122 - b
continued from part one
There’s no one waiting outside for them when they arrive. James doesn’t seem concerned with this, and just slides out of the drivers seat, cracking his knuckles behind his back.
Harry nudges Dougie with his shoulder.
“Wake up,” he says, “we’re here.” Dougie yawns, and Tom sits up, rubbing his eyes with his fingertips. Danny’s already outside, standing in the cold with his hands in the pockets of his jacket, looking off down the empty street. Harry can see the line of white bandages peeking out from under the collar of his shirt - they’ll have to remember to change them again. Harry climbs out and stretches his arms over his head. He hates long car rides, honestly. The air is bitter on his tongue when he breathes in, sharp cold, and he can see his breath when he exhales, tendrils of white dispersing like cigarette smoke.
The bar is in a run-down urban neighbourhood, cramped storefronts and apartments lining the sidewalks on both sides of the street - bare lots filled with scraggly weeds; abandoned buildings, hollow with disuse. The walls are brick and grey paint, layer over layer of graffiti, thick dirt, litter. It looks almost exactly like Harry was expecting.
“For fuck’s sake,” James says, “will you guys get in the goddamn bar already? Just because we’re not in your city anymore doesn’t mean no one is going to recognize you and call you in.” Harry looks at Tom, who shrugs and gestures them inside with a jerk of his head.
They file into the bar, which is - surprisingly clean, well stocked, and nicely furnished. It gives off an impression of expense that is at odds with the run-down nature of the storefront. Dougie whistles, low and impressed - most places can’t afford this kind of upkeep anymore. The owners are probably rich; that’s the only way they could afford half this shit. Danny’s mouth is set in a serious line, and Harry exchanges another glance with Tom, who shakes his head, just slightly. Nothing to be done but wait it out and see what happens.
“You’ll be sharing a room upstairs,” James says. “Sorry we can’t give you each your own, but it’s just easier this way. C’mon,” he says, jumping over the bar and pushing open a door with an Employees Only sign mounted on the dark wood. He waves them after him, and they follow him through the doors and down a short hallway, through another door and up a set of stairs. It’s obvious that the owners own more of the property than just the bar itself.
“How much of this building do your bosses own?” Tom asks, reaching the same conclusion that Harry has.
“The whole thing,” James says with a shrug. “Under a false name, obviously.” Tom just nods, and looks over his shoulder, back the way they came.
+
They hadn’t stopped playing, obviously. They couldn’t. Everything was getting worse, and there wasn’t anything else they could do, not even after - not even after James. Enforced curfews and restricted job access and increased surveillance had all been brought up and passed into law, and so the guerrilla shows were even more dangerous than they ever had been, but - they couldn’t just stop.
There were a few close calls - raids that happened minutes after they’d left, or just before they were due to arrive; notices about arrests of other bands, the people who never came back.
About five months after that first time, Danny closed the door to Harry’s bedroom behind him and locked the door. Harry will always remember the look on his face - it has been just after another bout of arrests, and they were all on edge, holding themselves together with their ideals and their fingernails. His eyes were dark, his teeth sunk deep into the skin of his lower lip, and Harry had sat up on his bed, swinging his legs over the edge of his mattress.
“We might be next,” Danny had said, like he was finishing a conversation they’d started earlier, or one he’d been having in his head.
“We might,” Harry replied, because they all knew it, and he’d never been a liar. He still isn’t one.
“I can’t stop fucking thinking about it,” Danny said, and Harry knew he was thinking about Matt, then, because the harsh set of his mouth and the clench of his fists always gave him away. “How do I stop fucking thinking about it? Fuck, Harry.”
“I don’t know,” Harry said, and wished he’d known the answer. He wanted to know for himself, for the rest of them. For Danny.
“Fuck,” Danny said, and Harry doesn’t remember him coming closer, but he must have, he must have, sometime. Harry just remembers Danny’s hands in his hair, cupping the back of his head, Danny’s warm weight settling across his thighs. Danny kissing him. Harry remembers exhaling against Danny’s lips and thinking something that sounded suspiciously like yes, yes, please. He doesn’t remember if he felt ashamed for thinking it, just remembers kissing back, and the taste of Danny’s mouth - takeaway sandwiches and old coffee. He remembers Danny grinding closer to him, and the way they’d both squeezed their eyes shut.
He remembers thinking, even then, that it was a bad idea.
+
They share a mattress that night, on the floor of the room above the bar. The floor is swept clean, and there are soft sheets, and a thick quilt, plenty of pillows - they curl up less than an hour after James leaves them, and once again, Harry can’t sleep. He can feel Tom’s breath against the back of his neck, but he just stares at Danny’s closed eyes, the softness of his features in the dark, and can’t sleep. Dougie is curved up against Danny’s back, and Harry can see the hand that’s pressed against Danny’s stomach through the sheets and his shirt. He closes his eyes.
He dozes on and off for some indeterminable amount of time, listening to the soft sound of his own breath, the feel of Tom’s chest against his back. It’s a peculiar kind of comfort, being this close, and he doesn’t notice the shift of weight until someone breathes against his face, warm over his nose and cheekbones. He opens his eyes, and Danny is peering at him - his eyes, this close, are huge and deep and Harry has no idea what he’s thinking, even as Danny kisses him.
It’s soft, softer than they’ve ever kissed, and Harry doesn’t think about anything as he opens his mouth, he just listens to the sounds of their lips parting, one of Danny’s hands pressing against the skin under his right ear. Danny’s the one who pulls away, one of his feet slipping between Harry’s, nudging against his ankle, hand moving away from Harry’s face. His thumb presses firm against Harry’s lips before pulling away entirely.
You want me, his eyes say as he pulls back, and Harry knows that the answer is yes, and has always been yes.
That doesn’t make it a good idea.
+
“I can’t do this,” Harry had said, pacing the length of his room. Danny was sitting on the edge of the mattress, his hands trapped between his thighs.
“Why the fuck not?” he’d asked, his voice caught between frustration and hurt - Harry could hear the surprise there, too, but he didn’t want to think about it.
“It’s too fucking risky, Danny. You know that.” Harry couldn’t keep still, because Danny was on his bed, and Harry would much rather be a moving target.
“It’s not any more risky than just staying alive is, Harry -”
“Which is exactly my fucking point, Dan.” Harry was facing away, facing the closed door, but he could still hear the reverberations of anger in Danny’s voice. He didn’t want it there, but he didn’t know how to take it away, either.
“It’s not a mission, Harry,” Danny said. “It’s not a show. It’s - fucking. It’s sex, and what the hell is wrong with that?” He’d sounded honestly confused - this was the first time they’d hashed out this conversation, but it wouldn’t be the last. This was the only time Harry got to hear his confusion.
“It’s dangerous. We could die or get arrested at almost any moment, and you think that’s a good time for a shag?”
“What fucking better time is there?” The urgency in Danny’s voice had surprised him. His voice was low and rough, and when Harry’d glanced at him, he’d been staring at his knees. “No regrets, Harry, none. If I get shot in the fucking head like Charlie, at least I won’t be thinking about all the shit I should’ve done.” His voice was quiet, honest, but Harry could hear the frustration simmering in the back of his throat.
“I can’t,” Harry’d said, simply. It would be too easy, he knew. Too fucking easy for it to mean something it shouldn’t, and then where the fuck would he be? He bit his lips to hold the words in, because. If he said it, he knew, Danny would win. “I fucking can’t, Danny.”
Danny had just met his eyes. “You want me,” he said, with absolute certainty. “I don’t understand.”
Harry couldn’t deny it - he didn’t lie. Instead, he just shook his head. There was nothing he could do.
+
The water in the sink is clear and clean when Harry washes Danny’s stitches the next morning. They looked good, no sign of infection, but they’d have to wait a few more days to be sure he gets the all clear. He uses more peroxide just to be safe, but they don’t exactly have an unlimited supply, and even medical supplies can be hard to get a hold of sometimes - and they’re always expensive.
Danny bites his lips when Harry presses the gauze to the wound, his fingers balling into fists pressed, white-knuckled, against his thighs. He doesn’t make a sound as Harry winds the bandages back around his chest.
“Feeling okay?” Harry asks, glancing up from his hands against the skin of Danny’s chest. Danny is looking, pointedly, over his shoulder.
“I’m fine,” Danny says. “Hurts.”
“Which is why you shouldn’t get shot, arsehole,” Harry says, snorting. Danny eyes meet his for half a second, and he grins that broad grin of his - all exposed white teeth and spread lips. Harry tries not to feel like he’s accomplished something.
+
He knew, when he heard about the gig, that going would be a bad idea. He knew it, but, of course, that didn’t stop him.
Brigade was a good band - rock roots, simple melodies, interesting lyrics. Harry enjoyed their music, he always had, but. Will Simpson was their frontman. And Will Simpson was Charlie’s older brother.
Harry wondered if the fact that Will was older had anything to do with how hard he took Charlie’s death, but he didn’t see how it couldn’t. Because Will wasn’t just Charlie’s brother, he was older - his job was to look after his kid brother, and he’d failed.
The fact that he blamed them for Charlie’s death - James and Harry especially - was a good enough reason not to go. Harry went anyway.
The show was good, Harry remembers. They were on key, instruments well tuned, and the crowd had been into it, swaying and clapping and moving. Harry had stayed after, waited by the bar - there was no one manning it, and no alcohol behind it. It was the ruins of what this club used to be, but the wood was still solid against his back as he’d leaned, fingers itching for a cigarette.
“Judd,” he’d heard from his left, a deep voice with just an edge of growl. He’d been waiting, quietly, for maybe ten minutes. Most of the crowd was gone, hurrying back to their jobs and spouses, back to their lives.
“Simpson,” he said, not turning. He wasn’t planning on fighting back.
+
“You’re shitting me,” Dougie says, his voice shocked and loud. He’d hoisted himself on top of the bar almost immediately after James brought them downstairs to wait. All they’d known was that they were meeting the bosses today, but - even Harry wasn’t exactly prepared. Dougie’s kicking his feet against the wood in an even rhythm of thuds that is driving Harry absolutely batshit. He wants to grab Dougie by the ankles and force him to keep still. Instead he leans back against the bar with his arms crossed, and looks stonily at James. James just smiles back, the motion slightly off-key, just like it always is now.
“What, you were expecting someone else?” Pete says from the doorway, amused. He’s got a key in one hand, shoulder still pressed against the front door from where he’d nudged it open.
“Pete, man, shit, will you please just fucking go inside?” and Carl pushes his way past Pete, rolling his eyes. The bell on the door jingles as Pete closes it behind him.
“The motherfucking Libertines?” Dougie asks, his feet finally going still.
“Not anymore we’re fucking not,” Pete says, almost viciously. Carl presses a hand against the back of Pete’s elbow and purses his lips into a thin line. Harry glances over to Danny, who is behind the bar, sitting on the edge of one of the industrial sinks. He can’t read the expression on Danny’s face, but he’s not that surprised by this.
“No wonder you can afford the upkeep on this place,” Tom says. He’s sitting on one of the bar stools to Dougie’s left, his elbow leaning on Dougie’s thigh. When Dougie starts to kick again, Harry reaches out and presses a palm flat against his right ankle, forcing him to still. Dougie snorts.
“No thanks to me, I’m telling you,” Pete says, and Harry knows he’s probably not the only one thinking about heroin and burglary - articles in tabloids that only stopped once the government cracked down. Pete raises an eyebrow like he knows, and Harry wouldn’t be surprised if he did.
“Pete’s what we like to call the ‘idea man’,” Carl says, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “In that he’s pretty fucking useless about ninety percent of the time -”
“And the other ten I’m a genius, yeah, yeah,” Pete says. “Can we get this meeting underway, then?”
“Sure,” Carl says, shrugging. “Bourne? Can you get that shit from the back room?”
“On it,” James says, and goes back through the ‘Employees Only’ door, although who the fuck knows how many places in the building it actually leads.
“Why don’t you play anymore?” Danny asks. His voice is just as unreadable as his face, like maybe he’s reserving judgement. That doesn’t sound like such a bad idea to Harry - he knows that Dougie was probably all in the second he saw Pete Doherty walk through the door, but the rest of them are more cautious.
“The band, you mean?” Pete laughs. “Fuck, we could barely keep it together while music was legal, can you imagine how fast we’d fuck it up now?” His face holds the shades of some memory like - maybe James told him about Busted. Harry’s not sure whether that would surprise him or not. “Besides, we’re helpful in our own way, here.”
“What is it you do, exactly?” Harry asks, speaking up for the first time. Dougie’s hand cups the back of his neck, like his words are too harsh. Calm, the touch says. Carl raises an eyebrow.
“We mostly intermediate, really, but we get people out of the country - you, for example. We let people have meetings in here, sometimes. We have contacts with the closest working abortion clinics, and we hand out contraceptives to the people who know how to ask. We sell relatively decent beer. That good enough for you?” Harry nods and shrugs. He’s not sorry for his attitude, not when the bandages are still a bulk under Danny’s shirt, not when that’s a possibility for Tom, or Dougie.
James comes back in, then, with a stack of papers, and a pen between his teeth. Harry meets Tom’s eyes, and he smiles, saying, yeah, I get it. Harry’d known he would.
“Found ‘em,” James says, his words muffled around the pen. He drops them on the bar with a whump, and Pete rubs his hands together.
“Lets get down to business, then.”
+
Harry wiped a hand carelessly across his mouth, and it came back smeared red and brown with blood - the new and the drying both; there was a second, sluggish trickle of blood flowing from his temple. He had one hand pressed against his ribs through his shirt, and he was pretty sure that his left ankle was swollen enough that getting his shoe off was going to be a bitch. He stumbled through the front door, only half aware that it was closing in on four in the morning - he couldn’t remember if he’d told them where he was going; he just needed to sit down before he fell down.
He could feel the blood running down his chin again, and he wiped at it again with the back of his hand, limping into the kitchen. The lights were out, but he managed not to run into any of the chairs. His mouth tasted like salt and sharp copper - he’d definitely swallowed some blood, but the bleeding seemed to be slowing down.
His ribs hurt every time he breathed in, but he didn’t think anything was broken - he’d broken ribs before and it hurt a hell of a lot more than this. He was going to have some pretty interesting bruises tomorrow, but no broken bones.
The lights came on, suddenly, and he hissed, squinting his eyes closed at the sudden swell of bright.
“Harry, what the fuck, it’s almost four and you’re - Jesus fuck.” When Harry could finally open his eyes again, Tom was standing in the doorway in his boxers and an old t-shirt. His face was shocked enough that Harry figured he must look pretty bad. “What happened?”
He opened his mouth, about to explain, when Danny appeared in the doorway behind Tom. He closed his mouth again, waiting for Danny to respond, but he said nothing, just leaned against the doorframe, chest and feet bare.
“I -” Harry started.
“You had to fucking go,” Danny said, anger in the set of his mouth, in the tone of his voice. “You couldn’t just accept that it wasn’t your fucking fault.” He crossed his arms over his chest, and looked at the line of the doorframe opposite him, blowing hair out of his face, frustrated.
“What?” Tom asked, glancing between the two of them in resigned confusion.
“Brigade gig,” Danny said, shortly, and didn’t look at either of them. Harry saw the moment the implications settled into Tom’s sleep-clouded brain, his expression going surprised, wide-eyed and loose-jawed.
“What - Harry -” he said, cutting himself off.
“I stayed after,” Harry found himself saying, although he wasn’t quite sure why. “He deserved the chance - Will’s a good guy. What happened to Charlie isn’t right.”
“Yeah, it’s not right, and it’s not your fucking fault. Blame BAOT, if you have to blame anyone.” Danny’s fingers gripped his arms like he was keeping himself from reacting physically to Harry’s apparent stupidity. Tom blanched even paler, and bit his lip, as if to stop himself from speaking. If Harry was honest with himself, and he tried to be, he felt better, even bleeding in the kitchen, being bitched out by Danny.
“Maybe - maybe it’ll satisfy Will,” Harry said with a shrug, and wiped at his mouth again. He hoped the bleeding stopped soon - the talking wasn’t helping much, either.
“Nothing’s going to satisfy Will, Harry. His brother’s dead.” Danny’s voice was flat, some of the anger gone, maybe. Harry had nothing to say to that, so he just shrugged again, looking at the blood caught under his fingernails.
“Look,” Tom said, holding up placating hands between the two of them. “Harry, we should get you cleaned up. I’ll go get the first aid kit, okay? Just don’t kill each other while I’m gone.”
“It’s okay, Tom, I got it,” Danny said, sighing. Harry was surprised, but Danny didn’t look over, and Harry couldn’t gauge the weather from just his voice. “You can go back to bed. Only one of us needs to stay awake for this.”
“Danny - are you sure?” Tom asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah, just - go. We can handle it.” Danny smiled wanly, and Tom nodded, glancing over his shoulder only once as he went back upstairs. “You are such a dumb fuck, Harry,” he said after Tom left.
“So I’ve gathered,” Harry said, dryly. “You might have to cut my left boot off.”
Danny just shook his head, and pressed his thumb against Harry’s split lip - sharp pain and smeared blood - before going to find the first aid kit.
+
“Ireland,” Danny says, sitting on the edge of the mattress. “Huh.”
“It makes sense, if you think about it,” Dougie says, leaning back on the floor, staring at the ceiling. “Closest free country, undoubtedly the easiest to get into, comparatively. Unsafe to stay there permanently, but if we’re only there long enough to catch a plane out, not much risk, either. I can see why that would work.” His shrug is lost against the floor, but Harry can hear the vague scrape of his shoulders against the wood.
“It’s still going to be a bitch to get into Ireland in the first place,” Tom says. He’s sitting with his back to the wall, his feet stretched across the floor.
“That’s their problem, not ours.” Harry knows that he’s still the dissenter among them, but he can’t see why he should put his full trust in anyone he doesn’t know. He understands that they have to trust Pete and Carl, but he doesn’t have to like it. “Why Australia, Tom?” he asks. They’d left the final decision up to Tom - the other main contender had been Canada, but Harry can’t imagine being comfortable that close to the United States, no matter how fucking huge Canada is.
“It’s far away. And it’ll be warm, right about now.” He grins and shrugs.
“Think they’re fucking?” Danny asks, out of nowhere.
“Doherty and Barat?” Dougie asks, and Danny nods. “If they aren’t, they want to be.” Dougie is still mostly talking to ceiling, but Harry can hear the certainty in his voice.
“What makes you so fucking sure?” Harry asks. He sprawls stomach down on the mattress, and props his chin up on the palms of his hands.
“I may have, like, no tact whatsoever, but that doesn’t mean I’m completely without observational skills, Harry,” Dougie says, voice dry. He lifts his head off the floor and meets Harry’s eyes before pointedly looking over at Danny. Harry resists snorting. Yeah, no tact whatsoever. Harry glances at Danny, only to find Danny looking at him with raised eyebrows. Harry tries not to feel obvious, ganged up on; he knows that with these three, he will always be both, in the best way possible.
Twenty-three hours and counting until show time.
+
Harry’s lip was still scabbed over when they had their next show. Danny stayed back by him for the whole set; his eyes were wide and dark, and Harry tried not to look up, for fear of reading the emotion in them. He managed to stay on tempo, but he bit into his lip hard enough to make it bleed again. The rhythm was in his blood, like the copper on his lips, and he swallowed the metallic taste of it down, Danny in the corner of his eye, fingers pressed firm and strong to the strings of his guitar.
It was maybe the best they’d ever played, if Harry was honest with himself. He pressed the heel of his palm against his mouth, putting pressure on the cut, and wasn’t surprised enough when Danny said, from beside him,
“Will’s here. I saw him during the show.” Harry glanced up at him, still seated behind his drum kit for the moment, but Danny was just looking out at the dwindling crowd. They’d all be gone in a few minutes, dispersed back to their day-to-day lives.
“Think he’s here to apologize, or try to kick the shit out of me again?” Harry kept his voice light, joking, but he could hear the tightness in Danny’s words when he spoke again.
“I’m hoping the former, ‘cause if he tries anything else, he’ll have to pick up his teeth from the floor, dead brother or no.”
“I could just be here for the music, you know,” Will said, and Harry’s head snapped up. His voice was even, emotionless, and Harry hoped would never sound like Will did - dead. Completely void of meaning or passion. He wondered if maybe James would sound like that, if they ever met again.
“No,” Danny said, tensing up; Harry could feel it like static energy against his skin. He looked up, and Tom was standing by the bar, watching them, just in case - he wasn’t bothering to be subtle about it. Dougie was leaning against the wall, smoking, but Harry knew his attention was focused. Should anything happen, they’d be there.
They’d have to get past Danny first, though.
“I’m sorry about Charlie,” Harry said, because he’d never gotten that far, the other night, and he still meant it. He’d spent three days with Charlie’s brains and blood on the side of his face and neck.
“I know,” Will said. “Me too.”
“You didn’t have to see him die,” Danny said, voice still tight with restrained anger. Harry wrapped a hand around his wrist, thumb pressing firm against the too-fast beat of his pulse, rabbit-quick in his veins.
“No,” Will said, “but we did have a funeral with no body. Empty grave.” He looked away. “Look, I shouldn’t have done what I did - I can’t say I’m sorry, but.”
“Okay,” Harry said. He could feel Danny’s hand curl into a fist, but he didn’t try to pull away.
“It was his choice,” Danny said. “He didn’t run. It was his choice.”
Will shrugged. “Doesn’t make any difference to me. Me and Edd and our parents. He’s still dead.”
There wasn’t anything to say to that, really. Harry just nodded, Danny’s pulse strong against his fingertips.
+
Harry’s not sure what wakes him up, at first, but he wakes all at once, eyes jolting open, breath whistling in his throat. He sits up in the bed, covers pooling around his hips, breathing through his nose, quietly. Dougie makes a noise to his right, but Harry’s not listening to him, he’s absolutely still, trying to determine what woke him. There - footsteps. In the hallway, not overly quiet, but not running. Slightly hurried, maybe.
The door creaks when it slides open, and Harry doesn’t realize he’s curled his hands into fists until he sees Carl standing in the doorway, face pale, eyes wide.
“Get them up,” he says, bare feet quiet on the floor, “no time - you have to go. You have to go now.”
“What’s happened?” Harry asks. He can see Tom’s eyes open, but he keeps his focus on Carl, who just says,
“They’re on their way, you have to go -”
“How do you -”
“No time, fucker, get them up.” Harry opens his mouth, closes it again, and then nudges Dougie, who mumbles indistinctly at him.
“Dougie, Dougs, up. Time to go.” Tom’s already pulling at Danny, already completely awake, and Carl’s standing impatiently in the doorway. Harry shakes Dougie, says, almost harshly, “C’mon, Dougs, there’s no time for this. Wanna end up like Matt?”
Danny shoots Harry a dirty look, pulling his trousers over his hips, and Harry knows he shouldn’t have said it, but they don’t have time for this.
“How much time do we have?” Tom asks, already zipping up his backpack. Dougie is running his hands through his hair, not looking at Harry as he packs up again.
“Fifteen minutes to get you out to the car, if we’re lucky. Probably less.” Carl sounds distinctly unhappy, glancing over his shoulder down the hall.
“Fuck,” Tom says. “Okay, guys, lets go, lets go.” Harry stuffs his feet into his shoes, not bothering with the laces, and Tom’s standing by the door already. Danny’s shirt is buttoned crookedly, but he’s standing, slinging his pack over one shoulder. Dougie zips up his jeans and grabs his shoes, saying,
“I’ll put them on in the car, it doesn’t matter. Lets get the fuck out of here, fuck.”
“Arseholes, hurry the fuck up!” Pete’s shouting from the bottom of the stairs, it sounds like. “We don’t have time for you to fix your hair!” Carl’s already bouncing on his toes in the hallway, waving them onward, frantically, and shit. Shit.
Harry doesn’t know how the feds could’ve found out - maybe one of them stood too close to a window, maybe it’s simple fucking luck - but. He doesn’t want to be Charlie. He doesn’t even want to be James. He definitely doesn’t fucking want to be James.
James is standing at the back door when they get into the bar, his face white, and he’s fiddling with the hem of his shirt. Harry wonders if he’s thinking about the bust - Harry wonders if he ever stops thinking about it. Pete’s shooing them toward the door, hat cocked on his head, and Tom nods at him, once, before heading out to the car, Dougie hot on his heels. Harry winces at the sound of Dougie’s bare feet on the pavement. Danny pushes him slightly, urging him toward the door, but Harry turns back to Pete.
“What’ll you do when they get here?” he asks.
Pete smiles, and Harry doesn’t know him well enough to tell if it’s bravado or not, but his eyes flicker over to Carl, standing behind the bar.
“We’ll manage,” he says. “We always do.”
There are no sirens. They don’t need them anymore. But as James pulls off down the street, cursing under his breath, Harry sees the flash of tinted windows in the sunlight.
He leans his head back against the seat cushion, and hopes for the best.
+
They spent the first anniversary of the bust in their kitchen. They turned off all the lights and lit candles, because they didn’t know what else to do. They pulled their acoustics onto their laps, Harry digging out his last tambourine, and they sung covers, Springsteen and The Who and The Clash, they sung Busted, they sung their own songs. Harry hummed along, keeping time as he watched their fingers press confident on strings. He wondered how something as simple as this could possibly be illegal.
They didn’t talk in-between songs, not about Charlie or Matt, not about James. Not about anything other than song choice and chord progression. They didn’t stop until the candles burned themselves out.
+
Harry looks at his watch. Seven hours and thirteen minutes until their rendezvous, until the plane, and Harry should be sleeping. Dougie is, fingers pillowed under his head on the cold cement floor. Tom is, too, mouthing words in his sleep, fingers fisted in the back of Dougie’s t-shirt. Danny isn’t, though, and Harry’s not sure if that should make him feel better or not. Danny is staring off into the warehouse, flashlight pointed into the darkened corners - they are filled with decaying paper and old office chairs, wiring and mouse shit and the smell of death. Harry thinks about Australia, about warmth, about sand between his toes, the ocean sucking at the skin of his ankles. He thinks about seven hours and nine minutes.
He thinks about the copy of Watership Down still safely packed in his backpack, and he glances over at Danny.
“Dan,” he says, quietly. Danny looks away from the expanse of dusty floor, shining the light on Harry, who squints against the brightness, says, “Shit, Danny, what -”
“How much time?” Danny asks, and turns the light toward the floor.
“Seven hours, eight minutes,” Harry says, glancing at his watch.
“Fuck.” Danny turns the flashlight off, and Harry blinks, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the twilight. “Think we’ll make it?” Danny asks, his voice quiet enough that Harry knows he regrets the question, wouldn’t have asked it if the light was still on. Not when Harry could still make out the fear on his face.
“We’ll make it,” Harry says, voice firm, even though he’s really not that sure. He reaches out, pressing his thumb against the back of Danny’s wrist, palm pressing lightly against the top of his hand. “Dan,” he says. “We’ll make it.”
“Yeah?” Danny replies, and it’s more a statement than a question. Dougie shifts in his sleep, and Tom whispers something quiet, rolling in closer, and when Danny’s lips press against his in the dark, soft and sure, Harry doesn’t pull away.
Seven hours, five minutes. Harry cups his fingers around Danny’s jaw, fingertips brushing the rough scratch of stubble, and he doesn’t pull away.
There’s no one waiting outside for them when they arrive. James doesn’t seem concerned with this, and just slides out of the drivers seat, cracking his knuckles behind his back.
Harry nudges Dougie with his shoulder.
“Wake up,” he says, “we’re here.” Dougie yawns, and Tom sits up, rubbing his eyes with his fingertips. Danny’s already outside, standing in the cold with his hands in the pockets of his jacket, looking off down the empty street. Harry can see the line of white bandages peeking out from under the collar of his shirt - they’ll have to remember to change them again. Harry climbs out and stretches his arms over his head. He hates long car rides, honestly. The air is bitter on his tongue when he breathes in, sharp cold, and he can see his breath when he exhales, tendrils of white dispersing like cigarette smoke.
The bar is in a run-down urban neighbourhood, cramped storefronts and apartments lining the sidewalks on both sides of the street - bare lots filled with scraggly weeds; abandoned buildings, hollow with disuse. The walls are brick and grey paint, layer over layer of graffiti, thick dirt, litter. It looks almost exactly like Harry was expecting.
“For fuck’s sake,” James says, “will you guys get in the goddamn bar already? Just because we’re not in your city anymore doesn’t mean no one is going to recognize you and call you in.” Harry looks at Tom, who shrugs and gestures them inside with a jerk of his head.
They file into the bar, which is - surprisingly clean, well stocked, and nicely furnished. It gives off an impression of expense that is at odds with the run-down nature of the storefront. Dougie whistles, low and impressed - most places can’t afford this kind of upkeep anymore. The owners are probably rich; that’s the only way they could afford half this shit. Danny’s mouth is set in a serious line, and Harry exchanges another glance with Tom, who shakes his head, just slightly. Nothing to be done but wait it out and see what happens.
“You’ll be sharing a room upstairs,” James says. “Sorry we can’t give you each your own, but it’s just easier this way. C’mon,” he says, jumping over the bar and pushing open a door with an Employees Only sign mounted on the dark wood. He waves them after him, and they follow him through the doors and down a short hallway, through another door and up a set of stairs. It’s obvious that the owners own more of the property than just the bar itself.
“How much of this building do your bosses own?” Tom asks, reaching the same conclusion that Harry has.
“The whole thing,” James says with a shrug. “Under a false name, obviously.” Tom just nods, and looks over his shoulder, back the way they came.
+
They hadn’t stopped playing, obviously. They couldn’t. Everything was getting worse, and there wasn’t anything else they could do, not even after - not even after James. Enforced curfews and restricted job access and increased surveillance had all been brought up and passed into law, and so the guerrilla shows were even more dangerous than they ever had been, but - they couldn’t just stop.
There were a few close calls - raids that happened minutes after they’d left, or just before they were due to arrive; notices about arrests of other bands, the people who never came back.
About five months after that first time, Danny closed the door to Harry’s bedroom behind him and locked the door. Harry will always remember the look on his face - it has been just after another bout of arrests, and they were all on edge, holding themselves together with their ideals and their fingernails. His eyes were dark, his teeth sunk deep into the skin of his lower lip, and Harry had sat up on his bed, swinging his legs over the edge of his mattress.
“We might be next,” Danny had said, like he was finishing a conversation they’d started earlier, or one he’d been having in his head.
“We might,” Harry replied, because they all knew it, and he’d never been a liar. He still isn’t one.
“I can’t stop fucking thinking about it,” Danny said, and Harry knew he was thinking about Matt, then, because the harsh set of his mouth and the clench of his fists always gave him away. “How do I stop fucking thinking about it? Fuck, Harry.”
“I don’t know,” Harry said, and wished he’d known the answer. He wanted to know for himself, for the rest of them. For Danny.
“Fuck,” Danny said, and Harry doesn’t remember him coming closer, but he must have, he must have, sometime. Harry just remembers Danny’s hands in his hair, cupping the back of his head, Danny’s warm weight settling across his thighs. Danny kissing him. Harry remembers exhaling against Danny’s lips and thinking something that sounded suspiciously like yes, yes, please. He doesn’t remember if he felt ashamed for thinking it, just remembers kissing back, and the taste of Danny’s mouth - takeaway sandwiches and old coffee. He remembers Danny grinding closer to him, and the way they’d both squeezed their eyes shut.
He remembers thinking, even then, that it was a bad idea.
+
They share a mattress that night, on the floor of the room above the bar. The floor is swept clean, and there are soft sheets, and a thick quilt, plenty of pillows - they curl up less than an hour after James leaves them, and once again, Harry can’t sleep. He can feel Tom’s breath against the back of his neck, but he just stares at Danny’s closed eyes, the softness of his features in the dark, and can’t sleep. Dougie is curved up against Danny’s back, and Harry can see the hand that’s pressed against Danny’s stomach through the sheets and his shirt. He closes his eyes.
He dozes on and off for some indeterminable amount of time, listening to the soft sound of his own breath, the feel of Tom’s chest against his back. It’s a peculiar kind of comfort, being this close, and he doesn’t notice the shift of weight until someone breathes against his face, warm over his nose and cheekbones. He opens his eyes, and Danny is peering at him - his eyes, this close, are huge and deep and Harry has no idea what he’s thinking, even as Danny kisses him.
It’s soft, softer than they’ve ever kissed, and Harry doesn’t think about anything as he opens his mouth, he just listens to the sounds of their lips parting, one of Danny’s hands pressing against the skin under his right ear. Danny’s the one who pulls away, one of his feet slipping between Harry’s, nudging against his ankle, hand moving away from Harry’s face. His thumb presses firm against Harry’s lips before pulling away entirely.
You want me, his eyes say as he pulls back, and Harry knows that the answer is yes, and has always been yes.
That doesn’t make it a good idea.
+
“I can’t do this,” Harry had said, pacing the length of his room. Danny was sitting on the edge of the mattress, his hands trapped between his thighs.
“Why the fuck not?” he’d asked, his voice caught between frustration and hurt - Harry could hear the surprise there, too, but he didn’t want to think about it.
“It’s too fucking risky, Danny. You know that.” Harry couldn’t keep still, because Danny was on his bed, and Harry would much rather be a moving target.
“It’s not any more risky than just staying alive is, Harry -”
“Which is exactly my fucking point, Dan.” Harry was facing away, facing the closed door, but he could still hear the reverberations of anger in Danny’s voice. He didn’t want it there, but he didn’t know how to take it away, either.
“It’s not a mission, Harry,” Danny said. “It’s not a show. It’s - fucking. It’s sex, and what the hell is wrong with that?” He’d sounded honestly confused - this was the first time they’d hashed out this conversation, but it wouldn’t be the last. This was the only time Harry got to hear his confusion.
“It’s dangerous. We could die or get arrested at almost any moment, and you think that’s a good time for a shag?”
“What fucking better time is there?” The urgency in Danny’s voice had surprised him. His voice was low and rough, and when Harry’d glanced at him, he’d been staring at his knees. “No regrets, Harry, none. If I get shot in the fucking head like Charlie, at least I won’t be thinking about all the shit I should’ve done.” His voice was quiet, honest, but Harry could hear the frustration simmering in the back of his throat.
“I can’t,” Harry’d said, simply. It would be too easy, he knew. Too fucking easy for it to mean something it shouldn’t, and then where the fuck would he be? He bit his lips to hold the words in, because. If he said it, he knew, Danny would win. “I fucking can’t, Danny.”
Danny had just met his eyes. “You want me,” he said, with absolute certainty. “I don’t understand.”
Harry couldn’t deny it - he didn’t lie. Instead, he just shook his head. There was nothing he could do.
+
The water in the sink is clear and clean when Harry washes Danny’s stitches the next morning. They looked good, no sign of infection, but they’d have to wait a few more days to be sure he gets the all clear. He uses more peroxide just to be safe, but they don’t exactly have an unlimited supply, and even medical supplies can be hard to get a hold of sometimes - and they’re always expensive.
Danny bites his lips when Harry presses the gauze to the wound, his fingers balling into fists pressed, white-knuckled, against his thighs. He doesn’t make a sound as Harry winds the bandages back around his chest.
“Feeling okay?” Harry asks, glancing up from his hands against the skin of Danny’s chest. Danny is looking, pointedly, over his shoulder.
“I’m fine,” Danny says. “Hurts.”
“Which is why you shouldn’t get shot, arsehole,” Harry says, snorting. Danny eyes meet his for half a second, and he grins that broad grin of his - all exposed white teeth and spread lips. Harry tries not to feel like he’s accomplished something.
+
He knew, when he heard about the gig, that going would be a bad idea. He knew it, but, of course, that didn’t stop him.
Brigade was a good band - rock roots, simple melodies, interesting lyrics. Harry enjoyed their music, he always had, but. Will Simpson was their frontman. And Will Simpson was Charlie’s older brother.
Harry wondered if the fact that Will was older had anything to do with how hard he took Charlie’s death, but he didn’t see how it couldn’t. Because Will wasn’t just Charlie’s brother, he was older - his job was to look after his kid brother, and he’d failed.
The fact that he blamed them for Charlie’s death - James and Harry especially - was a good enough reason not to go. Harry went anyway.
The show was good, Harry remembers. They were on key, instruments well tuned, and the crowd had been into it, swaying and clapping and moving. Harry had stayed after, waited by the bar - there was no one manning it, and no alcohol behind it. It was the ruins of what this club used to be, but the wood was still solid against his back as he’d leaned, fingers itching for a cigarette.
“Judd,” he’d heard from his left, a deep voice with just an edge of growl. He’d been waiting, quietly, for maybe ten minutes. Most of the crowd was gone, hurrying back to their jobs and spouses, back to their lives.
“Simpson,” he said, not turning. He wasn’t planning on fighting back.
+
“You’re shitting me,” Dougie says, his voice shocked and loud. He’d hoisted himself on top of the bar almost immediately after James brought them downstairs to wait. All they’d known was that they were meeting the bosses today, but - even Harry wasn’t exactly prepared. Dougie’s kicking his feet against the wood in an even rhythm of thuds that is driving Harry absolutely batshit. He wants to grab Dougie by the ankles and force him to keep still. Instead he leans back against the bar with his arms crossed, and looks stonily at James. James just smiles back, the motion slightly off-key, just like it always is now.
“What, you were expecting someone else?” Pete says from the doorway, amused. He’s got a key in one hand, shoulder still pressed against the front door from where he’d nudged it open.
“Pete, man, shit, will you please just fucking go inside?” and Carl pushes his way past Pete, rolling his eyes. The bell on the door jingles as Pete closes it behind him.
“The motherfucking Libertines?” Dougie asks, his feet finally going still.
“Not anymore we’re fucking not,” Pete says, almost viciously. Carl presses a hand against the back of Pete’s elbow and purses his lips into a thin line. Harry glances over to Danny, who is behind the bar, sitting on the edge of one of the industrial sinks. He can’t read the expression on Danny’s face, but he’s not that surprised by this.
“No wonder you can afford the upkeep on this place,” Tom says. He’s sitting on one of the bar stools to Dougie’s left, his elbow leaning on Dougie’s thigh. When Dougie starts to kick again, Harry reaches out and presses a palm flat against his right ankle, forcing him to still. Dougie snorts.
“No thanks to me, I’m telling you,” Pete says, and Harry knows he’s probably not the only one thinking about heroin and burglary - articles in tabloids that only stopped once the government cracked down. Pete raises an eyebrow like he knows, and Harry wouldn’t be surprised if he did.
“Pete’s what we like to call the ‘idea man’,” Carl says, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “In that he’s pretty fucking useless about ninety percent of the time -”
“And the other ten I’m a genius, yeah, yeah,” Pete says. “Can we get this meeting underway, then?”
“Sure,” Carl says, shrugging. “Bourne? Can you get that shit from the back room?”
“On it,” James says, and goes back through the ‘Employees Only’ door, although who the fuck knows how many places in the building it actually leads.
“Why don’t you play anymore?” Danny asks. His voice is just as unreadable as his face, like maybe he’s reserving judgement. That doesn’t sound like such a bad idea to Harry - he knows that Dougie was probably all in the second he saw Pete Doherty walk through the door, but the rest of them are more cautious.
“The band, you mean?” Pete laughs. “Fuck, we could barely keep it together while music was legal, can you imagine how fast we’d fuck it up now?” His face holds the shades of some memory like - maybe James told him about Busted. Harry’s not sure whether that would surprise him or not. “Besides, we’re helpful in our own way, here.”
“What is it you do, exactly?” Harry asks, speaking up for the first time. Dougie’s hand cups the back of his neck, like his words are too harsh. Calm, the touch says. Carl raises an eyebrow.
“We mostly intermediate, really, but we get people out of the country - you, for example. We let people have meetings in here, sometimes. We have contacts with the closest working abortion clinics, and we hand out contraceptives to the people who know how to ask. We sell relatively decent beer. That good enough for you?” Harry nods and shrugs. He’s not sorry for his attitude, not when the bandages are still a bulk under Danny’s shirt, not when that’s a possibility for Tom, or Dougie.
James comes back in, then, with a stack of papers, and a pen between his teeth. Harry meets Tom’s eyes, and he smiles, saying, yeah, I get it. Harry’d known he would.
“Found ‘em,” James says, his words muffled around the pen. He drops them on the bar with a whump, and Pete rubs his hands together.
“Lets get down to business, then.”
+
Harry wiped a hand carelessly across his mouth, and it came back smeared red and brown with blood - the new and the drying both; there was a second, sluggish trickle of blood flowing from his temple. He had one hand pressed against his ribs through his shirt, and he was pretty sure that his left ankle was swollen enough that getting his shoe off was going to be a bitch. He stumbled through the front door, only half aware that it was closing in on four in the morning - he couldn’t remember if he’d told them where he was going; he just needed to sit down before he fell down.
He could feel the blood running down his chin again, and he wiped at it again with the back of his hand, limping into the kitchen. The lights were out, but he managed not to run into any of the chairs. His mouth tasted like salt and sharp copper - he’d definitely swallowed some blood, but the bleeding seemed to be slowing down.
His ribs hurt every time he breathed in, but he didn’t think anything was broken - he’d broken ribs before and it hurt a hell of a lot more than this. He was going to have some pretty interesting bruises tomorrow, but no broken bones.
The lights came on, suddenly, and he hissed, squinting his eyes closed at the sudden swell of bright.
“Harry, what the fuck, it’s almost four and you’re - Jesus fuck.” When Harry could finally open his eyes again, Tom was standing in the doorway in his boxers and an old t-shirt. His face was shocked enough that Harry figured he must look pretty bad. “What happened?”
He opened his mouth, about to explain, when Danny appeared in the doorway behind Tom. He closed his mouth again, waiting for Danny to respond, but he said nothing, just leaned against the doorframe, chest and feet bare.
“I -” Harry started.
“You had to fucking go,” Danny said, anger in the set of his mouth, in the tone of his voice. “You couldn’t just accept that it wasn’t your fucking fault.” He crossed his arms over his chest, and looked at the line of the doorframe opposite him, blowing hair out of his face, frustrated.
“What?” Tom asked, glancing between the two of them in resigned confusion.
“Brigade gig,” Danny said, shortly, and didn’t look at either of them. Harry saw the moment the implications settled into Tom’s sleep-clouded brain, his expression going surprised, wide-eyed and loose-jawed.
“What - Harry -” he said, cutting himself off.
“I stayed after,” Harry found himself saying, although he wasn’t quite sure why. “He deserved the chance - Will’s a good guy. What happened to Charlie isn’t right.”
“Yeah, it’s not right, and it’s not your fucking fault. Blame BAOT, if you have to blame anyone.” Danny’s fingers gripped his arms like he was keeping himself from reacting physically to Harry’s apparent stupidity. Tom blanched even paler, and bit his lip, as if to stop himself from speaking. If Harry was honest with himself, and he tried to be, he felt better, even bleeding in the kitchen, being bitched out by Danny.
“Maybe - maybe it’ll satisfy Will,” Harry said with a shrug, and wiped at his mouth again. He hoped the bleeding stopped soon - the talking wasn’t helping much, either.
“Nothing’s going to satisfy Will, Harry. His brother’s dead.” Danny’s voice was flat, some of the anger gone, maybe. Harry had nothing to say to that, so he just shrugged again, looking at the blood caught under his fingernails.
“Look,” Tom said, holding up placating hands between the two of them. “Harry, we should get you cleaned up. I’ll go get the first aid kit, okay? Just don’t kill each other while I’m gone.”
“It’s okay, Tom, I got it,” Danny said, sighing. Harry was surprised, but Danny didn’t look over, and Harry couldn’t gauge the weather from just his voice. “You can go back to bed. Only one of us needs to stay awake for this.”
“Danny - are you sure?” Tom asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah, just - go. We can handle it.” Danny smiled wanly, and Tom nodded, glancing over his shoulder only once as he went back upstairs. “You are such a dumb fuck, Harry,” he said after Tom left.
“So I’ve gathered,” Harry said, dryly. “You might have to cut my left boot off.”
Danny just shook his head, and pressed his thumb against Harry’s split lip - sharp pain and smeared blood - before going to find the first aid kit.
+
“Ireland,” Danny says, sitting on the edge of the mattress. “Huh.”
“It makes sense, if you think about it,” Dougie says, leaning back on the floor, staring at the ceiling. “Closest free country, undoubtedly the easiest to get into, comparatively. Unsafe to stay there permanently, but if we’re only there long enough to catch a plane out, not much risk, either. I can see why that would work.” His shrug is lost against the floor, but Harry can hear the vague scrape of his shoulders against the wood.
“It’s still going to be a bitch to get into Ireland in the first place,” Tom says. He’s sitting with his back to the wall, his feet stretched across the floor.
“That’s their problem, not ours.” Harry knows that he’s still the dissenter among them, but he can’t see why he should put his full trust in anyone he doesn’t know. He understands that they have to trust Pete and Carl, but he doesn’t have to like it. “Why Australia, Tom?” he asks. They’d left the final decision up to Tom - the other main contender had been Canada, but Harry can’t imagine being comfortable that close to the United States, no matter how fucking huge Canada is.
“It’s far away. And it’ll be warm, right about now.” He grins and shrugs.
“Think they’re fucking?” Danny asks, out of nowhere.
“Doherty and Barat?” Dougie asks, and Danny nods. “If they aren’t, they want to be.” Dougie is still mostly talking to ceiling, but Harry can hear the certainty in his voice.
“What makes you so fucking sure?” Harry asks. He sprawls stomach down on the mattress, and props his chin up on the palms of his hands.
“I may have, like, no tact whatsoever, but that doesn’t mean I’m completely without observational skills, Harry,” Dougie says, voice dry. He lifts his head off the floor and meets Harry’s eyes before pointedly looking over at Danny. Harry resists snorting. Yeah, no tact whatsoever. Harry glances at Danny, only to find Danny looking at him with raised eyebrows. Harry tries not to feel obvious, ganged up on; he knows that with these three, he will always be both, in the best way possible.
Twenty-three hours and counting until show time.
+
Harry’s lip was still scabbed over when they had their next show. Danny stayed back by him for the whole set; his eyes were wide and dark, and Harry tried not to look up, for fear of reading the emotion in them. He managed to stay on tempo, but he bit into his lip hard enough to make it bleed again. The rhythm was in his blood, like the copper on his lips, and he swallowed the metallic taste of it down, Danny in the corner of his eye, fingers pressed firm and strong to the strings of his guitar.
It was maybe the best they’d ever played, if Harry was honest with himself. He pressed the heel of his palm against his mouth, putting pressure on the cut, and wasn’t surprised enough when Danny said, from beside him,
“Will’s here. I saw him during the show.” Harry glanced up at him, still seated behind his drum kit for the moment, but Danny was just looking out at the dwindling crowd. They’d all be gone in a few minutes, dispersed back to their day-to-day lives.
“Think he’s here to apologize, or try to kick the shit out of me again?” Harry kept his voice light, joking, but he could hear the tightness in Danny’s words when he spoke again.
“I’m hoping the former, ‘cause if he tries anything else, he’ll have to pick up his teeth from the floor, dead brother or no.”
“I could just be here for the music, you know,” Will said, and Harry’s head snapped up. His voice was even, emotionless, and Harry hoped would never sound like Will did - dead. Completely void of meaning or passion. He wondered if maybe James would sound like that, if they ever met again.
“No,” Danny said, tensing up; Harry could feel it like static energy against his skin. He looked up, and Tom was standing by the bar, watching them, just in case - he wasn’t bothering to be subtle about it. Dougie was leaning against the wall, smoking, but Harry knew his attention was focused. Should anything happen, they’d be there.
They’d have to get past Danny first, though.
“I’m sorry about Charlie,” Harry said, because he’d never gotten that far, the other night, and he still meant it. He’d spent three days with Charlie’s brains and blood on the side of his face and neck.
“I know,” Will said. “Me too.”
“You didn’t have to see him die,” Danny said, voice still tight with restrained anger. Harry wrapped a hand around his wrist, thumb pressing firm against the too-fast beat of his pulse, rabbit-quick in his veins.
“No,” Will said, “but we did have a funeral with no body. Empty grave.” He looked away. “Look, I shouldn’t have done what I did - I can’t say I’m sorry, but.”
“Okay,” Harry said. He could feel Danny’s hand curl into a fist, but he didn’t try to pull away.
“It was his choice,” Danny said. “He didn’t run. It was his choice.”
Will shrugged. “Doesn’t make any difference to me. Me and Edd and our parents. He’s still dead.”
There wasn’t anything to say to that, really. Harry just nodded, Danny’s pulse strong against his fingertips.
+
Harry’s not sure what wakes him up, at first, but he wakes all at once, eyes jolting open, breath whistling in his throat. He sits up in the bed, covers pooling around his hips, breathing through his nose, quietly. Dougie makes a noise to his right, but Harry’s not listening to him, he’s absolutely still, trying to determine what woke him. There - footsteps. In the hallway, not overly quiet, but not running. Slightly hurried, maybe.
The door creaks when it slides open, and Harry doesn’t realize he’s curled his hands into fists until he sees Carl standing in the doorway, face pale, eyes wide.
“Get them up,” he says, bare feet quiet on the floor, “no time - you have to go. You have to go now.”
“What’s happened?” Harry asks. He can see Tom’s eyes open, but he keeps his focus on Carl, who just says,
“They’re on their way, you have to go -”
“How do you -”
“No time, fucker, get them up.” Harry opens his mouth, closes it again, and then nudges Dougie, who mumbles indistinctly at him.
“Dougie, Dougs, up. Time to go.” Tom’s already pulling at Danny, already completely awake, and Carl’s standing impatiently in the doorway. Harry shakes Dougie, says, almost harshly, “C’mon, Dougs, there’s no time for this. Wanna end up like Matt?”
Danny shoots Harry a dirty look, pulling his trousers over his hips, and Harry knows he shouldn’t have said it, but they don’t have time for this.
“How much time do we have?” Tom asks, already zipping up his backpack. Dougie is running his hands through his hair, not looking at Harry as he packs up again.
“Fifteen minutes to get you out to the car, if we’re lucky. Probably less.” Carl sounds distinctly unhappy, glancing over his shoulder down the hall.
“Fuck,” Tom says. “Okay, guys, lets go, lets go.” Harry stuffs his feet into his shoes, not bothering with the laces, and Tom’s standing by the door already. Danny’s shirt is buttoned crookedly, but he’s standing, slinging his pack over one shoulder. Dougie zips up his jeans and grabs his shoes, saying,
“I’ll put them on in the car, it doesn’t matter. Lets get the fuck out of here, fuck.”
“Arseholes, hurry the fuck up!” Pete’s shouting from the bottom of the stairs, it sounds like. “We don’t have time for you to fix your hair!” Carl’s already bouncing on his toes in the hallway, waving them onward, frantically, and shit. Shit.
Harry doesn’t know how the feds could’ve found out - maybe one of them stood too close to a window, maybe it’s simple fucking luck - but. He doesn’t want to be Charlie. He doesn’t even want to be James. He definitely doesn’t fucking want to be James.
James is standing at the back door when they get into the bar, his face white, and he’s fiddling with the hem of his shirt. Harry wonders if he’s thinking about the bust - Harry wonders if he ever stops thinking about it. Pete’s shooing them toward the door, hat cocked on his head, and Tom nods at him, once, before heading out to the car, Dougie hot on his heels. Harry winces at the sound of Dougie’s bare feet on the pavement. Danny pushes him slightly, urging him toward the door, but Harry turns back to Pete.
“What’ll you do when they get here?” he asks.
Pete smiles, and Harry doesn’t know him well enough to tell if it’s bravado or not, but his eyes flicker over to Carl, standing behind the bar.
“We’ll manage,” he says. “We always do.”
There are no sirens. They don’t need them anymore. But as James pulls off down the street, cursing under his breath, Harry sees the flash of tinted windows in the sunlight.
He leans his head back against the seat cushion, and hopes for the best.
+
They spent the first anniversary of the bust in their kitchen. They turned off all the lights and lit candles, because they didn’t know what else to do. They pulled their acoustics onto their laps, Harry digging out his last tambourine, and they sung covers, Springsteen and The Who and The Clash, they sung Busted, they sung their own songs. Harry hummed along, keeping time as he watched their fingers press confident on strings. He wondered how something as simple as this could possibly be illegal.
They didn’t talk in-between songs, not about Charlie or Matt, not about James. Not about anything other than song choice and chord progression. They didn’t stop until the candles burned themselves out.
+
Harry looks at his watch. Seven hours and thirteen minutes until their rendezvous, until the plane, and Harry should be sleeping. Dougie is, fingers pillowed under his head on the cold cement floor. Tom is, too, mouthing words in his sleep, fingers fisted in the back of Dougie’s t-shirt. Danny isn’t, though, and Harry’s not sure if that should make him feel better or not. Danny is staring off into the warehouse, flashlight pointed into the darkened corners - they are filled with decaying paper and old office chairs, wiring and mouse shit and the smell of death. Harry thinks about Australia, about warmth, about sand between his toes, the ocean sucking at the skin of his ankles. He thinks about seven hours and nine minutes.
He thinks about the copy of Watership Down still safely packed in his backpack, and he glances over at Danny.
“Dan,” he says, quietly. Danny looks away from the expanse of dusty floor, shining the light on Harry, who squints against the brightness, says, “Shit, Danny, what -”
“How much time?” Danny asks, and turns the light toward the floor.
“Seven hours, eight minutes,” Harry says, glancing at his watch.
“Fuck.” Danny turns the flashlight off, and Harry blinks, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the twilight. “Think we’ll make it?” Danny asks, his voice quiet enough that Harry knows he regrets the question, wouldn’t have asked it if the light was still on. Not when Harry could still make out the fear on his face.
“We’ll make it,” Harry says, voice firm, even though he’s really not that sure. He reaches out, pressing his thumb against the back of Danny’s wrist, palm pressing lightly against the top of his hand. “Dan,” he says. “We’ll make it.”
“Yeah?” Danny replies, and it’s more a statement than a question. Dougie shifts in his sleep, and Tom whispers something quiet, rolling in closer, and when Danny’s lips press against his in the dark, soft and sure, Harry doesn’t pull away.
Seven hours, five minutes. Harry cups his fingers around Danny’s jaw, fingertips brushing the rough scratch of stubble, and he doesn’t pull away.