Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Their footsteps ring out hollow and dull through the building of the abandoned factory. Or at least seemingly abandoned. The facade was crumbling in more than one place, windows were shattered, glass shards and splinters littered the dust covered floor.
In one of the corners a rat is eating through electrical wires. It must have been working on it full-time because the only form of electricity still running seemed to be through a singular flickering ceiling light. It's fluorescence sparkling to life every now and then.

Save for the occasional bottles of cheap beer laying in a pool of sticky fluid (yes, Harry had tried taking the last sip from a discarded bottle before Jean slapped it out of his hand), there were no signs of anyone having been here recently.

But Harry had insisted that there was something *super weird* with this building and they just had to investigate. Said the city told him or some bullshit.

Jean pushes a few shards away with his boots and looks around. His eyes had grown accustomed to the dark and he could slowly make out more and more of the mangled excuse of a building that surrounds him.
His eyes fall onto a patch of wall that had been hastily spray painted over with the words 'FUCK RCM'. On the ground before it lies the culprit. A presumably empty graffiti spray bottle.

He could spot a few other colorful patches but the walls were weathered and covered in moss, making it impossible to make out what the message used to be. He turns to Harry, looking at nothing in particular. At least Jean couldn't trace Harry's gaze to anything worth looking at. Harry had a thing with just mindlessly staring at objects like they were speaking to him.

"It's 2am. Two in the goddamn morning. And this place is a discarded shithole, Harry. Why are we here again?"

"Always so pessimistic, Jean. It's not that bad."

"Oh I bet you feel right at home. Are you going to answer my question? Or are you too busy planning on how you can move all your belongings into here." Jean gestures wildly around him.

"Scratch that, you can just sleep right over there in that huge pile of piss soaked trash! Bet that would be reeaal comfortable. You love sleeping in garbage cans don't you? That must be why I find you passed-out in them so often."

The sarcasm is dripping nastily to the floor. The lack of sleep combined with the infrequency of the goddamn flickering ceiling light is making Jean even more irritated than he already is. He needs a cigarette, badly.

"Oh Fuck off. Trust me, there's a huugge stash somewhere in here. I can smell it."

"Fuck me. Drugs, obviously. Why else would you pull me out of bed in the middle of the night. Well, don't let me stand in your way, super-detective." Jean signals Harry to continue.

"I won't. Not that you could stop me, of course." A smug grin infects Harry's face

"Right. Just find your goddamn drugs so we can piss off."

Harry glides away, grin still there, and Jean follows.

The flight of stairs Harry is approaching don't look stable in the slightest. Matter of fact, it looks so poor in condition Jean is sure it's going to collapse even before they set foot on it.
The railing lays dismembered on the floor, the remaining parts on the stairway rising upwards like stakes. The wood of the steps has splintered, broken away completely in pieces with occasional foot-sized holes.

Naturally, having no sense of self preservation, Harry skips up the mangled remains of the staircase and Jean, having a even lesser preservation instinct, follows him without a comment.

Much of being with Harry required a very low survival instinct.

That, Jean could provide.

They reached some sort of attic, Jean assumed. Two small windows decorated the angled wall, a small stream of moonlight illuminating the room. It was no less destroyed than the space downstairs but at least the windows weren't smashed. The place was narrow and Jean could hardly straighten up.

The attic looked like a bureau, or at least like something that used to be a bureau. Paperwork scattered the floors, binders overflowing with documents and one singular pencil was all Jean could make out in the scarce light. Harry shifted next to him, bending down to pick up said pen off the floor and swiftly pocketed it. His movement made the moonlight hit the halogen watermark on the sleeve of his right arm.
The light reflected across the room and Jean's eye caught on a speck of red in the far end of the attic. Too artificial in color to be blood. Ink perhaps?

He walked over, squinted and saw something spray painted in bold letters on the desk-

NO LOVE, NO LIGHT.
Under it, someone had added: but i'm blind anyways.

The words were ragged, scratched in the aged wood of the desk. Likely with the pen he saw on the floor, he thought. Run out of ink.

Harry's familiar scent filled Jean's nose as Harry settled behind him, looking over his shoulder. He smelled like a cocktail of cat piss, sweat, alcohol and tobacco. Infrequently mixed with the artificial smells of laundry detergent. Mixed. It was like someone stuck a trash bag in a pair of freshly washed linen and sealed it off with a can of beer.

"Nice graffito."

Harry's breath creeps down the skin of Jean's neck. Harry reeked of cigarettes, the smell had probably permanently implanted in the hairs of his beard. The fucker was definitely unfamiliar with the concept of washing.

"Mh."

Nevertheless, Jean's system always short circuits whenever Harry stands too close to him which, to be fair, happened unreasonably often. Maybe it's Harry's caustic fumes frying his brain. Definitely nothing else. Definitely.

Suddenly Harry gasps. Jean turns around, looking into Harry's excited face.

"Jean! Jeann!! Do you smell that? Smells like.."

"The only thing I'm smelling is shitkid breath. It stinks. Bad. Very bad. Like toilet water or -"

"Very funny Jean, you know you like it."

"Why the fuck would I enjoy your corpse smelling -"

"Jeaannn!" Two hands harshly connect with his shoulders, "Stay focused. Do you smell that? "

He dramatically sniffs around in the air. Jean inhales once but doesn't notice anything out of the ordinary. At most the air might be a bit dustier than elsewhere. It tingles in his drug fried nostrils.

"If you still don't mean your body odor then, no."

"Drugs!! It's drugs, Vicky." Harry's grinning like a maniac as his hands move to open the first drawer.

"You reek of drugs, Harry."

"Shhh."

Even more paperwork is pilled up in there which Harry makes quick work with and reunites it with its' family on the floor. Like expected, not from Jean of course but from Harry, a stack of translucent baggies with undoubtedly psychedelic content appear.

"Fuck yeah! Never doubt an addicts nose, Vic." 

"Good job superstar." Jean claps unenthusiastically. Still, not unimpressed.

"I know."

Harry's' attention has fully caught in the suspicious powder that he had started pouring out on the desk. He didn't even bother doing a line, he just stuck his nose in there and inhaled. Deeper than Jean thought was healthy. 

"You just gonna stand there?" Harry emerged, still grinning, his muttonchops covered with specks of white. Jean has the urge to lick it off him.

"Shut up." Jean picks up a piece of paper and starts making his lines.

"Ouhh, fancy fancy huh." Jean shrugs Harry's mocking tone off and lowers his nose. As he breathes in the drugs hit his blood flow immediately. His head clears and finally he feels like he can think again.

He watches as the rest of the zip lock bags disappear in Harry's pocket.

The light of the moon outside seems awfully inviting and Jean's body longs for a cigarette. He moves to the small slanted window. It's on eye level and the view goes directly to the roof of the building that is flat just where the window drops.

"Come over here shitkid." Harry walks over, "Walk-able roof." Jean gestures outside.

"Every roof is walk-able if you're determined enough, Jean." Harry says matter-of-factly.

"What the fuck, no. Come on, let's see if we can get out off this window."

Jean turns the handle and the window falls open. A gust of wind hits his face.
He grips the window sill with both hands and heaves himself up, then swings his legs outside. He slides down to the small leveled part of the roof and stretches out his arms.

"Voila."

Harry attempts to mirror Jean's movement, placing both his hands on the frame. His right hand catches on a piece of wood sticking outwards and he hisses.

"Motherfucker! The fucking window bit me Jean!!" Harry curses.

"Don't be dramatic Harry. As long as it's not talking to you again or some shit, you're good."

Harry looks at him like the window was indeed talking to him and Jean just killed their connection.
After staring at the frame, probably cursing it out even more, he manages to hoist himself up. His legs struggle to angle upwards but after hanging there like a fish on land for a few moments he succeeds.

"Thought you were supposed to be the gym teacher." Jean mocks and Harry flashes him his middle finger.

"I'm not as young as you are anymore sweatheart" Under his breath he adds, "Fucking window."

Jean huffs and finally pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. Harry had sat down next to him and was looking at him expectantly.

He reluctantly hands Harry a cigarette because Harry would definitely start fighting him for one if he didn't. He moves his own to his lips and fishes for a lighter. His pockets remain empty.

"Fuck, I lost my fucking lighter."

Harry reaches for his own pants and, under the pile of psychedelics and various other unidentifiable stuff, he finds what he's looking for and triumphantly holds out his lighter. Or rather a lighter. Jean is sure that was the one Harry stole from the last crime scene they cleaned up. Not really a crime scene - it was a suicide. Doused himself in gasoline and burned alive.

Harry flicks the switch and Jean leans closer to the fire. Their cigarettes meet in the flickering flames and Harry's eyes fixate on Jean's. He stares back, looking at the glow of the flame reflecting in Harry's eyes before the light is extinguished with a click, engulfing their bodies in darkness.

The moon of course still glows but what is the pale light of the moon in comparison to flames? The moon merely reflects fire.

Jean averts his eyes, the presence of Harry only making itself known next to him as he takes a drag from his cigarette. Two specks of light alternating, blinking like fireflies on a warm summer evening.

Another rush of wind combs through them, the cold air biting against his cheek.
The view was shit. The whole neighborhood was run down, each building in various stages of decomposing. Ivy covers most of what is left of the walls, moss and mold covering the damp skeleton of what was once a house.
Under the glow of the moon it seemed almost beautiful. Peaceful.

The light next to Jean went out and he could feel Harry's eyes on him. They bore themself through his skull, anchoring in the soft tissue that lay under his cranium.

"You're not getting another cigarette." Jean keeps his eyes leveled forward. Sucking on his cigarette as if to make a point. What point he's not exactly sure.

"Jeeaan, don't do this to me. That's so unfair." His whining voice rings in Jean's ears and he turn to look at him. Even through the dark he could see the fucking puppy eyes Harry was giving him.
A thought flashed through his cortex.

"Open your mouth."

Harry obeys with no hesitation and lets his mouth fall open.

Something stirs in Jean's stomach. A point to remember.

Jean takes a drag and leans forward, a few centimeters away from Harry's face. Their eyes meet, lingering for a second before Jean blows a cloud of smoke directly into Harry's oral cavity. His mouth closes immediately and he sucks it down, the smoke traveling to his lungs.

"That's all you're getting." Jean keeps his eyes on Harry as he leans back. His cigarette on its way to his mouth again as Harry's hand darts forward, clasping Jean's cigarette clutching hand and pinning it next to him. Jean is pushed backwards, catching himself on his forearms, elbows painfully connecting with the rough surface of the roof.

Harry's free hand moves to the back of Jean's head, grabbing a chunk of his hair. His body angled over him as the space between their faces is closed. Mouths pressed together.

Jean is taken by surprise, his eyes flutter closed, taking in the sensation.

Harry's tongue prods at Jean's lip, beckoning him to part his mouth. Jean is happy to oblige. Then Harry opens his mouth to exhale and Jean tastes the familiar feeling of smoke in his mouth.

He sucks in the remains of his cigarette fumes Harry had re gifted him. The smoke advances to his lungs the same way it had in Harry's. Jean's heart was pounding heavy in his chest. Must be the nicotine.

He breaks away for a second, blowing the smoke out of his lungs again. It hits Harry's face and he grins before eagerly returning his lips on Jean's. Harry's breath is hot and wet against his mouth and his cheeks burn with heat despite the cold air surrounding him. Open mouthed their tongues intertwine.
Jean heaves his body upwards, pushing Harry down under him and swings his legs over Harry. Cradling his hip. His hands, now free, cup Harry's face. Fingers interlacing Harry's muttonchops. It's partly tangled and rough in texture and Jean's urge to lick it intensifies.

With Harry breathing heavily under him, their lips pressed together, Jean does not find the willpower to suppress his impulse and his tongue darts out to slobber once over Harry's beard. He tastes the remaining drugs mixed with the lingering taste of tobacco and his heart rushes.

"Did you just lick my beard?" Harry's staring at him, incredulous, but something else glistens in Harry's eyes. His pupils are dilated, heavy lidded. Arousal.

"What if I did?" 

"Motherfucker."

Harry pulled Jean's face close again and he feels Harry's grin through the kiss. His teeth graze Jean's lip before Harry had caught Jean's flesh between them. He groans against Harry's mouth, a copper taste lingering.

When Jean pulls away, his face is flushed red. Their breathing synchronizes, deep and heavy. Harry's hips still pinned under Jean's. He could clearly feel Harry's erection pressing through his pants. Harry's grinning from ear to ear. Smug bastard.

Before Jean could process whatever the fuck just happened something creaked inside. Boots on wood.

"Fuck, someone's coming. Duck." Jean whispers and pushes Harry down next to him.

He had forgotten his cigarette, resting idly between his fingers, but Harry hadn't. With Jean distracted he swiftly reached over and plucked the half smoked cig from Jean's hand.

"What the fuck, Harry." Jean hissed

"What. You weren't smoking it anymore." He shrugs and attempts to lift it to his mouth before Jean snatches it back, extinguishing it on the floor.

"Shut the fuck up. Don't make any noise."

Harry lets out a dissatisfied grunt.

Heavy footsteps ascend the staircase - at least three different pairs. They come to a halt and Jean signals Harry to be quiet. Harry sticks out his tongue at him and Jean tried hard to not think about how that tongue was roaming his mouth a few seconds ago.

"What fucking happened here. Looks like a wild boar found this place, did you make this mess?" A voice spits. Gruff and deep. The paper on the floor shuffles as their boots move over the floorboard.

"No! Must have been the window. We didn't leave it open though!" A second voice - younger. They seem nervous.

"Obviously we didn't. We're not stupid. This place is a shithole either way, why do you care about this mess." A third person chimes in. Jean swears he hears another set of breathing but the fourth pair of shoes stays quiet.

"Whatever. As long as the stash is still there, I don't fucking care." The deep voice grunts.

Jean turns to Harry, wide eyed, mouthing 'fuck' with his mouth. Harry only grins. He never seemed to care about causing unfortunate situations.

The boots move across the room, one after the other. The floorboard creaks. Apparently Harry had at least closed the drawer. It squeaks as it's being opened but obviously the content remains stuffed in Harry's pocket. The drawer is slammed shut and someone frantically shuffles through the rest of them.

"FUCK! Where the fuck is it?? I knew you fucking took it!"

"We didn't! I swear!"

"Fuck. You're fucking explaining this to dad. Ughh, why does something always have to go wrong? Let's go. And close that fucking window." The staircase groans as the boots start descending. Definitely three pairs plus the one that's still in the attic, tasked with closing the window. Jean holds his breath as the steps get closer.

The person huffs and moves to turn the handle. The window snaps into place and closes with a creak. The last steps recede faintly.

"Shit."

Chapter Text

"That's what you get for cursing out the goddamn window." Jean straightens up, inspecting the framework. Regrettably it is very much not falling apart like everything else in this godforsaken building.

"Let's just break the glass." Harry suggests, already warming up his wrists and stretching his shoulders.

"Did the drugs completely fry your brain away? Don't answer that. Unless you want your whole arm sliced up by glass shards we are not doing that. Fucking idiot." Jean pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Spoilsport."

"Oh! I'm sorry, I almost forgot how much fun it is. You trying to fucking kill yourself every chance you get. Let's try actual problem solving, hm?"

Jean moves to the edge of the roof. They're one floor up, 4 meters maximum. Not a recommendable height to fall. It's dark, he can barely make out what's on the floor. The light downstairs flickers once and Jean notices the containers propped up all around the backside of the building.

"I see, so fucking up your bones by jumping off the roof is better?" Harry had crossed his arms, clearly not pleased by Jean shooting down his brilliant approach at punching stuff.

"Are you being intentionally oblivious? Do you enjoy pissing me off? There's cargo containers down there. If you hold onto the edge here and let go it would be like a 2 meter drop. More survivable than a fucked-up arm."

Jean sighs and Harry takes a step to the edge, looking down.

"Okay! Fuck. You won. No punching glass, my god. We should still wait a bit. Those kids could still be here."

"Fine, can't imagine anything nicer than mindlessly sitting here, surrounded by you." Jean voice oozed sarcastically as he plops down again, Harry beside him.

Exhaustion was starting to overtake him. He wasn't exactly tired but his bones felt too heavy. Skin weighing him down. Limbs like stones. Like he just wanted to lay down on the dirt and be swallowed by the suffocating soil. Living was fucking exhausting and he didn't want to deal with the mess of his feelings that Harry had unearthed.

Harry fishes his baggie out and gestures to Jean. He accepts, coating his fingers and sniffing it off. He barely felt what he had taken before. Harry had sucked all the life out of him, almost literally.

He sighs once again, laying down to look up at the sky. He hears Harry beside him, shuffling and shifting and throwing his head back with a big inhale before he joins Jean on the floor. Harry's body emits a pleasant warmth and Jean wishes he could have Harry's weight on top of him again.

Harry's head is angled, turned to Jean. He knows Harry is looking at him, his organs always start firing when Harry's eyes rest on him. He knows if he turns to look at him he would see something in Harry's eyes he could not ignore.

So Jean's eyes stay focused on the stars above him.

He tries to concentrate on different constellations, connecting the blinking dots with imaginary thread.
But the thread soon runs out, the edge frayed as if severed with a dull knife. His mind blanked out. All he could think about was the amount of times he had stared at the stars before. Standing on the pathetic excuse of a balcony his apartment provided, smoking, crying, praying something would change, praying his feelings weren't real.
Praying to something he knew wasn't there.

"They're beautiful aren't they." The words feel foreign on Jean's lips. Something inside him is screaming with all its might. He doesn't know where the sentimentalism is coming from.

Maybe he does.

Maybe he doesn't want to admit it to himself.

"They are." Harry's words are burning in his mind. Jean knows Harry is not looking at the sky as he says them.

Jean also knows Harry is high on drugs right now and definitely not thinking straight. He on the other hand feels everything clear as day and it fucking terrifies him. The chemicals opened a new slot in Jean's mind he's not quite sure how he's supposed to fill. It's been empty for so long he had almost forgotten it was there. Almost.

His eyelids weigh heavily, thoughts fading. As exhaustion takes over he closes his eyes, breathes in the brisk air. Harry's intermittent breathing like a lullaby, gently rocking him back and forth. His mind drifts away.

He doesn't notice when he falls asleep.

Doesn't notice it when Harry's fingers start tracing over his features, humming. Starting on his nasal bone, traveling upward to his eyebrow, caressing his cheek over to his mandible, skimming over his beard before lightly grazing over his lips.
His sleeping body only illuminated by the moonlight

Doesn't notice Harry studying his face, his hands, trailing over the map of veins on his arms. Rubbing circles on the soft flesh of his palm.

Doesn't hear the soft words Harry muttered under his breath, prayer like. Fondling Jean like a delicate vase, like something worth worshiping.

Doesn't notice Harry's body moving closer to him. Curling up next to his sleeping self, eyes not leaving him once.

Jean awakes with the first rays of sunlight hitting his eyelids. A soft persimmon color tinting the air. He squints, making out the shape of Harry next to him. His unkempt face illuminated by the suns soft glow. He didn't look like he had slept. Still, he looked at Jean with a smile so wide and bright like the sun that Jean had to avert his eyes. Harry rarely looked this happy.

Jean groans as he pulls himself up into a sitting position.

"Ughh, what the fuck." He rubs his eyes, a dull headache making its presence known. "Were you awake the whole time? Why the fuck didn't you wake me."

His muscles ached, back stiff from sleeping on the unforgiving hard platform. He massages his temple, skin slightly moist from the morning dew. His body screams for another cigarette.

"But you looked so peaceful Vicky. Plus you reaally needed that sleep, didn't want to disturb the sleeping beauty." He grins. His eye bags were swollen, darker than usual but he didn't seem tired. His eyes glisten in the sun and a gust of wind blows through his hair. His irises exceedingly intoxicating. 

Something in Jean tingles. He tries concealing it by raising his voice.

"So you just watched me sleep? The whole night? Like a fucking creep??" He spits the words at Harry but his face betrays him. Pupils dilating in something other than rage.

"Whoa whoa, hold your horses sweetheart. I was just making sure you didn't roll off the roof in your sleep or some dumb shit." His eyes swiftly dart to Jean's lips, "You're a pretty sleeper, do you know that?"

"What." Jean's heart splutters in his chest, his mouth hangs slightly open. Eyes searching for something in Harry's face that indicates he's making fun of him. He only finds the shit eating grin, threatening to swallow him whole.

"You heard me."

"Don't fucking play with me Du Bois." His teeth grind together. The headache really isn't helping.

"Why would I?" Harry's voice purrs in his ear.

"Oh, you don't need a fucking reason. You just take whatever you want and spit out the bones. Not caring for anyone other than yourself." Anger bubbles up. Cigarette. He needs a cigarette.

"Why are you so mean Jean. You need to relaax. Just relax a bit."

"Don't you fucking tell me what to do! You motherfucking-" He stops. Trying to regulate his breathing before his heart palpitated out of his chest. There was no use arguing with Harry, the fucker just feed off it. "You know what fuck it. Let's just get out of here."

"Whatever you say darling."

Harry was smirking at him, His voice ground through his head. Sugar. It was too sweet. Artificially sweetened, Jean thought.

"Great. Well, we don't have to both risk a fractured foot. I go down, you wait here. I'll open the window from the inside, alright?" Jean saw Harry's mouth forming into a pout, ready to protest.

Fantastic. Just fantastic.

"Absolutely not. Why do you get to jump off the roof and I just have to sit here like a damsel in distress?? Not fucking happening. I also want to jump off the roof."

"Of course you do Harry. Of course you do." Jean mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighs deeply, "Alright fuck me, let's both jump off the fucking roof. Why the hell not."

"Fuck yeah!" Harry's eyes light up like a child's in an amusement park. Like it had been his life's goal to find a roof to jump off from. Jean can see the appeal.

"Great. I'll go first, you follow. Wait till I'm down so I can laugh in your face when you eat shit again." His voice sounds with absolute monotony. His accent only vaguely accentuating his words.

"In your dreams, Viquemare."

Jean doesn't answer, he moves to sit at the edge, then grips whatever there is to grip and turns around to let his body slowly down. He lets go and, like predicted, lands on the top of the container. Not fully on his feet, he stumbles backwards and almost lands on his ass, but he's down nonetheless.

He stretches his head to look up at Harry, peering down from the roof. It seems higher up from down here but he didn't seem to have any additional pain from the fall so he gives Harry the thumbs up.

Harry's silhouette disappears and he hears Harry taking a few steps back. The building creaks and Jean is hit with the realization that Harry is going to jump. Like actually jump off.

"Goddammit Harry, don't-" He shouts upwards but Harry's body was already in flight.

"Eat dirt, cocksuckerss!!" Harry screams at no one in particular as he soars through the air. It didn't look very elegant, it felt to Jean more like a brick being launched in his direction.

His full body weight connects with the top of the container.

It thuds with the impact of Harry's body because the idiot definitely did not land on his feet. Well, his feet did touch the surface but obviously his legs gave in and he topple over, losing balance.
He rolled it out, or rather he would have rolled it out if the space he had landed on was just a bit wider. Instead he rolled straight off the edge of the cargo container and hit the ground with another loud thud.

Throughout this whole shitshow he was groaning periodically, a last low groan sounded from the floor before Jean sighed and leaped down to join him.

"Well, you certainly didn't disappoint with the shit eating part - that was incredibly entertaining." No sign off amusement shows in Jean's voice but his lip had curled into a smirk. "I hope you had as much fun as I did because why the fuck, did you think that was a good idea. Blithering idiot."

"Son of a bitch." Harry curses, shaking the soil off his pants where they had kissed the floor. Then his lips take on their usual grin, "You have to admit, that was quite impressive."

"I'm not quite sure what about you jumping off a roof and landing on your ass is supposed to be impressive." Jean raises his eyebrow.

Something flashes across Harry's face - disappointment? 

"Wait, did you do that to impress me?" Jean's voice picks up intonation, teasing. Harry's cheeks, already flushed from the cold, take on a deeper shade.

"Maybe?" A crooked grin on his face.

Jean scanned him. Even though Harry was blushing his composure had not faltered. His knee was scraped but otherwise he seemed unharmed. Jean didn't know how Harry did it, always getting away unscathed.

"Right. Well, for the record, it was 'incredibly disco' as you would say."

Harry seems positively thrilled with Jean's answer, rolling his shoulder blades once.

"Can we please fuck off now." Jean was getting impatient. Despite his unplanned nap he did not feel rested.

The only thing he wanted was so pass out on his bed. Maybe have a cigarette. Scratch that, definitely have a cigarette. Then hopefully pass out again. No room for feelings.

"You got it princess." Harry winks before skipping away, Jean slouching after him. Where Harry got the energy was a mystery to him.

Chapter Text

They made their way over to their car that surprisingly still stood where they had parked it last night. Unchanged save for a new trail of bird excrement splattered on the windshield. It reminded Jean of Harry's beard in more than one way.

The inside of the car was decked out in cigarette smell and was anything other than clean. Harry had a habit of cluttering every space he set foot into.

Jean climbed over a few empty beer cans and into the passenger seat. The pollster felt sticky and clammed itself to Jean's leg. Harry had settled in front of the steering wheel and had apparently found a half smoked cigarette butt in the crack of his seat that he was sucking on passionately. The smoke filled up the small space inside the car.

"That's fucking disgusting, Harry." Jean regarded Harry, cigarette between his lips, starting up the engine.

"You didn't want to give me yours." Harry shrugs.

The car sprung to life with a low groan and set into motion. Harry had turned his head towards Jean, "Would you rather have something else in my mouth?"
The suddenness of the question cuts through the air. The low growl of Harry's voice going straight to Jean's gut. Harry was looking at him, smirking against the cigarette, teeth bared.

Jean's mind unhelpfully provides the vision of Harry on his knees, looking up at him through his lashes while slowly moving up and down his throbbing cock. Moaning against his skin.

The fact that he's staring directly in Harry's teasing eyes as he's assaulted by his vivid imagination doesn't help in the slightest.

Fortunately he gets torn from his thoughts, eyes catching on a speck of black running over the street. He grabs the steering wheel and jerks the car off the road, evading what seemed to be a small dog. It hastily ran away.

Harry pushes Jean away, throwing him against the window. He curses as his head hits the glass. Harry was still grinning stupidly at him as he swerves the car back on the street.

"Keep your eyes on the goddamn road shitkid."

"First off all, don't tell me how to drive. And second of all, you were the one that distracted me in the first place sweetheart." Harry's eyes were back on the road, mouth nursing the cigarette. Lips still curled into a grin. "Next you're gonna tell me not to drink and drive." His gaze shifts to Jean again.

"Fuck off." Jean turns his head away, looking out the window. His tiredness had completely vanished and his face had flushed a deep shade of red.

He tried distracting himself but the smell of smoke from Harry's cigarette was intensifying his own need for one. He still didn't have a lighter though and he was not going to ask Harry for his. The only logical conclusion one could come up with in this situational obviously was to steal the one in Harry's mouth. Obviously.

With no time to think his plan through he reached over, snatching the cigarette from in between Harry's teeth in a swift motion and places it in his own mouth. The filter was slightly soggy and covered in saliva from where Harry had been chewing on it. The nicotine quickly rushed to his head as he inhaled. He could almost think clearly again.

"Rude. If you wanted my spit in your mouth you could have just said so." Harry studies Jean intently as he sucks on his stolen cigarette.

Jean is promptly assaulted with another vivid image of Harry forcefully grabbing him by his face and shoving him to his knees before slowly leaning down to drool in his mouth. Followed by a wet, hot tongue invading his oral cavity. Tracing over the soft tissue.

He quickly smothers the thought under a breath of nicotine. The chemical nesting itself soothingly in his bloodstream.

"Don't flatter yourself too much shitkid." Jean exhales a white cloud of smoke in Harry's direction before sticking the cigarette back in Harry's mouth.

Harry hums, hands slouched over the steering wheel, returning his focus to the road.

Jean's attention lingered on Harry's arms, hands resting disinterestedly, fingers tapping a rhythm against the rubber of the wheel.

His thoughts spun wildly in circles. The circles mainly consisting of a wide spectrum of things Harry's hands could do to him. The longer he stared at Harry's calloused rough hands the more thoughts appeared. Harry shoving him around, punching him, bending him over, holding him in place, choking him, roaming wildly over his body while breathing heavily in his ear-

"You still with us, Vicky?" Harry snaps his fingers in front of his face, turning his attention away from Harry's hands.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"You seemed kinda.. lost in thought." Harry squints at him, then gestures outside. "And we're here, you can get out. " Harry's grinning again, adding, "If you want."

Jean looked out of the window and the car had indeed stopped. The apartment complex rising up in front of him. It must have been like 9am at this point. The sun was still shining yet didn't offer any warmth. It was cold inside the car and Jean would have shivered if his body didn't feel like it was overheating from arousal.

"Yeah, no, I'll get going. Try not to run over any more things." Jean heaves himself off his seat and steps out of the car.

"Just for you." Harry blows him a kiss before driving off, leaving behind a cloud of whirred up dirt.

Before Jean's mind could scramble even more he quickly sprints into the building. Obviously the elevator wasn't working, what did he even expect. He dragged himself up the stairs, hoping he still had some tequila hidden away in his apartment.

He shuffled for his keys, almost dropping them before finally getting the door open. The stale air inside greeted him with open arms and he wasted no time locating a new lighter and collapsing on the welcoming cushions of his couch.

Jean spend the next foreseeable time chain smoking.

He was adamant about his art and didn't stop till he was surrounded by a suffocating amount of empty cigarette boxes, the ashtray overflowing on his small coffee table. He dreaded leaving the house to buy more so he decided to just move onto drinking.

Salvation reached him through an unopened tequila bottle, waiting patiently in the back of his kitchen cabinet. Kept save from Harry's desperate hands.

He quickly downed like a quarter of the liquid before the thought of Harry had time to resurface further.

It burned its way down his throat, the warmth mixing with the nausea settled in his empty stomach. The alcohol spread quickly, nothing in its way but a thick layer of nicotine.

He laid back down on the sofa, taking another big gulp. His mind was starting to swim, his eyelids turned heavy. He tries keeping them open but his room was getting blurry, swaying back and forth like his couch was floating on water.

Involuntarily they closed shut. He took three deep breaths, another swig from the bottle and then fell into total darkness.

His sleep was mercifully dreamless up until the point where he heard a ringing. It buzzed loudly in the dark space of his mind, whispering his name.

Jean was standing in a sea of black. Nothing surrounding him but the empty void of his mind. The floor was gone, the only form of orientation he had was the buzzing. Like a swarm of hornets somewhere in the distance. Was it even a ring? A buzz? Or a whisper? Maybe even a scream. The noise was unbearably impudent. Prying his skin open and nesting in his cranium.

The darkness pushed into him as if narrowing, trapping him in his lungs, searching for oxygen. There was nothing and at the same time everything all at once, crashing down on him.

The noise kept getting louder and louder, sharp edged, slicing through his auditory cortex. Bouncing back and forth from imaginary walls. Liquefying and seeping into his marrow.

He fell to his knees, clutching his legs between his arms and rocking back and forth. Trying to block the noise out. Trying to breathe.

He needed it to stop.

Stop.

STOP.

His eyes snap open abruptly. He gasps for air, chest heaving up and down rapidly as his lungs fill and empty themself. His head was throbbing in pain and his shirt was soaked in sweat, clinging to his upper body.

He clawed at his rib cage, frantically trying to get air into his lungs. His ears were still ringing. An acidic taste burrowing at the back of his throat, bile threatening to eject. He grabbed the bottle next to him and gulped down most of what was still in there.

Not a good idea. He immediately felt his stomach twist with nausea. Between raged breaths he topples over, vomiting the caustic liquid on the floor. Not much else for his body to expel.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand trying to keep down the next wave of nausea. Tears were streaking his cheeks.

He takes a few deep breaths, successfully preventing the vomit from rising up. He had to resist the urge to take another swig to calm him down.

After a few strenuous moments his breathing was starting to regulate itself. The ringing still hadn't ceased. Jean looked around his unlit room - when had it gotten dark? - and located the source of his panic attack. His phone. A stubborn caller still clutching their receiver.

Harry.

His mind filled in the blank automatically.

Against his better judgement he managed to stand up, a sharp pain immediately stabbing him in the space between his eyes. He curses and sways over to pick up the receiver, his hand clutching his head.

"Harry?"

"Vickyy!!" Harry's delighted, slightly slurred voice filled his ear canal. He probably had been drinking as well.

"What is it. What time is it?" Jean's voice was hoarse and he was pretty sure he's about to throw up again. His stomach twists uncomfortably.

"Fuck, I don't know, like 10pm? You sound like shit, Viquemare. You good?" Harry's voice crackled through the line. The noise set him on edge. He felt like some vein had exploded in his head and was leaking in the surrounding tissue, poisoning his body.

"No I'm not good, I drank a whole bottle of tequila on an empty stomach, blacked out and vomited it all up just now. What are you doing?"

"Good one. Can't say I've been having as much fun as you. Bar's a shithole. And not the fun kind. If had three drink spilled on me. Three. And I haven't even drank two. "

Jean attempts to chuckle but all that comes out is a cough that transforms into a gag and before he knows it bile is rising up his throat again and ejects on the floor. He spits, coughing against the receiver.

"Ookay, that doesn't sound good actually. I'm coming over, try not to die before I get there!"

And with that the line disconnects. Jean curses under his breath and moves to melt into the sweat stained couch again. On his way his shin collides with the coffee table. His body felt too weak to process even more pain so he just collapsed on the sofa. Clutching his leg wordlessly. He probably should have gotten a glass a water. Whatever.

Jean decides to just wait. What else was there to do. The aftereffect of the alcohol clouded his vision and he mentally slapped himself for having smoked all his cigarettes before. Not because he had too many but because now he didn't have any left.

So now he was forced to sit with his own thought after all.

Thankfully not for long because soon enough his doorbell rang, followed by Harry frantically banging against the door with his fists.

Jean shuffled over, switches a small light on and lets him in.

"Hot damn, smells like shit in here." Harry pinches his nose before dropping on the couch.

"Yeah? Well that's what I have to smell every time I'm standing next to you so, suck it up." Jean manages to land his ass on the couch next to Harry. His head was buzzing and feeling faint. When was the last time he had drank water?

"Anything in particular that made you get black out drunk during the day?"

The question sounded ridiculous, there were more reasons for drinking yourself into unconsciousness than there were reasons against it. Very few days pass where Jean didn't wished he was unconscious rather than awake. He had to chuckle.

"Grand coming from you, party boy. Better question, what have you been doing if not getting drunk?"

"You know what, I don't even remember." Harry stands up, "But now that you've said it." He moves to Jean's fridge, shuffles in the mostly empty drawers and returns with two cans of beer. Shoving one of them in Jean's direction.

Jean lifts his eyebrow but accepts nonetheless. He already felt like shit, how much worse could it get.

He opens the can with a pop and gulps it down like water. His mind was starting to feel fuzzy again, headache being pushed in the background.

Harry had already started bringing the rest of Jean's beer over and had spread out next to Jean, hand resting behind him on the couch. Jean tried not to think too hard about how close their bodies were and how Harry's body odor smelled so intoxicating it made Jean's mind even cloudier.

Jean was about to open a second can when he felt Harry's hand pressing up against him. Tracing over his back, moving up his spine and resting on his neck. Slightly massaging the muscles on his shoulder. Applying pressure on his sweaty skin.

Jean freezes, stomach lurching as he turns to look at Harry.

Harry had leaned forward, close enough that Jean felt Harry's hot breath on his face.

"What the fuck are you doing." Jean breathes out, his voice is hushed and his mind swims as Harry applies pressure on Jean's aching skin.

Fuck, that felt good.

"Taking care of you." Harry purrs dangerously near to Jean's throat, making him shiver. If Harry continued to touch him like that he'd start moaning directly in his ear.

"The fuck you are, get the fuck off me." Jean shoves Harry's hand off his back, pretty unsuccessfully because now Harry had gripped him by his throat and pushed his back into the couch. Towering over Jean with an unreadable look on his face. Jean short circuits.

His insides were screaming, heart palpitating in his chest, his blood rushed downwards. His eyes flashed open, pupils dilating, looking at Harry. He needed his hands on him. Everywhere.

He wanted Harry to throw him around like a rag doll, bending him over the kitchen counter and fucking him till his legs stopped working. He needed Harry to fuck him so bad it was clouding his vision with arousal. He couldn't think straight anymore.

Harry was smirking down at him as if Jean had lain his thoughts on a silver platter.

Harry nests his head against Jean's neck, breathing thickly against his skin. Jean's eyes rolled in the back of his head, trying to stifle his desire.

Then his tongue darts out, slowly licking over Jean's throat, tongue lingering over his pulse before slightly biting his skin.

"You need a shower Vicky, you stink." With that he retreats, leaving Jean panting on the couch.

"The fuck is wrong with you." Jean spits.

"What? Did you need something else from me?" The smug bastard was grinning at him, taking another sip from his beer as if nothing had happened.

"Just fuck off, why did you even come here?" Jean doesn't wait for an answer, he stumbles out of the room and locates his bathroom. He slammed the door shut. Did he want to shower? No. Did he want to get naked with one door separating him from Harry? Maybe. Did he need this shower? Absolutely.

Jean groaned, stripped off his clothes, soaked with multiple bodily fluids and stepped in the shower. He hadn't locked the door.

As soon as the water hit his face his knees almost gave in. He was feeling way to lightheaded to be standing. Still, he doesn't sit down, part of him hoping he'd faint and smash his head against the tile wall. Blood diluting with the water and flowing down the drain. Part of him wanting Harry to find him.

Jean let the hot water run down his body, just hot enough to sting but not enough to burn his skin. He was still hard. He considers jerking off, Harry would definitely hear him, but he decides against it. Didn't want to give Harry the satisfaction.

Then he hears a knock.

"Yes?" He groans, hands running through his hair.

"Just wanted to check if you're still alive." Harry shouted through the door

Fucking liar. As if he wouldn't have heard if Jean fell and split his head.

"Yes I'm still fucking alive Harry. Why, did you come to take some more care of me?" The sarcasm drips and mixes with the water, silently sliding into the drain. Water trails from his hair into his eyes.

"Do you want me to?" Harry had pressed his body against the door, he definitely knew it wasn't locked.

"No, I want you to piss off and let me shower in peace."

Jean half expected Harry to still barge in but he actually retreated, leaving Jean once again confused and still slightly aroused.

Before he can think more about that, he feels his body swaying. He's sure he is going to pass out if he stands any longer so he gets out of the shower, grabs a towel and dries himself off. He fills a glass with tap water and quickly downs it. His organs moan in satisfaction.

He hadn't taken fresh clothes with him so he wraps the towel around his waist and goes to fetch some boxers and a shirt.

When he returns, Harry had lain down on the couch, five empty beer cans in front of him. Jean knew he wasn't asleep but couldn't find the energy inside himself to attempt to throw Harry out of his apartment. He'd just have to accept Harry's presence.

He sighs, turns off the light and slips in his bedroom. Finally he could reunite his aching body with the mattress. He sights once and passes out not long after.

Thankfully no more dreams haunt him this time but instead he wakes up with the most diabolical headache punching him straight in the eye. His throat had never felt drier and the nausea was even worse than last night.

He needed a cigarette. And food probably.

Jean's couch was empty when he finally made it out of bed and he gets hit with the dull remembrance of why he had gotten black out drunk in the first place. Thankfully the pain in his head was distracting enough for the thought to not spread out further. He moves to locate some food.

An old sandwich he couldn't remember having put there smiles at him from the counter. Without thinking he grabs it and swallows it in a few bites.

He takes a moment to look around his apartment. The couch was indented from Harry sleeping on it, empty cans and boxes of cigarettes litter the floor. The bottle of tequila was nowhere to be seen. He also spotted the pool of vomit he had failed to clean up yesterday. The smell really was horrendous. Jean mutters under his breath,

"Fuck me." 

Chapter Text

It was 7am when Jean heard his doorbell ring. The noise echoed dull through his aching head. He had the impulse to cover his ears, still unnaturally sensitive to sound. But it faded quickly, followed by footsteps scurrying away.

Away?

Mainly because of his irritation he went to check the door. His presumption proved itself - the hallway was swept of human presence. Jean's eyes caught on the floor, directly where the door had opened. There lay a bottle of vodka, dirt covered the label and the glass felt sticky when Jean picked it up. Still, the filth seemed to reside exclusive outside the bottle, the clear liquid still happily splashing around inside.

Next to the bottle he spotted a neatly folded note. The slightly yellowed paper, stained with alcohol reminds him of the pages in Harry's ledger. Jean takes the paper to his nose, inhaling a smell he's way too familiar with. Something twisted in his stomach. Maybe a bit lower.

The messy cursive on the red-checkered paper inside confirms what his mind had connected.

Drink it better ;) 

-HDB

Harry.
There it was again, that feeling. Gnawing at his insides. Veins like prison bars, threatening to burst out.

He quickly stored the note away, slipping it into the next available drawer. The bottle still clutched in his other hand. It seemingly smiled at him, how could he resist. Looking at the liquid his hangover dully makes itself known.

Well, how much could a little bit more hurt?

Like answering to his purely rhetorical question a sharp pain stabs right through his eye making Jean wince, gripping the door frame as to not topple over.

Alright. No excessive drinking then. Normal drinking it is. Day drinking. Like a regular normal person. He'll even pour himself a glass, not chug it directly from the bottle. Who the fuck does that? Normal people without a shit load of mental problems? Well count Jean to one of them because he's about to indulge in a very normal amount of day drinking.

Morning drinking, rather.

His body seemed to agree with his enthusiasm, his tongue dry in his mouth, mind screaming as he fills up a glass. Not completely full of course, a normal amount. The fact that almost half of the bottle went into that glass is irrelevant. 

He brushed the biggest clutter from his couch, making room to sit. He half expected the material to still be warm from Harry sleeping on them.

The only thing he noticed was that the couch was equally infested with Harry's goddamn smell. He couldn't help himself, leaning sideways into the soft fabric and inhaling. It clouded his mind and he quickly took a sip - only a sip- from his glass.

It didn't fill the gaping hole he felt in his chest. Like a huge wound, ragged and never closing.
Jean felt it rot in the spaces between his rib cage. Collapsing in on itself. Mold creeping around the sternum. The thing with mold was you can't really get rid of it. The fungi spores reach deeper than visible to the eye. You'd have to kill the whole organism to actually get rid of it completely.

So he took another sip, only enough to actually feel it burning as it traveled through his throat, his esophagus and finally settled in his stomach with a warm buzz. Forming a weird sort of symbiosis with the emptiness. Alcohol was supposed to disinfect, wasn't it?
The feel of alcohol was grounding. Grounding in the way a rusty nail kept a picture frame together, staining the wood around it.

Jean takes a deep breath and another wave of smells hits his nose. Suddenly the booze started to taste like Harry's lips on his. Which was a strange thing because Harry hadn't even been drinking when their lips finally met. Maybe he just fantasized so much about Harry's lips on his while they were drunk that his mind kind of connected the two things.
It's all the same anyways. A kiss, booze, Harry. All burning him from the inside out.

Right now all that heat seemed to collectively pool in his groin.

Was this really what did it for him now? Sweaty body odor?

No. Harry's sweaty body odor. His mind corrected as if that was any better.

Fuck it.

He wasn't wearing much anyway, his bulge protruding in his boxers where his hand rests idly on his thighs. He palms himself through the fabric, groaning into the pillow he had pressed against his face. God, the smell was more intoxicating than the alcohol.

His mind was starting to buzz, mainly from the pillow held suffocatingly in his face, hindering his airflow. The infused stuffing of the pillow seemed to seep into his brain tissue, disabling all cognitive functions.

His eyes roll back into his head, ears starting to ring as blood rushes from his head downwards. The friction of the fabric rubbed against his skin was just enough to satisfy the first urges, frustration was starting to take over.

The feeling was getting unbearable, he finally freed his leaking erection from the confines of his boxers. Hand wrapping around the throbbing hot skin, thrusting into his fist.

The rough texture of his palm reminds him of Harry's. Jean's mind wanders to imagining it was Harry's hand he was fucking into. Imagining Harry shoving his face into the bed while fucking him.

It felt wrong, it was one thing to fantasize but it was a complete other thing to pleasure himself wishing it was Harry touching him.

Before he can realize it the name slips out in form of a low whimper. Voice muffled by the pillow. He presses it harder against his face, breathing heavily. If you can really call it breathing. He was more or less whimpering pathetically into the pillow while moaning Harry's name.

Before the shame could find a deeper hold it was completely washed out by arousal, body beginning to shake while fastening his pace. His hips buck up, back arching. He loosens his grip on the pillow, mind going fuzzy as heat rolled over his whole body. 

His stomach clenches, almost over the edge - 

"You alright under there?"

A familiar voice punches through Jean's head. His eyes snap open, haphazardly pushing the pillow off his face onto his lap. Harry's eyes meet his, a teasing grin lingering on his lips.

"What the FUCK, are you doing here?? And why the fuck were you FUCKING WATCHING ME???" Jean's face was flushed, he was struggling to breathe. He managed to pull up his boxers and stand up from the couch throwing an accusatory finger in Harry's direction.

"I have a better question, were you screaming my name?" Of course Harry heard, he didn't need to fucking ask, he just wanted to see Jean flustered. Anger rose up in Jean's throat, his arousal had not vanished. It was making him feel lightheaded.
"And is that the pillow I slept on?"

"No. No, no. You don't fucking get questions shitkid. Why the FUCK are you in my apartment. I swear I'll fucking strangle you-"

"Relax Vicky, I just wanted to check in on you and I mean your door was open and you were like making a whole bunch of noise and I-"

"Yeah? So you just decided to barge in?"

"Well, you did sound... in pain." Harry cocks his head to the side, gaze flickering to Jean's boxers, "Looks like I was wrong."

"And how long did you decide to watch before you announced your fucking presence?"

"Wouldn't you like to know, sweetheart." A shit-eating-grin plastered across his face. Harry's voice seemed deeper than usual, the low grunt of it going straight to Jean's groin.

"Oh you have some fucking nerve you fucking bastard. Get the fuck out. Now." He needed Harry to be gone or he would either start throwing hands or start begging Harry to fuck him. Maybe even both. Desire was clouding his vision.

"You sure? You seemed pretty desperate for me just a second ago." Harry made no notion of leaving.

"OUT." Jean grabs Harry by his shoulders, pushing him towards the door.

Due to the halfway ruined orgasm mixed with his still very much present headache Jean wasn't as steady on his feet as he had assumed he'd be. He stumbled, almost face planting directly on Harry's chest if it wasn't for Harry catching him. Unfortunately by Jean's waist. His body shuddered under Harry's touch. Rough hands holding him in place on both sides of his stomach. His shirt had ridden up slightly, Harry's fingers burning like hot ash on his skin.

Jean felt his cock twitch. Harry's eyes dart down, smirking.

"Fucking let go off me." The words no longer have a bite to them nor does Jean make any attempt at getting Harry off him. Yet Harry let go of him as soon as Jean said it.

"Whatever you say, Vicky." The nickname pierced right through Jean's last shred of dignity. Harry fucking knew exactly what he was doing. The bastard.

"I need a fucking drink." Jean mumbles, turning his back to Harry and retrieving his glass from the coffee table. Then returning to the kitchen to grab the rest of the bottle. He's sure Harry was staring him up and down as he was walking away. Following after adjusting his pants.

Jean feels Harry ghost behind him. Getting closer till his body was pressing up against his back. Harry's hands remain behind his back, not touching him. His face nuzzled in Jean's neck, beard scratching, breathing against Jean's throat. A few wet kisses bolt through Jean's body like electricity.

Jean elbows Harry in the stomach making him reel back. Trying to regain some control over the situation.

"So we're just gonna not talk about that?"

"About what? You breaking into my apartment and watching me jerk off, like a creep?"

"First of all, I didn't break in. The door was open. Secondly I mean you jerking off while moaning my name, like a creep."

"Oh so now I'm the fucking creep? You're such a hypocrite Harry. You know what, fuck you. Fuck you."

"So? Why'd you do it."

"Why the fuck do you think? Take a wild guess, I'm sure you'll figure it out."

"I want you to say it."

"Do you now?" Jean takes a step towards Harry, "I was thinking about you fucking me so hard I couldn't think straight anymore. I was imagining it was your hands on me while I was jerking off, that's why I was moaning your goddamn name. Got it?"

If Jean's bluntness threw Harry off in any way he didn't let it show. He looked more like a kid that just got the fucking candy it wanted delivered on a silver platter.

"So unprofessional, Satellite Officer Viquemare." The name shoots through Jean's cells like electrocution. A shock wave of arousal rippling through his body. The look in Harry's eyes threatening to eat him alive.

"Don't."

"What am I doing?"

"You fucking know exactly what, Lieutenant double-yefreitor." Jean grabs Harry by the tie, pulling him close. He was backed up against the kitchen counter, their body's close enough that Jean felt the heat emitting from Harry's body.

But Harry was quick, he grabs Jean's hand, pulling it away from his tie and twists Jean around. Hand pinned behind his back.

With his other hand Harry had pushed Jean's torso down on the surface before him. Being bend over Jean felt the imprint of Harry's erection pressing into his barely clothed backside. Harry's hand moving from Jean's spine downward, pushing up his shirt and slipping under it. His fingers slowly caress Jean's burning skin, sparking under the touch like sliding a match too slow to ignite. Moving to his waist where he had held Jean before. From there purposefully continuing to rest on the bare skin of Jean's lower abdomen.

The muscles in his stomach twitch under the touch. Harry's rough hands applying pressure purposefully.

"Living up to your fantasy?" He couldn't see him but Jean heard the smirk through Harry's voice.

"Stop talking. Just fuck me goddamn it." Jean hisses back at him.

"Is that how you talk to your superior, Satellite-Officer?"

"You're fucking doing it again!"

"What?"

"Pulling rank."

"I am. Tell me. What did you want again?" 

"You gonna make me beg for it, Harry?"

"Keep talking back and I might."

Harry's voice was teasing yet Jean didn't doubt it for a second. Harry enjoyed bending people to his will. Jean feels like he might combust if Harry didn't touch him any time soon so he didn't test his luck today. The words were ready on his tongue.

"I need you to fuck me." After a short pause, almost inaudible, "Please."

Harry lets out a satisfied hum, hand retreating to unbuckle his belt. The trousers drop to the floor with a thud. Jean attempts to touch himself, growing impatient, mind swarming with lust.

Harry's hand quickly darts forward, gripping Jean's wrist and twisting his arm behind his back.

"Patience, Vicky."

Vicky again. It bounces back and forth in his skull.

Harry had finally pulled Jean's boxers down, moving in slow circles over the skin of his backside, fingers moving deliberately around where Jean longed for it the most. Running over his hip to his ass, moving lower, caressing the soft flesh of Jean's inner thigh, making him squirm.

Harry frees Jean's arm and rests his unoccupied hand back on Jean's lower abdomen. Holding him in place.

Jean hears a sucking noise behind him and before he could process it he felt two wet fingers circling his entrance. Slowly pushing inside him. A low groan escapes his mouth before he can suppress it.

Harry's finger were calloused and thicker than Jean had imagined them to be. They move slowly, slick with spit. Jean bucks his hips backwards, desperation creeping in. He presses the back of his hand against his mouth, stiffing another whimper.

Harry pulls out, hand going to strip his boxers off. Jean feels him press up against him, one hand on his stomach the other on his back as Harry guides himself inside with a grunt. Harry's cock was as thick as the rest of him. Jean couldn't see him of course but he felt it.

"Fuck, Vicky.."

Vicky, Vicky, Vicky. Spreading like mist, fogging his cerebrum. Harry's pace tortuously slow. Jean feels like he's about to loose his mind.

Before Jean could whine Harry sped up rapidly, grabbing Jean by the hips as he violently trusted against Jean's insides. Jean bites down hard on his hand, smothering the noises wanting to escape. Harry hadn't made an attempt at being quiet, groaning and panting almost pornographically with each thrust.

Without slowing down Harry removes one hand from Jean's hip and pushes Jean's hand away from his face. As Jean attempted to close his mouth Harry's fingers had already intruded. Pressing down on his tongue, forcing his mouth open.

"Let me hear you. I know you can be louder. "

Jean's stomach lurches at the reminder of Harry having heard him before. Only the pillow had muffled his pathetic whimpering. It wasn't embarrassment that made his face run hot.

A deep, guttural moan escapes his lips. Not that he had much of a choice with Harry's fingers prying them open. Each thrust going deeper and deeper, emitting increasingly loud noises from Jean's throat. Harry's name was clawing at the back of it, threatening to spill out again.

Harry on the other hand was not holding back. Jean's name spilling over his lips like a prayer. Jean Jean Jean. His mind quieted down, nothing but Harry found hold in it.

A sharp pain bolted through his bones as his hip was repeatedly slammed into the edge of the kitchen counter as Harry fucked him against it. It was sure to leave some nasty bruises. But right now the pain was washed out by the intense pleasure rippling through his body. It pooled in his stomach, his legs beginning to shake, breath tumbling in and out of his lungs in record time.

Harry's hands both gripped him by the waist again, guiding him back and forth, steadying him on his feet. Harry's pace faltered slightly, being exchanged by the intensity he moved inside him. Harsh and calculated, going all the way in.

Jean felt close to the edge, Harry seemed determined to push him off.

His body was trembling, tensing up, ready to fall.

"Harry-" It wasn't louder than a whisper, a plea, but Jean knew Harry had heard it. Replying with a low hum. Fastening his pace.

It was too much. The feeling overcame him, crashing down from every corner. His body crumbled as the orgasm washed over him.

Harry seemed to fall apart at the same time, with a deep groan he pulled out. Wet, hot fluid covering Jean's back.

They were breathing heavily, almost synchronized. Jean felt lightheaded, taking a few moments to compose himself. He managed to straighten up without his knees giving in, which was surprising by the amount they were shaking. 

He felt the need to say something, anything. Before something better could come to his mind - 

"Did you fucking cum all over me?"

"What? Did you want me to finish inside?" Harry seemed almost amused, a teasing smile returning almost immediately on his lips. Jean's cheeks flushed, he had not thought it through when he had said that.

"That's not what I... Obviously not. Just clean it up, alright."

"You got it sweetheart." Harry quickly reaches over, wetting a piece of cloth in the kitchen sink. He turns Jean around, cleaning the residue off his shoulder blades. It was almost gentle. Too gentle. Jean felt the urge to cry.

Harry patted him on the shoulder twice, signaling he was done. Jean turns back around again. Harry's gaze flickers downwards, eyes widening slightly.

"What now. You've seen me naked before. You literally just fucked me."

"Your hip. Looks pretty banged up." A grin spread across his face, "Literally."

Jean looks down and like predicted, flowers of red and faint purple have blossomed over the pale flesh. A dull ache starting to spread.

"I like it." Harry observes the bruised patch intently.

"Of course you do. Sick freak."

Harry's hand reaches out, fingers prodding at the tender skin. First lightly grazing over it then deliberately pressing down on where the skin was tinted the darkest shade of red. Jean sucked in his breath through gritted teeth but didn't flinch away. The sensation made his cock twitch. Unfortunately still unclothed.

Harry backs off with a satisfied hum, obviously having connected something in his mind.

Jean felt vulnerable, like a heron under a hawk. He retrieves his boxers, feeling the need to cover himself up. Physically at least. Harry had already pried open his soul and laid it bare. Not much to hide anymore.

Harry had pulled up his underwear short after, discarding the trousers on the floor. He loosens his funky colored tie, throws off his blazer and undoes the first few buttons from his shirt.

It made Jean chuckle that Harry got undresses more after having sex than during it. Something about it nagged at him but he couldn't put his fingers on it precisely.

He discarded the thought, moving to locate the alcohol he had come for in the first place. They collapsed on the couch and after emptying the rest of the bottle Harry had dozed off, resting his head on Jean's shoulder. Jean tried pushing him off but Harry just grunted, falling sideways into Jean's lap, not awakening. Harry's mouth hung open slightly, his breath rhythmically hitting Jean's bare thigh.

It looked almost peaceful, vulnerable. Not his usual erratically rough self.

Jean feels this muscles relax. It felt like the wrong thing to do, like instead he was supposed to jump up and run away as fast as he could. Still, his body felt oddly calm. A question lingers. Was this the quiet before or after the storm?

Chapter Text

They didn’t talk about it when Harry woke up. None of them dared to mention it. Because that meant admitting to it. Admitting what it made them feel. Admitting that it was more than just sex. Risking to lose even that if you spoke about it. It wasn’t a risk Jean was willing to take yet. He was allowed one thing that distracted him from everything else, wasn’t he?

He was always prone to unhealthy coping mechanisms. Just that Harry was both the problem and the way he coped with it. It was like doing drugs to forget you have a problem with drugs. Whatever, this was not the time to dwell.

So, they continued. The sex was incredible, truth be told. The feeling obviously didn’t last but for those few moments his mind went quiet, and he felt like everything was finally going to be okay. It always came back worse, of course.

The unsaid words always hung in the air. Like thick grey clouds, growing darker and darker. Being fed by the silence. A storm just waiting to destroy everything.

They also drank a lot. He wasn’t exactly sure if the alcohol made it better or worse. It was definitely having an effect on Harry. Jean couldn’t recall when the last time was that Harry’s lips hadn’t tasted like booze. It was like he was trying to drown something out. Jean had a hunch of what that was, feeling the familiar rot growing in his chest.

But there was something else there. Something not entirely new. On the contrary, it was so old Jean almost didn’t recognize it.

That burning feeling. Gnawing and longing and wanting. Wanting more and more. Wanting to give and wanting to take. Swallowing you whole with no hope of being the same when it finally spits you out again. Love.

Jean had almost forgotten he was capable of it. When was the last time he felt it? A cold sweat washed over him, panic. A memory resurfaced rapidly. Cold metal against his forehead. A gun.

His own?

There’s someone else in the room. Sobbing through the dark, their face unrecognizable.

I’m sorry, Vicky.

A quick shift, the cold retreats.

Screaming.

Henry don’t-!!

A sharp noise cutting through the heavy air. The gun goes off. A sinking feeling. Sinking, sinking, sinking. Where was the floor?

Then a thud. A body hitting the ground.

Jean still standing. An empty feeling in his forehead, where the bullet should have entered. Wrong, wrong. Tears rushing down his cheek. Burning

Burning in his chest. In his lungs. Wrong. So very wrong.

Hot and cold, sweating, is his skin still his own?

Blood on his hands, not his own. Not his fault. It wasn’t his fault. No, no, no… But the blood felt like his own. Like his hand pulled the trigger. Did he? No… It was suicide. It was suicide. It was suicide. It was suicide… not his fault, not his fault, not…

It was no longer a memory, tears running, like the blood was still crusted beneath his fingernails.

Was it?

Guilt creeping in through the cracks, like toxic gas.

Breathe. Breathe.

Words ring through his head, not his own. The weight of a hand on his back.

Jean-

The rest of the sentence is drowned out. Fragments slip through his mind. Thought spinning in circles. Shame, shame, shame, it’s all your fault, your fault, your fault-

Hey! Just lis--- to m---what happened?

The air was suffocating, clogging his lungs more and more with every gasp. His heart pounding so fast he felt the blood rush through his ears. Tears clouded his vision – where was he?

Do you hear me? Jean. Jean!! Breath. Nice ---- steady alright? Just like you always tell me. In and out.

The figure in front of him was taking deep breaths. Hand moving up and down with each exhale and inhale. Their face was blurred, shifting between being unrecognizable and taking on childlike features. Jean blinked, when he opened his eyes blood started to run down their face. Flowing into their lifeless eyes that looked at Jean with an indescribable sadness.

“Henry?” Almost inaudible, between raged breaths. The person in front of him seemed to respond to the name.

“Yes! I’m here for you, Vicky. You have to breathe, alright? Everything’s fine. You’re fine. Shhhh.”

Vicky.

Jean inhales deeply, like they had demonstrated. Then an exhale. Slow. Focusing on the familar voice in the background. The steady weight on his back.

He couldn’t shake the feeling of blood on his hands, sticky and clammy, heavy with guilt.

He had to push it away. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Till his lungs no longer felt like they were collapsing in on themselves. The memory still burning, caustic, poisoning his brain.

Slowly. His heartrate calms down. Tears streak his cheek, snot running down into his beard.

He looks up, vision clearing up just so much as to recognize who was before him. It wasn't Henry, obviously not. It was Harry. The realization punches Jean in the gut like a knife.

Harry clasps Jean’s face between both his hands, looking into his clouded eyes, swollen from crying. His thumb stroking over Jean’s cheek. Slow and calm. Back and forth.

Jean’s eyes dart around the room. He was in his office. Or rather on the floor of his office.

“Jesus Christ, Jean. What happened.” Harry’s gaze was probing, searching for something in Jean’s eyes.

“Fuck, I don’t know. Fucking bad memory or some shit. It’s nothing.”

“That didn’t seem like nothing Vicky. Come on, talk to me.”

“Fuck you, I don’t have to tell you shit. Just fucking -- help me get up.” Jean grunts, his head hurts like someone played kickball with it. His knees feel weak, body still shaking.

“Have it your way then.”

Harry didn’t press him on further, but Jean knew his mind was working like crazy trying to figure it out. Truth be told Jean couldn’t fully grasp it himself. The memory was his but Jean had buried it so deeply and carefully, it now felt foreign in his head.

That didn’t change the guilt he felt. Now that he thinks about it, he has always felt guilty, he had just forgotten why. Now that he remembers he wishes he could bury it again. The memory rushes back. Every detail seemed to crush down on him.

Henry.

His first love. Only that he didn’t know what that was back then, love. These are not things you know at thirteen. He just knew what he had felt was wrong and that he could never ever listen to that feeling again. Now that he knows, it doesn't make any more sense than it did back then. It doesn't make it feel any less wrong. It was wrong. It got Henry killed goddamn it. Henry killed himself because he couldn’t deal with what Jean felt for him. Maybe also because of what he felt for Jean. Jean never found out. There was no note obviously.

It was the night after Jean had confessed his feelings. He was crying and had kissed him. Henry had pushed him off and run away wordlessly. The next, and last time Jean saw him was the day after. It was starting to get dark, and Jean was on his way back home, taking the shortcut he always did. Henry must have known the route Jean takes, because when Jean turned the corner, Henry was already there. Gun in his shaking hand, tears in his eyes.

It was his father’s gun; Jean had seen it before. A typical, police issued sidearm. It looked too big in Henry’s small hands. Wrong. He probably didn’t even know how to use it.

Henry had moved closer to Jean, till the gun kissed his forehead. Henry was shaking so bad. Jean’s heart racing in his ribcage, frozen by fear.

‘I’m sorry Vicky, I have to do this!’ His voice was unsteady, lip quivering.

‘You don't have to do this. Please.’ Jean felt everything inside him crumbling,

‘It’s wrong. You’re wrong. You shouldn’t exist!!’ The way the words left Henry’s lips Jean was sure he had rehearsed them in his head over, and over and over again. Targeted to himself. Even now Jean isn’t completely sure if Henry was speaking to him or to himself.

When the gun shifted from Jean’s head to Henry’s, he knew it was the latter.

Jean didn’t even have time to process it before he pulled the trigger. The sound was deafening. By the time his hands reached his ear Henry was already dead. Laying in a pool of blood and brains. His mouth slightly agape, a last tear rolling from his lifeless eyes to the ground.

Jean ran. He didn’t stop till he felt his heart pounding out of his chest, vision going blurry, nearly passing out. He had hoped he’d faint and hit his head against something so bad, he’d bleed out where no one could find him. He contemplated running into the oncoming traffic, jumping off that bridge that’s always cordoned off because of some safety hazard.

He would have done it. Hyperventilating at the edge, looking down on the hard concrete. The only thing he saw was Henry’s brain splattering on it again and again. He had closed his eyes, let go off the rails, bracing himself for the impact. Nothing came, instead he felt two strong arms wrapping around his trembling body, holding him back.

It was a policeman. Jean felt the heavy-duty gear press into his back. He freed himself, taking a look behind him. The holster where a gun should rest was empty. Jean started to scream, cursing and punching around him before he finally fainted.

The body was found that same night. No one dared to talk about it.

Jean isn’t even sure if Henry had actually planned to kill himself that night. The gun was pointing to Jean’s head after all. Maybe he was just too scared. Maybe he just didn’t want to die alone. Evidently, in Henry’s mind, someone had to die. Either him or Jean.

The only thing that remained was that Jean knew it was his fault, somehow. It had to be.

“I’m leaving. Don’t follow me.” Jean feels the tears about to roll out again. He doesn’t want Harry to see him like this. He needs to be alone.

Harry obviously didn’t listen, rushing after Jean as he storms out of the precinct door. Why did Harry pretend to care?

“I said leave me alone, shitkid!”

“You’re obviously not okay Vicky. I’m not leaving you alone like this, I’m not stupid.”

“What, you don’t trust me enough to take care of myself? You wanna baby me? Because guess what, unlike you, I can deal with my own fucking shit. Fuck off.”

“Come on! I know if I leave, you’re just going to go home and get drunk!” Under his breath he whispers, "or worse." Jean wasn't sure if Harry had meant to say that out loud. He ignores it.

“Can you fucking blame me? As if you’re mister sober. Fucking idiot.”

“At least go with me. Let’s go into a bar, hm? You can get as drunk as you want but just stay with me, alright?” The suggestion seemed genuine. Harry actually looks worried about Jean’s wellbeing.

“What are you, my mom? Think you can just boss me around and tell me where and with who I’m allowed to get drunk with? Get lost.” Jean snorts.

Harry shoots him his puppy eyes. Jean tries to ignore it, but quickly realizes that he doesn’t even have any alcohol left in his apartment. He could obviously just buy some more but he really doesn’t have the energy to keep fighting Harry off. And Harry didn’t look like he’d willingly give up. Also, being alone with his thoughts right now probably wasn’t a pretty smart idea anyways. He could use a distraction.

“Fuck me. Lead the way then. Just know I’m not doing this for you.”

“Of course not.” A grin.

They skipped through like seven different sketchy alleys before the bright neon entrance sign of the disco appeared.

Obtrusive and eccentric, obviously this was Harry’s favorite bar. Jean could already feel the headache deteriorate as he looks at the flashing dots dancing around inside. He was never a fan of bright lights. Or big crowds. Always too much. Intruding.  

It got better with a few drinks in his system. Maybe bars are specially designed like that. Like a fucked-up marketing technique. Because this would be a nightmare sober. Good thing sober isn’t what Jean is going for anyway.

He was five drinks in and was finally intoxicated enough to not be affected by his thoughts. Well, not every thought but the uncomfortable one’s at least. They weren’t gone but with alcohol numbing his mind, it all didn’t seem so bad. Unfortunately, the idea of sucking Harry off in the bathroom was also starting to seem pretty alluring. It wasn’t an exclusively drunk thought of course; he thought about Harry fucking him a reasonable amount while he was sober. Alcohol just seemed to elevate those fantasies. And Harry was always eager to indulge.

They were sitting directly at the bar, close enough that Jean could slip his hand over to Harry’s thigh. Sliding between his legs, over his crotch. It twitches slightly under his touch.

“That desperate?” Harry cocks his head to the side, grinning his stupid grin. Something tells Jean that Harry knew that Jean would get like this. He was too drunk to care at this point.

“Shut up. Meet me in the bathroom or fuck off.” Jean slurred the words, slipping off the chair and into the toilet area.

The bathrooms were hidden away in a quieter corner, the music only faintly audible. Jean opens a door, then another door, and another and – how many fucking doors does this bathroom have? -the last door opening with a creak, behind it, a room that seemed more like he walked straight into a mushroom trip instead of a toilet.

The fucking colour flashing lights continued even in the stalls. Who the fuck wants to piss in a blinking, pink box? The colour made the whole bathroom graffiti seem to blend into one big blob. Maybe it was just the alcohol fogging his mind.

Before he spiraled into an existential crisis due to the interior design, the door opens and Harry joins him in the stall, locking the door behind him.

Harry was a bit unsteady on his feet, probably having downed even more drinks than Jean. That way he could justify whatever happened between them.

Jean drops to his knees, the tile floor sticky with mysterious fluids. Harry wasted no time unbuckling his belt, leaning against the heavily scribbled-on wall.

“Still not doing this for me?” Despite his intoxication Harry always found a way to be a smug bastard. Always teasing as if he’s not the one that’s hard from a single touch.

“No. This is purely for my entertainment.” A half-truth.

Harry fell apart almost immediately. It was sort of satisfying. Knowing he could stop at any time. Having that control that usually only Harry had over him. Jean mainly enjoyed the noise Harry made though. Gruff and deep, a certain vibration to his voice that set Jean’s senses on edge.

Harry had come back to Jean’s place afterwards. Too drunk to fight it, Jean eagerly indulged in the additional distraction.

They never usually rushed it. It wasn’t gentle in any way but that’s exactly what Jean favored the most. Being taken apart, slowly but deliberately, to the point he couldn’t form a coherent thought anymore. It was a relief, really.

It was also the only time he actually felt okay. Good even. Because even if that feeling kept nagging at him till he was an open wound, it was still better than nothing. He couldn’t afford to get selfish now.

It went on like this for a month before something changed. Gradually slipping, the first raindrops landing cold and heavy on Jean’s forehead.

Harry had started growing distant, not physically but emotionally. They still had sex, maybe a bit rougher and more reckless than they used to, but that wasn’t something Jean minded much. It was more the distance afterwards. It was like everything that left his lips was filtered through five layers of emotional repression. There was nothing behind the things he said anymore. Empty words of trying to maintain the persona he was before.

He grew more and more grumpy, easily irritated, shielded himself from Jean and was almost always on some kind of drugs. Again, nothing really new but something about Harry was off. It was like he build up a wall inside his mind and was desperately searching for bricks to keep it from collapsing.

Jean could see when a brick got loose. When the cracks in his wall started to widen. It was usually just after they had sex. He could see Harry frantically gathering his bricks to build it back up again.

Jean also noticed that Harry had started sleeping with more and more women. Always a different one, picked up from a sketchy bar, both of them probably intoxicated. It wasn’t necessarily a new thing, the drinking at least. But Harry had never fixated so much on women and now he was taking a new one home every day.

A distraction of his own.

You know what they say about storms? The smaller the eye of a storm, the worse the winds outside. With every passing day Jean could feel the eye narrowing down. Getting smaller and smaller till it threatened to swallow everything.

It was the following weekend where everything seemed to come crashing down. Every unsaid thing.

They had drunk. A lot. Snorting whatever they could lay their hands on, and Harry had come over. They had fucked on the balcony, five floors up, and then passed out on Jean’s bed. Arms tangled around each other. It was the first time they had spent the night together. It was good. Too good.

Jean woke up with the harsh light of the morning sun, beating through his window, blinds left open. He slowly opens his eyes, feeling Harry stir under him as Harry jerks up with such a force, he nearly pushes Jean off the bed.

“Where am I? Why the fuck am I in your bed.”

thud, thud, thud, bricks crumbling to the floor.

“Are you joking? We had sex Harry.”

“Obviously. I’m not that brain damaged. But why am I in your bed. Spending the night like we’re together or some shit.”

A punch in the gut.

“What the fuck is it with you, we’ve literally been sleeping together for the past month and you’re bothered about being in my bed?”

“Yeah, sex. But fucking spending the night together? Cuddling like some... You know I’m not…”

The word didn’t make it out, but Jean could see it burn in Harry’s chest. Laying there like a radioactive parasite. Eating through his cells. What did Jean expect, obviously Harry was going to be like this. It was always going to be like this. Jean had pushed his luck. Now he had crossed a line. Whether it was a trip wire remains to be seen.

“Fuck you, Harry. Literally what is wrong with you.”

“What? Did you really think this was more than that?” Throwing knifes from behind a wall of denial. Hiding behind mockery. A glint of panic somewhere under the words. Harry knew there was no way to backtrack now.

Something finally snaps inside Jean. He had to get it out.

“You stinking pile of shit, Harry.” Jean jumps up from the bed, Harry had already started getting dressed. “You know damn well it's more than that. If your head wasn't stuck so far up your ass you'd realize it. But you go ahead, hide behind your imaginary fucking wall of safety. I hope it's so fucking nice there because you're putting me through hell and back while you just pretend this is nothing. It sure as hell doesn't feel like nothing, Harry.” Words spew out like acid raindrops.

“Jean- “Harry stops in his tracks, something behind his eyes Jean can’t place. Fury clouds his vision.

“No. No, you just stay right there where it's comfortable. You love comfort don't you, always putting yourself first, who even cares who you walk over to feel fine about yourself? As long as you can hide away when it gets too uncomfortable, like a goddamn coward. Swinging a bat at everyone that gets too close. Is this too close, Harry? Am I making you uncomfortable? Wasn’t it you that started this??”

“Jean! -”

“What. Fucking what, Harry. You finally have something smart to say? Something not cushioned by twelve fucking layers of denial?” Jean’s head was spinning, his hangover was sort of making it worse. Irritation furthering his anger.

“You don't fucking understand, please just – “

“Oh, I don't? Here we go again. Playing the fucking misunderstood victim. What do you have to say, superstar?”

“Let me talk goddamn it! Who’s the one hiding behind insults and nasty words, huh? As if you’re Mister-i-can-cope-with-my-emotions. Fuck.”

“Fine! We’re both garbage at feelings then. Whatever. Just say what you want to say shitkid. I’m listening.”

“Okay. So. Um...” Harry averts his eyes, fidgeting. Was Harry nervous? After all the fucking bullshit he threw at Jean’s head before and now he was nervous? Jean felt if he didn’t let Harry speak now, he’d never talk about it again. So, he shuts up.

“Fuck it." Harry takes a deep breath, "The last time I felt, well this, was when I was with Dora and I mean, that obviously went to shit but like you're a guy and I couldn't possibly feel the same way for you but then… fuck, I started to get that same burning feeling, from deep in my lungs and it fucking scared me Jean. It scared me that this could be more than, well whatever it is now. I’m so fucking scared Jean.” Harry locks eyes with him before continuing.

“God, you don't know how many times I've thought about fucking you before it actually happened. So, when it did and it was so much more than I had thought it would be, well, I chickened out. Couldn’t deal with what it meant. You know me. Fuck, you know me and that scares me so bad.”

Jean stares at him wordlessly, the words somehow made his rage bubble up again. Wasn’t this supposed to be nice? Isn’t this what he had wanted to hear all this time?

“Are you trying to tell me you’re in love with me? Is that what this is?”

Harry flinches slightly, obviously hit a nerve. But he wasn’t hiding anymore.

“What! No! I mean, yes, fuck. Maybe I am?” After a short pause, “I love you, Vicky.”

It wasn’t more than a whisper, but the words stung like a slap to the cheek. Why didn’t they feel good? Was it the name? Vicky, Vicky… Something was wrong. The air thickened around him. Suffocating.

“How fucking dare you. You don’t get to say that to me. Everything you fucking put me through and now it’s because you fucking love me? Don’t make me laugh.”

“Why do you have to be so fucking bitter all the time? Are you hearing what I’m saying??”

“Oh I am. Trust me, I’m hearing you. Fuck you, Harry. That’s all I have left to say to you.”

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, was it? Why did he feel like this? Everything he kept pushed down gushed back up all at once.

Harry grew irritated at well, the rejected confession lingering in the air. Jean thought Harry might start swinging at him but at this point he’d prefer the punch in the face to whatever was happening inside of him.

“What the fuck did I ever do to you, hm?”

Jean didn’t know if Harry was being oblivious on purpose. Trying to rile him up again. If he did, Jean bit right into the lure.

“Are you joking? You’re a disease, Harry. You fucking ruined me. You were a mess, and you dragged me right down into the pit with you.”

Harry laughs. It was vicious, laced with cruelty.

“Stop kidding yourself. You were already as much of a lost cause as I am. And you know what I think? I think you happily latched onto me so you had someone to blame. Always going around pointing fingers. As long as you don’t have to realize that you’ve always been fucked in the head, and it’s no one’s fault but your own. When you couldn't drown it out anymore you had to find a person that tied a rock to you. But you know damn well you wouldn't have floated to the fucking surface anyways. At least not alive.”

The words cut a little too deep. A little too accurate.

“Oh, that's fucking grand coming from you. As if you don't make your problems those of everyone else. As if you’re so fucking stable. I can't remember the last time you were sober. One hand always on the bottle, in the other, your gun. Whether you hold it against your temple, or someone else’s doesn't fucking matter, does it?”

He had gone too far. He felt it. Something shifts in Harry’s demeanor.

“You wanna go there, do you? All fucking right. Tell me, when was the last time you didn't sleep with your gun under your pillow? Hoping it would accidentally trigger while you're sleeping? How many times did you down a whole fucking pill bottle before going to sleep, hoping you wouldn’t wake up? How many times did you hold the barrel into your mouth, wishing you had the courage to pull the trigger? You're too much of a coward to actually do it yourself aren't you, Jean?”

too far, too far

“You’re fucked in the head, Harry. You wanna making a fucking competition out of suicide, do you? You know, I'm surprised how you haven't won yet. You're usually always so eager to be the first through the finish line.”

“Careful Viquemare. You know I might do it just to prove a point. I can make it look like you shot me, no note or anything. How'd you like that?" The nervousness had completely vanished, being replaced by something quite frankly terrifying. Something almost playful.

“You deranged lunatic. Everyone knows you're suicidal Harry. They find you with a bullet in your head and they'll know it was you that put it there. No one would even question it. You wanna kill yourself? Go ahead, I’m not going to stop you again.”

It was a lie. Jean knew it. The thought of seeing Harry’s lifeless body in a pool of blood was truthfully making him nauseous. Too close to the memory; Henry. Henry… Harry… It all seemed to blur into one. His heartrate palpitates. He suddenly feels just like the little kid he was back then, in that alley. Alone and helpless. The air grows heavy, pressing down on him.

Harry was pacing around the room, irritated, looking for something.

“Fuck you. Do you really want me dead so bad? Who are you when I’m gone, hm? You're nothing without me.”

“That's exactly the fucking point shithead. You literally made me your shadow. Your fucking satellite. You wanted me dependent on you just so you could play fucking doll house with with me like I'm some fucked up marionette. Do you think I enjoy this? “

“You seem like you do.”

“Oh, do I now? Care to enlighten me?”

“You do, because when you're not the one playing the strings you're not responsible for your actions. You just want someone to blame. Just admit it, you were already a drowned man before I came into your life.” Harry had apparently found what he was looking for. A peculiar look spreading on his face. Jean was hit a terrifying recognition. “But if you really want me gone that bad – “

Jean's body froze as his eyes finally catch on the object Harry was holding. Jean’s gun.

“– I can give you what you want.”

The gun travels to his temple. Finger already on the trigger. Jean always kept it loaded and Harry knew. Everything stopped. Jean felt paralyzed. The air didn't allow him to breathe.

“I’m sorry, Vicky.”

It snapped; the memory came flooding back. He needed to do something. Your fault, your fault. Why didn’t you do something? Do something. Do something. NOW.

Without thinking his body leaps forward, tackling Harry to the ground.

Henry, no!!

Did the words actually leave his lips? Did the name? What was happening? Was it Henry or Harry in the room with him? His mind blurs, memory and reality blending together strangely. Then a sound- that same sound - even more deafening, tearing through his ear canal.

The gun had gone off the second Jean’s body connected with Harry's.

Jean’s heart sinks to the pit of his stomach. Too late. Too late again. Always too late.

Chapter Text

Jean was too scared to open his eyes. Couldn't bear to look at Harry's body. Scared the only thing he’d see would be Henry. Just Henry, dead on the floor, all over again and again.

Vicky?

Shut up. This isn’t real.

‘Vicky?’

Leave me alone, you’re dead!

“Vicky, it hurts.”

The voice grew louder, Jean wasn’t sure if he was imagining it or not. His mind shifting back and forth between memories. His heart drumming like a thousand hornets in his chest.

“I don’t want to die. Please.”

That voice.

“Please, I’m so sorry, Vic.”

A second heartbeat. Beating almost as fast as his.

Jean’s eyes snap open. A heartbeat.

He scrambles up from where he was lying on top of Harry, his stomach still twisting in circles, nausea settling with the red color clouding his vision. Blood. 

Jean tries his best to make his eyes focus through the panic and finally spots the enter wound.

Not in the head.

Not in the head?

Thank god, not in the head.

The blood was flowing continuously from a puncture in the biceps. It covered his arm; his still shirtless chest, clumping in the little hairs around his stomach. Jean notices the wetness on his own skin where Harry’s blood had transferred after he had tackled him. It smeared across his shoulder, hot and still sticky.

Jean quickly grabs a piece of cloth from the floor, rushing over to Harry again and tying it around the wound. Firm enough to staunch the blood flow temporarily. Harry’s breathing was shallow, his eyes had closed. He was going to pass out if Jean didn’t do something soon. Always too late. 

“Stay with me, Harry. Please don’t fucking die.” Harry’s face contorts strangely as he bares his teeth in an attempt to smile. Barely conscious with the amount of blood he had lost, still loosing.

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, FUCK.” Jean scrambles to his living room, frantically dialling the emergency contact. Harry’s labored breathing from the room next door pounding in his ear.

Calling. Calling. Calling. Still calling.

“Shit, shit, fucking shit!! Come on... Stupid fucking city.”

The receiver crackles, no one picks up.

He hangs up, cursing, redialing. This time their lazareth.

Calling, Calling-

A few torturous moments of silence, then, a crack. Someone grunting on the other end of the receiver.

“Yes?”

“NIX!! Fuck, finally. Listen, Harry has a bullet in his arm – – no – what? - yes, he’s still breathing otherwise I wouldn’t be calling, fuck – – yes, I know – – we’re at my place, yes – – – – please come as fast as you can. “

The line disconnects.

“Shit…shit..” He rushes back to Harry, heaving on his floor.

“Harry, can you hear me? Stay awake, please.” No response. “Motherfucker..”

The cloth he had used as a makeshift tourniquet was completely soaked in blood. The bleeding wasn’t stopping. Jean slapped Harry once, hard across the face. The sound of his palm connecting with the skin rings through the silence.

„Mhhghh… wh… t..t…fu…k.. “ A groan.

 Good. Still conscious.

“Goddamnit Harry. Don’t leave me alone in this shithole.” He was cursing, pacing nervously around the room. “Why do you have to be such an idiot...”

He slips into his clothes, discarded on the floor yesterday. “Such a goddamn idiot…”

Harry had grown quieter; on the verge of passing out. Jean kneels down next to him and cradles his jaw. Harry’s breath hits his face rhythmically. A cloud of booze enshrouding him.

“Fuck. I love you, Harry.” A whisper. Still, it burned like acid in his throat. “You don’t deserve it, but I still do.”

The quiet confession settles with the dust. In the corners, confined forever to this room. Maybe someday he’d clean out the rooms and a cloud of dust would hit his face and linger like Harry’s lips once had. Maybe one day he’d be brave enough to actually face it. To love without the fear. To love openly, not hidden away in the dark shadows of the cold night air, not hiding behind a veil of narcotics.

Maybe in another life.

Love was clearly not for people like him.

A buzz disturbs the silence. The doorbell.

Nix rushing in, helping Jean escort Harry in Gottlieb’s car. He was unconscious by the time they reached the precinct. Thankfully Nix hadn’t asked any more questions about the nature of Harry’s injury or the fact that Harry was in Jean’s bedroom. At most he seemed slightly annoyed with the whole situation.

Jean waits in Nix’s office as he patches Harry back up again. Five minutes had passed and he had already bitten his lips to mincemeat. His cuticles looked similarly mangled, more than one nail covered with fresh blood at the edge.

Nix’s office was nice. Filled with all sorts of things, certificates covering the wall and books as well as other clutter rested on nearby shelves. It still seemed neat, put together. Everything had its place. It was the room of someone who had their shit together.

Jean spins around in the office chair, spinning in circles till his head was dizzy, rocking back and forth into the cushioned backrest. He peeks once into the paperwork laying on the desk in front of him but found himself unable to concentrate enough to make sense of the black chaos of letters. Shifting around on the paper like ants.

He grew more nervous with each passing second, trying his best to keep his thoughts from spiralling. Trying to not think too hard about his shirt that had uncomfortably stuck itself to the patch of skin where Harry’s blood was starting to dry.

The clock ticks indifferently, Tick, Tack, Tick, Tack. Jean follows the clock’s hand with his eyes. Time seems to slow down under his observing gaze. Like it didn’t want to be watched and was now punishing him for intruding.

It went on forever, time moving like jelly, trapping him in the suffocating loop of it.

A fly, stuck in the room, was rhythmically hitting the window behind him. Tap, Tap, its small body colliding with the glass. tap, tap, pause, tap. Then it stopped. On the windowsill, legs still twitching, lying on its broken wings. Ruined by what it had thought was an exit.

Something moves in the hallway, footsteps approaching finally. The door burst open, hitting the wall and bouncing back. The look on Nix’s face betrayed nothing of Harry’s state.

“Well? Will the shitkid live?” Jean tries to not seem too agitated. He was pretty sure Nix knew more about what had happened than he let on. He didn’t seem to care either way.

“Yes. The bullet missed his major arteries. Not lethal but he’ll take a while to recover of course. He’s in the room next door if you want to check on him. I’ve put him on pain meds.”

“Oh, he’ll be delighted to hear that at least.” It was meant to be a joke, but it didn’t come out funny. It was more sad than anything else and Nix shoot him a pitiful look before leaving.

Alone, again.

Harry was still knocked out when Jean got to him. A thick layer of bandaging around his arm. Jean sits down on the singular available chair. Hospitals always made him uneasy. Plastic, white, uncomfortably sterile. The impending doom of death always covering the horizon of blank walls and previously bloodied bedsheets.

The air smelled of unscented antiseptic, the chemical solution mixing with old blood, pus and urine. Harry still smelled like alcohol, cigarettes and the sweat he hadn’t washed off after last night. It still clung to his skin, mixed with the last clumps of blood Nix hadn’t gotten off completely. Too stuck in the small hairs that covered his body.

Harry’s chest slowly rose up and down again. Still unaware of Jean’s presence. It would have been peaceful, if fragments from the shock didn’t still reside in his bones. Anxiety eating away at his insides. At this point he had butchered most of what was left of his cuticles. Picking at old scabs till they were open wounds again.

He glances at the clock at the far end of the room. It pointed to six thirty. The clock’s second hand wasn’t moving. No Ticking. The batteries must have run out.

He taps his foot nervously against the grey linoleum flooring. Waiting.

Harry stirs. A grunt.

Jean shoots up from his chair, rushing over to Harry’s bed.

His eyes flutter once, not opening completely. Then nothing. Nothing but quiet breathing.

Jean huffs. He should probably leave for now. Distract himself. It was only setting his nerves on edge to survey Harry’s state like this. He decides to locate some food before he passes out as well.

On his way out he spots the coffee vending machine of their precinct. It rarely worked and when it did whatever came out of it tasted more like a health hazard than something one could call coffee. Jean was lucky, or unlucky enough that today was one of those days. The acrid smell of the burned brown liquid creeps in his nose as he fills one of the paper cups that weren’t really made to hold liquid for longer than five minutes.

It tasted exactly like it smelled; acidic and burnt. He half expected it to cauterize his taste buds as it travelled down his throat. The caffeine made his empty stomach recoil. Right. Food.

He walks over to the next available gas station and buys himself a bland sandwich and two packs of Astra cigarettes. He gulfs down the dry excuse of a sandwich and washes it down with the rest of the brown poison. Then, finally, a cigarette.

By the time he reached the lazareth again, he had gone through three of them. The nicotine calmed him down just enough so he felt he could bear to be with Harry’s unconscious body in a room again.

Back to the cuck chair, then.

Jean watches Harry breathing calmly. He was covered, from the waist down, with a blanket. His finger twitching from time to time. Responding to something Jean isn’t able to place.

Occasionally a low moan escapes his lips, making Jean tense up. Fragments from last night came flooding back in his cortex. Inconveniently vivid fragments. Fragments of Harry’s breath hot in his neck, pounding into him, Harry’s hand pressed rough against Jean’s mouth to keep him from waking the neighbours-

He needed to abort. Fast. This was not the time to get fucking aroused. He wasn’t going to sit here and drool like a horny teenage boy over his first crush. There was enough time for that later, when Harry wasn’t unconscious. Or injured. Although with that, Jean could probably work. Oh, the things he -

ABORT!!

With his last strength Jean peels himself off the plastic chair, moving to the exit when –

“Jean?” Harry’s voice was strained, cracking slightly. Jean hears him adjusting his position in the bed behind him.

“Yes?”

“Who’s Henry?”

Shit. He stops in his tracks. Eyes still turned to the exit. The name shoots like an arrow through his chest. It was never meant to meet Harry’s tongue. Panic rises from deep inside him.

“What?”

“Before I shot myself. You called me Henry.”

Jean felt Harry’s gaze burn in his back. He turned around, meeting his eyes. Bad idea.

“No, I didn’t.” The lie was almost convincible if it wasn’t for his hands trembling like a newborn deer.

“I know what I heard, Vic. That night, in the office - You also said that name.”

“That’s complete bullshit, Harry. I don’t even know a Hen – “

“Jean. Do you think I’m stupid?”

“I do, yes.” Something flashes in Harry’s eyes, “Wait a second, are you jealous? Is that what this is? Do you think I’m sleeping with someone else??” Jean huffs, anger bubbling up, “You wake up and that’s the first thing you ask me? I can’t fucking believe it. You’re so full of shit Harry. “

“Well, are you?” Harry eyes him curiously, obviously the pain meds seemed to be working just fine.

“No, Harry. Obviously fucking not. Not that it would be your business, if I was.”

“Who’s Henry then? “

 “A friend. Henry used to be my friend. When we were kids.” Jean sighed.

“And?”

“And fucking what, Harry? “

“Were you.. in love with him?”

“You’re not going to stop, are you? Yes, I loved him. It doesn’t matter now, he’s dead.” Jean conveniently leaves out the fact that Henry shot himself. It seemed… unfitting, regarding the situation.

“Sorry.” A meaningless apology.

“It’s fine.”

It, of course, wasn’t fine at all. It was everything but fine. Jean didn’t want to think about it any longer, irritated by the fact that Harry had brought it up.

Harry on the other hand seemed satisfied and was already starting to heave himself off the bed. You'd never get him to lay still for more than ten minutes.

“Whoa, whoa, superstar. You sure that’s a good idea?”

“Why the hell not, I feel like a million bucks, baby!”

“That’s the drugs, Harry.” Jean tries to reason but Harry was already off the bed, standing wobbly on his feet and walking towards the exit.

Jean hurries after him, Harry was still surprisingly quick on his feet, already two corners away. Or maybe not – a heavy thump sounds from the hallway Harry had turned into, followed by a loud groan.

“Jeeeannn!!” Harry’s whining voice echoes through the building

“Fuck me.” Jean mutters, sprinting over to where Harry had ungraciously kissed the hallway-floor. Blood was rushing out of his nose and flowers of deep red were starting to appear on the white dressing around his arm. Harry was looking at Jean like a kicked dog, puppy eyes and all.

“I fucking told you. Why do you never listen.” Jean kneels down next to Harry, “You probably tore your stitches. I’ll get Gottlieb, stay here.”

Harry pouts but doesn’t argue, wiping the blood from his nose with the back of his hand.

Jean locates Nix who comes running immediately with a heavy sigh. He unwraps the bandages, studying the freshly stitched wound. Freshly unstitched wound, at this point.

“Tsskk, who are you trying to impress, rockstar? It hasn’t even been an hour since I removed the bullet. You’ll get yourself killed like that, one day, that’s for sure.”

 Nix fixes up the stitches and redresses the wound. Harry sat there quietly the whole time; eyes focused on something in the distance.

“That should do it for now.” He hands Jean a sewing kit and a few extra bandages, “He’s your partner, you’re taking him with you. I’m not responsible anymore.”

“What?? I’m not a fucking babysitter!” Jean protests but Nix had already disappeared again, leaving them alone in the hallway like a mother abandoning her children.

“Un-fucking-believable.” Jean paces in circles around Harry, “You heard the doctor, shitkid. Come on, get up.”

Harry holds his functioning arm up, signalling Jean to hold his hand and help him up. Jean grabs it with a sigh. It felt improbably tender. Not the hand of course, but the nature of the gesture. Harry almost never asked for help, even now not a word left his lips. But the unsaid I need you lingered in the air like dust after a storm. I need you.

Jean wraps his arms around Harry to stabilize him, almost a hug, in different circumstances. Jean had to keep his eyes from welling up. What a stupid reason to cry about, a simple touch. Still, it felt like a thousand stars were igniting in the closed space of their two bodies; galaxies colliding and merging and dying again; all in the blink of a second.

The vastness of two souls fusing into something warm and pulsing; into something alive.

The feeling stayed, the whole car ride back to his apartment. Was this what love was supposed to feel like? It was unfamiliar, he had learned love to be something horrible, something that would ruin you from the inside out. Something that would get you killed. But then, if this was love, he’d take death gladly over the loss of it. He already felt one foot in his imaginary grave, it was only a matter of time he’d lose the second one. Somehow, he knew it was going to be sooner rather than later.

Arrived at their destination, Jean guides Harry up the stairs, hoping he didn’t tear any more stitches in the process. Some part of him hoping he did – just so that he could be the one to stitch him back up again. His stomach lurching at the thought of Harry squirming under his touch. The noises he’d make, begging, Jean please, please –

They reach his front door, Harry looking at him expectantly. Right. Keys.

Jean manages to unlock the door without dropping them. Immediately a metallic smell hits him square in the face. Old blood. The bedroom looked exactly like they had left it in the morning, the disheveled, yellowing bedsheets, still slightly damp; the blanket discarded, half on the floor and worst of all, the huge puddle of clumped-up blood. Smudged where Harry had been lying. The red staining the wooden flooring, resembling more a slaughterhouse or an execution scene. A bitch to clean up.

“Always cleaning up your fucking mess.” Jean mumbles under his breath already moving to locate some cleaning supplies.

“Next time I won’t do it in your bedroom.”

“Very considerate. But I think I’d prefer if there wasn’t a next time. Think you can manage that? Asshole.”

“You expect so much from me, Jean.” Harry lets out a dramatic little sigh, “Fine. But only for you.”

Jean decides to ignore Harry, focusing on getting that goddamn blood off his bedroom floor. 

The stain didn’t completely go away, of course, leaving a patch of the floor discoloured. Nothing a carpet couldn’t solve. Explaining it to his landlord would be a completely different thing of course, but that was a problem for later.

Harry had slept on the couch the first night. He didn't bother him much, neither during the day or the night. But the day after, still sleeping on the couch, Harry had woken up in the middle of the night, sensing something pinch in his arm. Feeling the need to make it Jean's problem, he walks over to where he was sleeping.

“Jean.”

“Jean, wake up.” Harry was shaking Jean’s shoulder violently with his one functioning arm.

“Ughh, what time is it?” Jean’s eyes feel heavy, it was still dark outside and he could barely see Harry standing next to his bed. His face only slightly illuminated by the moonlight.

“I think there’s something wrong with the wound. Hurts like a bitch. Can you check for me?”

“’Course it fucking hurts, Harry. It’s like two days old.” Jean rubs his temple, displeased his sleep was being interrupted.

“Please?” Harry’s voice soft like velvet in his ear. Slightly desperate. Jean was glad Harry couldn’t see his face, feeling it run hot the second the word left Harry's lips. 

“Alright, fuck. Sit down.” Jean grumbles, sitting up and patting the free space in front of him. Harry obeyed immediately.

Jean reaches over to turn on the lamp on his bedside table. It wasn’t especially bright, but his eyes had gotten used to the dark, making him flinch as the light hit his retina. They were facing each other, and Jean notices that Harry was only in his underwear. The blush on his cheeks deepens.

“Like what you see?” A grin spreading.

“Is that what this is?”

“No, my arm actually hurts pretty bad. You were the one staring.”

“Right.” Jean clears his throat, quickly moving to busy himself by unwrapping the dressing. The foul smell of trapped bacteria spread out in the room. The skin underneath was wrinkled, the bandage slightly stuck to it. The area around the puncture was irritably red, yellow pus collecting in the middle of it. Blood crusted where one of the stitches had loosened, reopening the wound there.

“Mhm, tore a stitch. Stay here, I’ll get the kit.” Jean hurries out of his bed into the bathroom. He grabs the sewing kit and some antiseptic, then rushes back. Harry was still sitting patiently in his bed, drumming his fingers against his thigh. Unusually obedient.

Jean trickles some of the disinfectant on a cotton cloth. His eyes focus on the area in question, tapping around the wound where the blood had oozed out. A small sound escapes Harry’s lips when he accidentally taps too close to the opened skin.

A thought flashes through Jean’s cortex. He looks up without raising his head, locking eyes with Harry’s before deliberately pressing the soaked cloth directly onto the open wound.

He’s immediately rewarded with a deep, throaty whimper coming from Harry.

Slut.

Satisfied, he removes the cloth again, discarding it on the bedside table. It had not escaped his notice that Harry’s underwear had gotten tighter as well.

He makes a mental note as he threads the nylon through the needle and goes to replace the opened stitch. The noise that Harry made as the needle pierced his skin should have been illegal. Jean’s head swims as he tries his best to concentrate on the skin before him and not how his felt like it was burning. Halfway through.

“You weren’t this loud when Nix was doing your stitches.” Jean remarks, humming. Another stab through Harry’s skin.

“Must have been the dru- ughh-gs. Fuck.” Harry’s groans filling the room. Chest rising and falling heavily.

“You’re still on drugs, Harry.”

“Am I?”

“Mhm.” Jean cuts the thread, looking in Harry’s pupil-blown eyes, staring at him with an almost animalistic hunger. Desire so strong he felt it might devour him.

“Maybe I just want you to hurt me.”

“I thought you enjoyed doing the hurting.” Jean lowers his eyes to the wound, tying the ends of the nylon sutures together.

“Why not both?” Jean felt Harry grinning at him. Without hesitation, eyes still on the wound, he pushes his finger once into the fresh stitch, earning another vulgar groan from Harry.

“Sick fuck.” Jean should have known by now that insults did not bring out the desired reaction in Harry, who just grinned further at this.

Jean was about to stand up to get some new bandages when he feels Harry’s hand grabbing his wrist, a strong grip holding him back.

Having the advantage of not being high out of his mind and injured, he reacts fast. Twisting Harry’s hand off and pushing him back into the bed. Two hands planted on each side of Harry’s face, towering over him.

Despite everything inside him screaming for it, he resists.

“We are not having sex two days after you shot yourself, Harry.”

"My dick's still working just fine." Like falling for the bait, Jean's eyes dart to the area in question, indeed working just fine. "What, you suddenly scared of hurting me, Viquemare?" Harry's eyes flicker to Jean's lips, then back up again. Something twinkling behind them. Challenging.

"Trust me, I am not." The thought of Harry writhing in pain was more arousing than he'd like to admit.

"Bet I could still make you scream my name." oh.

"Oh?" Jean shoots one eyebrow up, desperately clinging to his ability to control himself.

"No. More like, OHHH...OHH..HARRY, PLEASE, PLEASE-" Harry's fake moans fill out the room, echoing back from the small space of the bedroom. Jean quickly shoves a hand against Harry's mouth to muffle the sound, feeling his cheeks run hot.

"Shut up, I don't sound like that." He hisses, Harry grinning against his palm.

"Mhggm." Words unable to pass through the fingers.

"What." Jean removes his hand, slightly slobbered on. He has the urge to lick it off.

"Want to?" Harry smirks, "Sound like that, I mean."

"You little shit."

"Is that a yes?"

"No."

The disappointment was palpable, Harry’s lips forming into a pathetic little pout. No further protest though.

"Let's bandage that wound now, hm?"

Jean heaves himself off the bed, leaving Harry behind. He dips into the bathroom and returns with fresh gauze. Harry had sat himself on the edge of the bed, legs dangling idly. Something had changed in the way he looked at Jean. It wasn't purely lust anymore, a certain tenderness behind his eyes. 

That bullet had definitely done some damage. 

Jean kneels between his legs, pressing a dry cotton-pad lightly on the wound, before starting to wrap the gauze around. Gently, not too tight. Once, twice, getting lost in the process. He feels Harry’s gaze on the side of his face, soft, curious, not at all like it had just burned into him two seconds ago. Feels Harry’s calm breathing. His muscles twitching whenever he brushes over his skin. Then, a deep breath.

"Can I sleep here tonight? With you?"

"I already told you, we're not going to-"

"Not like that."

"Did you already forget what happened last time?" Jean doesn't look up, securing the end of the gauze with tape. Harry's gaze doesn't flicker, boring into Jean's cheek. A moment of silence, then-

"Can I just be with you? Please? I don't think I want to be alone."

"You never do." Jean sighs, it was a bad idea, but then, what more did he have to loose?

His bed wasn't meant really meant for two people unless they were on top of each other. Obviously not happening today. So they were lying next to each other like canned sardines. Thighs touching, body heat trapping itself under the blanket. Harry's breath was calm, collected, but Jean knew he was just pretending to be asleep. A glimmer of tension suspended in the air. For once, not sexual.

A soft rustle of the sheets next to him. Harry shifting slightly. Another composed intake of air.

“I heard you, by the way.” Harry turns his head to the side, looking at him.

“Hm?” Eyes still closed.

“What you said to me while I was bleeding out.” Harry’s voice soft, like silk. Gentle, so gentle. Jean opens his eyes, looking at the ceiling.

“Oh.” oh. 

Suddenly it all made sense. Their eyes meet in the soft light of the moon. Harry doesn't say anything for a moment, studying Jean's expression. When he finds what he's looking for, he continues. 

“I know I’ve kissed before but I don’t think I did it right. Can I try again?”

“Can I stop you?”

Both questions go unanswered to the ear. The implied yes to the first, the unsaid never to the second like a silent prayer in the air.

Harry cups Jean’s face, looking into his eyes as if they lead straight to his soul. Then he leans forward, stopping just before Jean’s face, letting their breath mix in the air still between them. Jean closes his eyes, sees a thousand stars blinking and then, exploding, all at once like fireworks as Harry’s lips meet his like it was all they were ever meant to be doing. Everything stopped, his breath, time, the world. Every fear, every sadness, all the hurt he’d ever felt was washed out by the incredible tenderness of a simple kiss.

Then, air returns to his lungs once more. The clock’s hands start moving again, the fly still dead. Not everything can be saved.

Jean opens his eyes, meeting Harry’s, already staring at him. It felt like the first time; it felt like the last time. He knew he'd never see this much tenderness again, he knew he would try. Looking for it in Harry's eyes again; looking for it in every eye that lingers a little too long. He knew he'd die searching. Searching for those words again-

“I love you. God, I love you so much Jean.” I love you. I love you.

Jean lets the words seep into his bones, deep into the marrow; lets it nest under his skin, in his veins and arteries, mixing with his blood cells; lets it consume him completely. There’s nothing he can do to stop it. Yes, if this is love, it’s going to kill him. Gently, softly and slowly and yet still utterly unexpectedly. Like poison he can feel it spreading. You never notice it until it’s already too late. But then, it’s always already been too late. Some things are simply not meant to be saved.

At the same time it seemed wrong, letting the words in like this. It made him want to take them apart, filet them, butcher them, till he finds a way to make them easily digestible. Till he finds the hidden poison wedged between fragments of letters; till he finds something that invalidates them. His knife would grow dull by the time he’d realize that it was not the words that carried the poison, but the person who spoke them.
Two months from now he’d finally find it. That poison. The loss of a person. The loss of memory. You never know how much your own memories are affected by time till you feel every memory grow mold around the edges. When even the remembrance of love feels like the twist of a knife. Knowing you’re the only one that bears the burden of remembering the love that was once there. Still is, just unplaceable in the person it originated from. When you can't put your love where it belongs, it starts rotting. Rotting inside you. And you know, you can never recover from that kind of rot.