now that you say that, it doesn't sound great.

“So you.. Weren't planning to go to work at all the day after? Why?”

You see his shoulders tense. The humor from your conversation has vanished completely.

“I wasn't exactly..”

“Planning anything at all after that?”

You clench your teeth. Fuck.
It was a bad day for you. You were too tense, even snapping at Judit. You immediately hated yourself for it. Harry and you didn't really talk all day, he was pretty busy with the case he was on. So of course you went to buy some booze to ease the tension a bit, but you don't remember how well it went. Not entirely *well*, it seems.
It dawns on you, a small detail you missed.

“Oh, right. I took my antidepressants with a beer. So what? You used to do this too. Makes me even more drunk. I don't know if this changes anything.”

Harry's face falls. His terror makes your skin crawl.

“Fuck, Jean, what do you mean-... Fuck! Shit, you didn't fucking… You, you stupid motherfucker, how could you..”

You shudder when he stands abruptly from the table. He's right in front of you in mere seconds, grabbing you by the shirt violently. You cover yourself with a hand on instinct, feel it curl into a fist. You push him hard, he stumbles back. In your feverish haze you punch him, see him recoil, hold his face. He recovers quickly, giving you another hard shove, then bettering it with his knuckles colliding with your nose. It makes you stumble off balance. Swaying, you punch him again, - you're not even certain where.

You're leaning on the wall heavily now, hands trying to prevent you from falling. Harry wipes his cheek hastily - you nicked him, just a little.

You're belatedly aware of blood dripping down your chin.

“What the fuck do you want from me!?” - you yell, ears ringing.

He looks at you - all blood and tears. His breathing is shaky, shirt ruffled.

“I want you to tell me if you fucking tried to overdose, you son of a bitch. Is this what it is? Huh!?”

You jolt, taken aback.

Wait, did you… Wait.

Your thoughts swirl back to the very Thursday you've talked about. Your prescriptions, discarded pill boxes. You, taking the usual dosage of antidepressants.

“What…? No. What the hell are you..”

“Don't *bullshit* me. Don't you dare. I saw the packages before I asked you about it. The blisters are empty. You take three pills a day, there were six blisters in the cabinet. Eight pills a blister. Makes it forty-eight total. You took more than you should have, and you're fucking dying because of…”

Wait. Shit.

Were they empty? Really? You can't remember.

You go back to early morning, pills and coffee. Then, a beer in the evening, just one. Then…Shit.

You vaguely remember taking a blister with you with a bottle in hand.
You downed another batch. Six or seven pills in total. Then, another bottle down.. It was three or four, then five bottles. You wanted it to hurt.

Then the blood rushed to your head. You stumbled to the drawers, finding a box of anxiety medicine. Another three down.

You think you puked several hours after that, but only once.

You agreed with yourself to sleep on the floor, a shivering mess. You don't remember if you actually did anything after that. Next thing you knew it was morning and the phone ringing sent you a welcoming dizziness of a headache.

A reminder you're still alive and someone *needs* you.
Funny thing is, you actually didn't *really* mean to do it. Kind of. You just forgot you already took the pills after you got a bit tipsy. Then.. yeah. It did escalate, but you can't recollect the thought process going in your head at that moment.

You wanted to die, as you always do. But you weren't committed enough: people don't die from an odd number of pills. If you wanted a coma, or a life support machine, you should have had more medication bought beforehand. You actually just emptied the opened packages.

And then Harry gave you more, a panacea prolonging your slow and painful suffering.

He seems to consider your confusion, eyes narrowing. His cheek has a fresh scrape, probably a spot where your first and second knuckles connected with it, burning the skin at the swift movement. There are small beads of blood welling up from it.

“And then I fucking gave you another dosage. That's why you were completely blacked out next time you woke up. Fuck. Fuck you, *fuck you*, you bastard, what did you do?”

“What did I..?” - you swallow, voice suddenly thick. “Leave me the hell alone.”

He watches you wipe at your nose, blood smearing across your jaw even more. You stumble, legs suddenly weak, feeling yourself sink to the floor.

You wanted to die and you know it. Yes, it was a pathetic attempt. You weren't even fully conscious through the half of it. You're not very lucid now either.

You wanted to meet him in the middle, you realize. He's half of the man he used to be. You're just an empty husk.

Get drunk, get medicated with whatever you have at hand, get lost forever.

You can't do even that properly. You failed.

At least Harry made it worse, unknowingly. You're thankful for that.

Your friend watches you sink to your knees, sweat on your temples.

You feel like you're gonna retch.

“I didn't mean to… It's just… It happened. I got drunk. Harry. “ - you raise your eyes at him. His lips are slightly parted, he's sucking in a sharp breath. Green irises glistening with unshed tears.

You won't say sorry because you aren't. He knows this.

“You should have been at the hospital two days ago. Fucking… My fucking god.”

He takes two careful steps in your direction, crouches down, wiping your nosebleed with his sleeve. You raise a shaky hand to touch his cheek carefully. He winces.

“Hurts?” - you ask quietly.

“Are you kidding me? Look at yourself. This is nothing.”

“Sorry.”

He sniffles, moving in closer to help you stand up.

“Is this why you insisted on me telling you if I slipped you something? Like it was gonna make you feel even worse.”

Ironically, it did.

“Huh.. Think so. Didn't even cross my mind.”

“You motherfucker, you could have told me you took your fucking meds the evening before and you just took it from me like nothing. Fuck, I can't believe you're even…”

Alive? Yes. Well, you're really fit. It takes a little bit more to kill someone who's physically well. You didn't even know that overdosing can make your body begin to shut down slowly, you thought it was all or nothing. Either dying or puking your guts out and just going about your day. Not having a neverending fever you can't sweat out.

Fuck, it sucks.
You want him out.

“Can't you just.. Leave or something? You overstayed like a day ago.”

Harry's face contorts with a flash of anger, then confusion.

“What..?”

“Just leave. You heard me. I can't deal with this.. Fucking… I'm so done. It'll probably pass on its own.” You wipe at your temple. You're so tired of just being awake. Harry bought a new box of antidepressants, right? Maybe you could take a few more and just…

Harry says nothing and just stands there, fists clenched. Then, in one quick motion, grabs you by the hand and drags after himself. You're too late to react, stumbling and almost falling at the force.

He's heading to the exit.

“What are you fucking doing-!?” You choke, struggling to keep up.

“I'm calling Kim right now, and we're taking you to the hospital. I don't care what you want, *this* is what I'm doing right now.”

You thrash against his grip, but he just clenches your arm harder, almost bruising.
He's gonna tell Kim. Oh, you are so fucked.

“Let me go at least! Stop clawing at me like I'm gonna bolt..”

He watches you being all worked up, chest heaving. He takes pity, easing his hand on you and letting you sit on the floor. Your head started to spin again.

“Look at me. I'm not gonna do anything. I'm fucking pathetic, I can't even stand for long.”

Harry bites the inside of his cheek and frowns, turns away to dial the phone.

You exhale softly, covering your eyes with a shaky hand. The blood pounding in your ears covers the sound of Harry talking with Kim, their conversation going unheard.

This is so embarrassing. You are so fucked. Kim will probably think you're an unstable useless piece of shit who tried to kill himself and failed.
Serves you right, honestly. But also, whatever.

Harry hangs up and looks at you. Sits right beside you and wordlessly pulls you into a hug. Your skin is sticky against his hands.

“It's gonna be over soon,” he mutters, “You're gonna get proper help and I'm gonna make sure you don't die. Aren't you tired of being feverish all the time?”

“Yeah,” you admit. You expected a quick death, not whatever that is.
There was a time when Harry was your slow and painful death. His broken bottles, drugs and cigarettes. You stayed by his side for days, just like he's been staying at your place now. This felt disgusting at first, then absolutely normal, then you joined in. You still had the audacity to call him out on it, as if you weren't taking the same pyrholidon he did.

You felt a little bit lonely in your relapse episodes now. He was cracking cases and watching the coffee machine work while you dreamed of drowning in a bottle of Commodore Red.

You grew distant after he came back, he gravitated to you still. It felt wrong. You needed something to put you back together. It worked for him, it would work for you too, or so you thought. You weren't *exceptional* enough to have your mind obliterated by drugs and alcohol. It just left you ill and barely lucid.

What a joke.

“Do you still want to.. You know?”

A sob tears itself from inside of your throat, and you shudder, startled by it.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

Harry cradles your head.

“The prescribed dosage was off, probably. Let's get you fixed and then you'll talk to your shrink.” he pulls away, eyes fixed on yours. “I want you to live. I want you to be happy. Do you understand?”

Your hand hastily flies to your mouth to stifle the sobs rattling your whole body.

“Yeah. Yeah.” you manage.

“Okay. I'm gonna fetch some clothes for you. Don't go anywhere. Alright?”

“Alright.”

You rest your head on top of your knees.
It's gonna be over soon, these were his words. You try to believe it.

It's warm outside when he leads you after himself to the motorcarriage.

———————

“How are you?”

The hospital blanket is awfully thin and it's usually so damn cold at night. You asked for another one and this one kind nurse brought you whole two thin blankets. So, now it's three awfully thin blankets covering you, which is kind of comical.

“Fine, except for being bored as all hell.”

Harry smiles in sympathy. He has a new shirt, yellow and blue blooming in contrasting patches all around the fabric.

“Are you gonna be okay?” he asks.

You think for a moment.

“Uh huh. Are you?”

He scoffs.

“Of course I am, I'm not the one lying in bed with an IV in his arm.”

“No, but literally… It's been awhile.”

Harry takes a deep breath.

“Worried as hell. I'm always worried about you these days.”

“I already said I'm gonna be okay.”

“I don't know, man. Seems like you need someone to keep an eye on you.”

You wince a little. It's something you're not used to - him being so considerate of.. you in general.

“It's been so long since I've seen you care so much about me. …That's a fucked up thing to say, sorry.”

Harry buries his face in hands.

“I'm sorry too. For everything. I thought you needed some space after I came back from Martinaise. I didn't even think it was this hard on you. Fuck.”

You swallow hard.

“I didn't think you would care.”

“Fuck, Jean.”

“Sorry.”

Silence, for a bit.

“Talked about you to the doctors. They said you're recovering nicely. Many people fuckin’ die from drug fever, just like that. I didn't even know there was such a thing as drug fever, honestly. This is so fucked up.”

“I didn't know either. I thought I just got sick at first. Stress and all that.”

“Yeah, well. Getting sick after being blackout drunk is… I don't think that sounds uncommon.”

Harry doesn't mention the pills. He doesn't want to think about that.

“Can I… Can I ask you something?” he continues.

“Sure.”

“Can you please, from now on, just… Talk to me? About anything at all. Even if I seem very busy.”

You feel whatever you were about to say get stuck in your throat.

He loves you. He loves you so much, like a tree loves its leaves.
Like a brother loves his unruly little sibling.

The scrape on his cheek you gave him is healing pretty nicely, a thin curvy reddish line.

“Okay,” you breathe. “Even if I ask you about stupid little things?”

“Like what?”

“What's with that ugly shirt?”

A laughter bubbles in Harry's throat.

“What the hell, dude? I like it.”

“There's no harmony in the colors. It's like, acidic yellow clashed with the most tender baby blue I've seen. Where are you even getting stuff like that?”

“Thrift store.”

“No, like, are they selling ugly shit to you specifically? I've been to thrift stores. Seen nothing like this in my entire thrift store shopping career.”

Harry crosses his arms.

“You're such a bitch. I said I liked it.”

“Alright. Do you like my hospital gown?”

“What? No. It's boring, like you.”

“Well I think it's cool. Suits my blank and uninteresting demeanor. So eat that.”

You lapse into silence, both smiling giddily.

It's stupid, to banter while surrounded by cold white walls and beeping machines.

“But you know,” Harry speaks up. There's a ghost of a smile on his lips. “You care about going for lunch once you're out? I don't know, maybe that Mesque place you're always on about.”

“What's this, a date?”

“Huh? It's the tenth of June. Did you hit your head against the bed while sleeping?”

“You stupid fucking idiot, I'm asking you if you're harassing me right now. “

“No. I'm wondering if you'd like to try getting food poisoning with me.”

You snort.

“Sure. And, a side note: I love you like a brother. I'm not going on any fucking dates with you.”

“Even if it's a .. Brotherly date?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Harry shakes his head, laughing.

“You know! When you strengthen your bond by doing stuff together. “

“Pretty sure it's called ‘hanging out’, you dumbass.”

“Well, you wanna hang out with me, then?“

“Now it sounds like you're a fucking child. That's what you are. A manchild. A shitman.”

He seems to be taken aback by the sentiment.

“Am I being promoted? Wasn't I a shitkid?“

“About time you matured. I was starting to worry I'm gonna have to drag your sorry ass with me my whole life.”

“Wh-.. I'm like, four ranks higher than you!?”

You turn your head away from him to giggle into your hand. Your laugh is warm.

“Uh huh. Yeah. Whatever.”

“You're fucking insufferable. I'm gonna tell the docs to lock you up in a psych ward.”

“Sure, do that.”

Although, you're grateful he trusts you enough to not do exactly that, if you really think about it. Nevertheless, you wouldn't lock him up either, no matter how shitty and annoying he became with time. Not like it's something bad, just…

Trusting is enough for now. The reassurance you won't try again. When asked, Harry probably fabricated a cause of your coming down, you figured that much.

You raise a hand to pat at his own, laid onto your swaddle of blankets.

“Then it's settled. I'm discharged and we're going to eat something nice.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know.. I'd kill for a pork chop right now. I'm sick of this fucking hospital food.”

“ Yeah. And.. Uh. Jean?”

“Hm?”

“It's nice. Talking to you, I mean. I can stay a bit longer if you want. If you're not tired of me already.”

You smile a bit sadly.

“Sure. We can talk some more.”

“And some more after that?”

“Yup. And some more then.”

Harry tilts his head a little to scrub at his eyes.

“That's good. You promise?”

“I promise.” you assure.

It's sunny outside again, a rare occasion for gloomy Revachol. You feel your lungs inflate when you take a deep breath.

The sun from a window is warm against your skin.

You feel hopeful, for the first time in a long, long while.

You're discharged from the hospital a week later: the blood tests were okay. Your hands itch for a smoke. Harry gives you a cigarette from his pack and you light it happily.

Your friend is smiling a lot these days, all chattering and giddy. You have no idea why.

You think you want to get better.

You toss a burnt cigarette butt and see green, blue and red with a little bit of yellow when you look at the park.

Harry's shirt smells of tobacco and shaving cream when you hug him goodbye, a couple of pats on his back.

You feel almost peaceful. You feel okay.

Even if it's for this small, kind moment of your silly little life.

You go to your place, close the blinders shut. You have clean sheets on your bed.

You close your eyes and exhale.

It's gonna be tomorrow and you're gonna be at work by eight-thirty in the morning.

And that's okay.

You can go with okay.