122 - a
and this moment, now
McFly (Danny/Harry)
10,864 words, r, third person. Dystopia!au, as urged by evolia, stjarna1984, and oh_mumble, who have been really patient with how long this took me to write. Beta by moorfaerie, who, as always, is amazingly fabulous, and who I love dearly. ♥
Also, I've uploaded a soundtrack here, so feel free to take that, if you want it.
The bust happens at their fourth guerrilla show in February - it’s a leap year, the 29th, and they’d wanted a special show to celebrate. Another four years - four years without being arrested.
The bust happens at their fourth guerrilla show in February - it’s a leap year, the 29th, and they’d wanted a special show to celebrate. Another four years - four years without being arrested.
There aren’t any sirens, no warning - there’s no need anymore. Just silent men in the night, with silent guns and silent feet. They’re on their last song, almost done for the night, but someone’d found out, led the government know. They’re not sure, afterwards, how word got out, but in the end, it doesn’t matter. The door flies open, and they swarm in - blank faces and bulletproof vests, their letters printed in bright white on their navy shirts: BAOT. The British Anti-Obscenity Taskforce.
“Oh, fuck,” Danny says, and unplugs his guitar from the small amp. They’re not dumb enough to have a stage anymore; they’re just on the bare floor, and most of the audience is between them and the squad.
“Leave the amps,” Tom yells, “just take the instruments, out the side door.” It’s hard to get amps, now, but it’s fucking impossible to get instruments. Harry’s been playing without a bass drum for almost two years, and he’s not sure how effective he could be if he loses anything else. He grabs his cymbals and the snare, letting Dougie and Tom help him with the rest. Danny’s already at the door, bouncing frantically on the balls of his feet.
“C’mon, c’mon,” he’s saying, over and over. The squad’s already arrested half the people in the room, and the rest are screaming, kicking, running. The first gunshot is no surprise.
They are so fucked.
+
It had started the way everything always starts - slow. Heightened security “for your protection”, and there hadn’t been any reason to doubt. The bombings were more and more frequent, more destructive, and with the new regulations, people felt more in control. Safer.
The first arrests were nothing - suspected terrorists and political threats, and hardly anyone thought to question the limits on personal freedom. It was war - sacrifices had to be made. No one thought. That was the problem.
By the time they looked around and saw what their country had become, it was far, far too late.
+
“Clear off the table, Dougs,” Tom says, and he sounds calmer than he is, Harry knows. Danny hasn’t said anything for ten minutes at least, propped up between them, and -
“Fuck, fuck, Tom,” Harry says, looking down at Tom’s hand, pressed tight to Danny’s chest, “he still bleeding.”
“I know, Harry,” Tom says, cool and collected like he has to be, even with the blood seeping between his fingertips. “Help me get him on the table.” Dougie’s cleared off the stainless steel table that serves as their main base of operations, shoving papers and cutlery and pens onto the floor. Harry helps Tom hoist Danny up, gently laying him on the cold surface. He’s especially careful of Danny’s head, pillowing it with his hand, soft strands of hair against his fingers. “Bandages, Dougs, first-aid,” Tom is saying, wiping at his forehead with the back of his hand. His fingers are covered in still-wet blood, and Harry can only glance at the wetness soaking through Danny’s shirt. He feels vaguely nauseous, like he’s not getting quite enough air.
“Got it,” Dougie says, and sprints off down the hall.
“Harry,” Tom says, and Harry glances over. There’s a reason Tom’s in charge in situations like this. “Don’t fall apart.”
“Got it,” Harry says. He leans in, pressing down on warm wetness, ignoring the squelch of it against his fingers, and puts pressure on the wound.
+
They’d heard of anti-obscenity arrests in the United States earlier in the year, but no one thought that the UK would follow suit. They were wrong.
The first arrests were after a particularly deadly theatre bombing in France - political novelists and musicians and painters, the ones who would speak out, were taken in their sleep. No warning, no warrant, no nothing. The radio and television stations broadcasted the news in the morning, spinning lies and truth together for mass consumption.
Harry remembers hearing it on the radio in his parent’s kitchen. They had just gotten back from the studio, just finished the album, their first album, taking a few weeks off to miss each other and think about the tour and the album drop date, but.
Harry’s phone had rung in his pocket, loud to his shocked ears.
“Yeah?” he’d asked, only half listening - the radio blathered in his ear. He could feel how fast his heartbeat was in his chest, pounding.
“Did you see the TV?” Danny asked, his voice alarmed and slightly too loud. Harry sucked in a breath through his teeth, and switched the radio off.
“I haven’t - the radio, they said on the radio -”
“Yeah,” Danny said. “Turn on the TV. I’m calling Tom and Dougie.” He’d hung up before Harry could say anything else, and Harry didn’t know what to do except go into his parent’s over-decorated living room and turn on the television.
“Fuck,” he’d said. “Holy fuck.”
+
They move Danny to his bed about twelve hours after - he still hasn’t woken up, but Harry doesn’t let himself worry about it. He pulls the covers up over Danny’s bandaged chest, and closes the door softly behind him when he leaves, joining the other three in the living room.
Tom’s sitting at the table, staring at the stainless steel, which is still speckled with Danny’s blood. Harry looks away to Dougie, collapsed in the overstuffed armchair against the wall.
“What do we do?” Harry asks, because someone has to. The question is directed at Tom, but it’s Dougie who answers.
“They’ve definitely identified us this time,” he says.
“You have confirmation?” Harry asks, sitting backward in one of the kitchen chairs, letting his arms drape over the back.
“Just our faces on every television screen in the country,” Dougie says, rolling his shoulders, stretching them. Harry can hear the joints in his spine pop. Dougie’s the only one of them who still has a cover job - he works full time, serving at a restaurant downtown. The rest of them have disappeared from the system completely, disconnected. It’s safer for them, that way - after all, Dougie’s the only one of them without a record. His file’s clean - or was, at least, until last night. Harry sometimes wonders about their parents. Their sisters, brothers. Wonders what they’ll say when the BAOT officers knock on their doors for the fifth time and they don’t have any new information. Wonders if they’ll be believed. Arrests have less and less reason, nowadays.
“We have to get out of the country,” Tom says. His fingers are brushing lightly over the tabletop, and Harry doesn’t have to look to know he’s picking at the dried splotches of blood.
“Is that even possible anymore?” Harry asks, because the borders have been closed since early 2005, and getting in or out of the country is only viable with a special government-sanctioned permit, and fuck if they’re going to get those, not without pulling some major strings.
“Maybe,” Tom says, finally looking up. His face is thoughtful and serious. “I’m not sure, but. Maybe. I think James - I think I might be able to get in touch with some people.”
James. Harry hadn’t even known that Tom was still in contact with him, not since the gig that went wrong the previous year. It had been a blow to what was left of the scene, but James. James they don’t talk about. Not ever.
What this means, Harry’s isn’t quite sure. What he does know is that he doesn’t care.
+
Harry’s never been sure how they decided that music is terrorism - he just knows what they say on the government bulletins, what they tell the public, most of whom are too scared or apathetic to care anymore. Free speech leads to radical ideas, they say loud and angry on the television, which leads to terrorism, more bombings, death. Catastrophic disorganization and chaos. Every word overblown and dramatic - they crave fear, sheep to the slaughter, and the country gives it to them.
Music and novels and art were officially declared illegal in May 2005, in an act passed by what remained of the parliamentary system about two months after the borders were closed permanently.
Their first album was released to the public in July 2004. They never get a second.
+
Harry spends about two hours in his own bed, staring at the ceiling, before he sighs and grabs Watership Down from the nightstand, it’s pages creased and yellowed. The book was his mum’s, one of the ones he took with him when he told her he’d probably never see her again. She’d managed not to cry, he remembers, but pressed the book into his hands and said,
“It was my favourite to read to you when you were small. Take it.” He hadn’t been able to say anything in response; he’d just nodded and carefully put it in his backpack. She’d said,
“I love you,” just before he closed to door. Sometimes he still wishes he hadn’t left. He’s read the book five times in the intervening years, and every time, it’s her voice in his head, aloud.
He rubs at his eyes, and slides off his bed, his feet soft on the cool floorboards. He walks carefully into Danny’s room, pausing with one hand on the doorframe - Danny is still sleeping, his breath stuttering on the inhale as his chest expands, pulling apart the edges of his wound. Harry watches him silently for a few moments, before crossing the room to sit by his bed. The chairs in the kitchen are the only ones in the house, but the floor is swept clean, and he’d rather be here than back in his bed, sleepless.
He cracks open the book halfway through, and starts to read. He can still hear Danny breathing softly above him, but he just wishes he could get the smell of blood to go away.
+
They’d still toured from July though August that first year, but the arrests didn’t go away. In the US, anyone found with abortion equipment could be arrested, anyone with a political past, or political parents. Anyone gay, bi, or transgendered. Harry remembers wondering if the craziness would spread to the UK - the links between the two countries were getting more complicated and twisted every day.
They played their music to the crowds, and knew they were getting away with it simply because their music was escapist. It wasn’t political, it had no goals, and so they played every night while everyone buckled down, or tried to leave the country. Harry stared at his drum kit, night after night, in order to avoid the sea of terrified faces, helplessly hoping that maybe, maybe for one night they could forget.
He didn’t want to be that person anymore.
“It isn’t right,” he seethed, backstage. “They shouldn’t be able to do this.”
Tom had just shaken his head. “But they can, Harry. They do. What else can we do but keep going on?”
“It’s not enough, Tom,” Harry’d said, and he knew he was taking his anger out on Tom, but Tom could take it.
“What is it that you think we should be doing?” Danny asked, his voice stony, serious. Harry hadn’t even known he was near, hadn’t know Dougie was, either, standing behind Danny in the doorway to their dressing room. They look like two twin statues, identical expressions of attention and tension and a tinge of fear.
“Anything but this,” Harry said.
+
Danny wakes him with fingers on the side of his face, pressed warm against his cheek. He opens his eyes slowly, curled up on the floor, book face down beside him.
“Hm?” he hums, only half awake, before his brain catches up, flitting Danny - awake across his mind, half formed thoughts. Danny is leaning off the mattress, arm outstretched to touch Harry, his torso hanging out in open space, the white bandages stark against his skin. Harry can still see the smudges of blood he hasn’t had time to wash off yet. “You shouldn’t be moving,” he says.
“I’m fine, dude,” Danny says, his mouth stretching into a grin. His fingers are still pressed lightly against Harry’s skin. Harry resists both the urge to lean in and to pull away. Neither will help, at this particular moment. “You weren’t waking up.”
“I didn’t fall asleep until late.” Harry sits up, rolling his shoulders to get the stiffness out. He’s slept on harder surfaces, but the floor is never good on the muscles. He wraps his hand around Danny’s still-extended wrist, and pushes him back down onto the bed. Danny’s pulse is even and somehow comforting against Harry’s palm. He lets go. “Seriously, no moving. If that bullet had been a few inches to the left, we wouldn’t have been able to do anything.”
“Lucky me, then,” Danny says with a smile in his voice, and flops onto his back, huffing out a breath to get his hair out of his eyes.
“Lucky fucking you, Dan,” Harry says, utterly serious. “Tom had to stitch you up. There’s going to be a scar.”
“I’m sure it’ll match all my other scars perfectly,” Danny says, arching his neck up and grinning at Harry. Harry scowls, not because he’s angry that Danny is feeling okay, it’s just.
“Stop joking around, Dan, you almost fucking died. Can’t you be serious for even one fucking second?”
“Don’t really see the point,” Danny says, his shrug muffled by the bedclothes and his reclining position. “Don’t have the time, Harry. There’s no time for self-pity. Rather joke about it, myself.”
It doesn’t seem like a particularly healthy response to trauma, but who is Harry to begrudge him a coping mechanism? Harry just sighs, and says,
“Okay, sure, but we’re going to have to change those bandages soon.”
+
It was James who told Tom about the first show, whispered it to him backstage at the last date of their tour - it wasn’t the first underground show ever, just the first they’d been to, but Harry will remember it for the rest of his life. He has no idea what the band was called, if they even had a name, but it didn’t matter then, and it still doesn’t. They weren’t good - they could barely play their instruments - but they were angry, and they weren’t afraid, and they were saying fuck you with every note that left their fingertips.
James had leaned his chin on Tom’s shoulder and grinned, Charlie and Matt standing just behind, and Harry had known right then. No matter how dangerous, no matter the costs.
It was better than nothing. Despite everything, it still is.
+
When Harry enters the kitchen, Danny’s arm around his shoulders, bandaged chest pressed against his side, James is sitting at the table. Harry can see where Tom still hasn’t washed the blood off.
“James - ” Danny says, his voice trailing off. Harry can hear the surprise there; maybe he should’ve said something.
“No one’s filled you in yet, huh?” James says, and his lips twitch up into a small smirk - the expression is almost welcome on his face, which is too wan, too pale, too blank. Harry doesn’t know how to compare this James to the one he knew before, but anyone would change after - anyone would. Danny throws him a glance.
Harry just pushes Danny down into one of the kitchen chairs, and goes to the half filled coffee pot. He presses his fingers to the side and finds it still warm, so he grabs two mugs from the cupboard, and pours coffee in - milk and sugar for Danny, black for himself. The kitchen is the only room in the their half-abandoned house that feels lived in. He hands Danny his mug, and then leans back against the counter.
“Dougie and Tom?” Harry asks, glancing at James.
“Supplies,” James says, shortly. “They’re being careful, Harry,” he adds, when Harry opens his mouth again. Harry snorts. He’s not sure that careful really exists anymore.
Danny is staring into his mug of coffee. “What’ve you been - up to, James?” he asks, significantly more subdued than earlier - more, even, than when Harry’d had to clean the stitches up with peroxide.
“Bartending,” James says. “Making a living. Smuggling shits like you out of the country.” He cracks that smile again, the one that’s mostly smirk and half-forgotten. Danny half-smiles, and Harry misses the grin from earlier - he misses James’ old smile, too, with a pang.
“You’re - well. You’re okay, then?” Danny asks, looking up from his coffee. James’ smile softens at the edges - less sharp, less jagged.
“I’m okay, Dan. My bosses are good guys. I’m still helping out. I’m - not entirely useless.” Danny makes a noise that means he wants to protest but doesn’t know if he should.
“Your bosses are the ones getting us out of the country?” Harry asks, if only to derail the conversation. If they have to talk about it, he doesn’t want to be there.
“Yep,” James says, and shrugs. “It’s going to be expensive, but you guys can handle it, right?”
Harry just nods, and glances at the bandages winding around Danny’s chest.
He says, “We can handle whatever we have to.”
+
The trick to guerrilla shows is to publicize them enough to get word out, but only to people you know won’t talk. It’s hard to know who to trust, but they develop a knack. Dougie, especially, has the nose for it - he wasn’t that big on the underground scene to begin with, but once they won him over, he was pretty fucking dead on. Best publicist in the scene, even.
Busted was much more famous than McFly before the government went into action, and it served them well, after. Their shows, though just as secretive and underground as anyone else’s, always had a good crowd. Sometimes Tom or Danny would play with them; sometimes all seven of them would be on the floor at the same time. Mostly, though, the show was Busted’s and it worked out that way.
Harry wasn’t surprised in the least by how successful their crossover was - James was a fucking wily bastard, a musician where it mattered, and this, this was the scene where music could still be made.
“The thing is,” James had said, one night, after the show. “I don’t even miss the big stages anymore. This is real, this here, and that’s better.” He was smoking a cigarette, leaning against the brick of the building. Harry was leaning next to him with his own cigarette. The others were still inside, finishing clean up. It couldn’t look like they were ever here, and the bigger the crowd, the bigger the mess.
“Oh, yeah,” Harry said, “all it took was the government making music illegal for you to finally be satisfied with yourself.” He’d laughed and taken a drag of his cigarette, watching the trails of white smoke diffuse as he exhaled. He’d never known James as well as Danny and Tom did, and never much cared too, but they were close enough to joke around.
“Oh, fuck off,” James had said. He was smiling, his teeth glinting in the streetlight. It made him look dangerous, Harry thought.
Busted went strong for just about two years - after that, it went to shit, just like everything always does.
+
Harry leaves Danny in the kitchen - he has no inclination to listen to them talk about what he’s sure they’re going to. He picks up Watership Down again and lies on Danny’s bed, waiting for Tom and Dougie to get back. He tries not to worry about them, because Tom can be a hard bastard, and won’t let anything happen to Dougie, and Dougie’s just as slippery as the rest of them, but he can’t entirely keep himself from thinking about it.
After about an hour, Danny comes back into his room, but doesn’t say anything about Harry on his bed. He just slides under the covers, wincing at the movement, and closes his eyes. Harry watches him for a few minutes, wondering if he’s going to start talking, but almost immediately his breaths lengthen, and he dozes off. Harry measures the steady rise and fall of his chest, and then goes back to his book.
Tom and Dougie get back about another hour later - Harry sits straight up in bed when he hears the door slam. Danny doesn’t even stir.
“Everything all right?” he asks from the top of the stairs, taking them two at a time.
“Fine,” Tom says, shortly. Dougie’s a little pale beside him, but neither of them appear hurt - no new visible bruises, even. “We’ll leave when it gets dark.”
“But, Danny -” Harry starts, glancing at the stairs.
“Will have to make due like the rest of us,” Tom says. He smiles out of the corner of his mouth, shrugging. It means, what can you do? in that apologetic Tom way, and that’s the thing. There isn’t a single fucking thing they can do.
“Okay,” Harry says. “Let me pack a few things.”
+
The only reason they’d gotten out with only few nights in prison and a tab on their files was because they were in the audience that night - they weren’t playing, not like Charlie and Matt and James.
Dougie was fucking lucky - he was home for that show, laid out with the flu. He was puking, yeah, but he wasn’t in the basement when the doors burst open. Immediate chaos, people screaming, and Harry lost track of Tom and Danny - Matt was standing with his bass like he didn’t know what to do -
And Charlie, Charlie was so fucking stupid. So stupid. Harry was closest to him, can remember pushing him toward the door - trying to get him out. But he’d just held his guitar up like a tennis racket and said,
“I’m not fucking running like some rat.”
He hadn’t run, hadn’t ever, but they’d shot him in the head right there - the blood running from the hole in his skull as he’d twitched and collapsed, brain spatter and bits of bone and hair on the wall behind him. Harry’d been close enough to be sprayed in the face and neck with it, and was hauled into the police station still reeking.
Resisting arrest, they’d said later on the news, one member was killed while resisting arrest. Hardly a dignified way to die. He hadn’t even managed to hit any of them.
Matt hadn’t got much better - in times of war, torture and execution of terrorists isn’t something to be balked at. They don’t know for sure if he’s dead, but it doesn’t matter. He’s not coming back. Not that BAOT had gotten anything interesting out of him; just another success for the crown.
Harry’s not sure that James will ever forgive himself for getting out. Harry’s not sure he’ll ever forgive James for leaving them.
+
Danny’s still sleeping when the time comes for them to go - Harry’d thought it best not to wake him. He has no idea how far they’re driving tonight, or under what conditions. He’d stuffed most of Danny’s clothes, his remaining possessions, into a bag, which is sitting, currently, on the floor by the end of the bed.
He climbs onto the mattress, sitting back on his knees as he reaches to touch Danny’s shoulder. Danny turns his head to look over at Harry, rubbing one clenched fist against his eye like a child.
“What?” he asks sleepily, shifting onto his back, wincing. He’s still shirtless, but for the bandages, and his skin is warm and soft under Harry’s fingers. Harry pulls his hand away, putting it safely in his lap.
“Time to go,” he says. Danny raises an eyebrow at him, biting his lip.
“Where’re we going?”
“Wherever James works, I suppose,” Harry says with a shrug. “Not like it can be much worse than here, right?” Danny smiles, and it’s the one Harry recognizes as the I’m fine, really, I am smile. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Danny says, “I’m fine.” He’s lying, Harry knows, his grin too wide to mean anything other than completely and utter bullshit.
“Bull,” he says, nudging Danny with his knee. “Spill it, whatever it is.”
“Think we’ll ever be able to come back?” Danny blurts out, as if forcing the words past his lips, looking away.
“To this house? Or back into the country?” Harry has to refrain from wrapping his fingers around Danny’s chin and forcing eye contact. He keeps his hands to himself. Danny just pulls himself up into a sitting position, wrapping his arms around his knees. It must tug at the skin of his chest, but he doesn’t seem to care.
“I was just thinking about my family,” Danny says, eventually. “I know I can’t see them now, but at least I’m not that far away, you know?” Harry glances over at the door, knowing that Tom will be up to fetch them if they don’t show up soon. He sighs, and slings an arm around Danny’s shoulders.
“Yeah, mate, I know. But there’s nothing we can do, really. We can’t stay here.” Danny nods and leans his head on Harry’s shoulder, nose pressing into the side of Harry’s neck, nudging against his skin. Harry can feel Danny’s breath against his neck, and he shivers with it - can’t help himself. “Danny -” he starts, the sigh in his voice familiar to both of them.
“Sorry, sorry,” Danny says, pulling away slightly. He doesn’t actually sound sorry at all, just frustrated and the tiniest bit hurt. “I just don’t get -”
“Leave it, Danny,” Harry interrupts, “we have to go.” He feels guilty, but he can’t do this. He wants - he can’t.
“Fine,” Danny says, quietly, brushing his fingers over the inside of Harry’s wrist. Harry knows he should pull back, but he doesn’t. Not yet.
+
Danny and Harry have had sex exactly twice.
The first time was just after they were released from jail - kept in separate holding cells, three days without word. Harry hadn’t known if Danny or Tom had been hurt, if they were alive, not until they’d all been pushed into the back of the BAOT van, and taken back to the local station to be released. Harry was still covered in flecks of blood, still wearing the clothes he’d worn to the show three days earlier. He couldn’t get the copper tang of blood out of his nose, the salty taste of his own sweat.
All he’d been able to think about, through the questions and the yelling, the dark and silent nights, was Charlie’s shocked face, the trickle of blood from the hole in his forehead, of Danny’s instead, or Tom.
Seeing them alive, dirty and bruised but nominally unhurt, Harry’d had to bite his lip to keep from crying, just a little. Just a little. He’d clasped Danny’s hand in his the whole ride back, Tom on his other side, with his other hand. None of them said anything about what had happened.
Later, Harry was in the shower, finally, finally washing off the remnants of Charlie’s brain matter, his blood, when the glass door slid open. Water sprayed onto the white tile floor, but Harry wasn’t paying attention to that; instead, he was looking at Danny looking at him. Danny biting his lip. Harry hadn’t even heard him enter the bathroom, hadn’t heard his bare feet on the tile, his fingers turning the doorknob. He could see the fear on Danny’s face, almost smell it, and Danny had clasped a hand around the back of Harry’s neck, pulling him forward, out of the shower stall, fingers slippery against Harry’s wet skin.
“I thought - all I could think -” Danny started, “you weren’t with us and -”
Danny kissed him without finishing a single sentence, breath shallow and warm against Harry’s mouth. Harry didn’t care, he just bit into Danny’s lip, scrabbling with Danny’s clothing, more desperate than he thought he could be about anything anymore. His wet body dampened Danny’s shirt, the thighs of his jeans where they pressed together. The spray of the shower was still warm on his back.
It wasn’t good, not in the way sex usually is. It was harsh, rough, rushed. It was life - it was them, alive. Danny’s warm skin under his hands and chest and thighs. Under his mouth.
It was them, alive.
+
The drive takes about three and a half hours, give or take, and Harry knows he should sleep, but he can’t. James drives most of the way. He’s still tagged by BAOT, technically, but no one’s seen him for over a year now, and he was never brought in, while the McFly bust is breaking news. It’s not that they are that big a catch, even - none of the musicians matter that much to the government, really, not the way political protesters do - but they’d still look good on some officer’s resume, should they be seen.
Tinted windows have been outlawed for almost three years now, except for use by government officials - black cars with black windows, the obvious sign of a police presence - so they just have to lie low in the back seat. Tom’s sleeping, Harry can tell by the soft huff of his breath, his head leaning on Dougie’s shoulder. Harry’s got an arm around Dougie’s waist, letting Dougie lean against his side - he’s asleep like Tom, his breath whispering against Harry’s shoulder, heating the skin through his shirt. Harry smiles ruefully at them - of course they can sleep, even as fugitives driving through a military dictatorship.
Danny is sitting in the front, next to James, curled up on his side in the seat. He’s still awake - Harry can see him glance back at the three of them, something like jealousy in the set of his features.
“Danny?” Harry whispers. He doesn’t want - no. He hopes he hasn’t caused it, but he knows it’s in vain.
Danny glances at him, and Harry can see his eyes flicker to Dougie’s nose pressed into Harry’s shoulder. He shakes his head, and shrugs. It’s nothing, really, his posture says. Harry doesn’t believe him.
+
Harry remembers the week after they were let out of jail more vividly than any other week in his entire life. Dougie, left alone in the house for three days without word of them - nothing but Charlie’s death on the television - was curled up in a ball on the couch when Tom pushed the door open.
Harry remembers the exact expression on Dougie’s face as his head had shot up, looking in alarm at the door - shifting quickly from terror to shock and intense relief.
He’d been on his feet in less than a moment.
“Oh, god,” he’d said, wrapping his arms around Tom’s middle and clinging close. “Fucking hell, I thought you guys were fucking - goners. I thought - Fuck.”
“We’re fine,” Tom had said, and it was kind of a lie, but enough truth for them to pretend to believe it. He pressed his cheek against the top of Dougie’s head and breathed in, closing his eyes. Harry had leaned against them before he could stop himself, just - relieved. Happy to be alive.
“Alive, anyway,” Danny said, as if reading his mind, and his hand had fisted in the back of Harry’s shirt. Harry could feel the press of his knuckles in the small of his back.
“Unspeakably dirty,” Harry said, finally. “But alive.” Dougie hadn’t said anything in return; he’d just reached out and wrapped his hand around Harry’s wrist. Harry could feel Dougie’s small fingers against the beat of his pulse.
They were rarely out of each other’s site for the rest of the week - clingy and close and ever watchful.
Charlie was dead, Matt never came back, and James was all alone.
continued in part two
McFly (Danny/Harry)
10,864 words, r, third person. Dystopia!au, as urged by evolia, stjarna1984, and oh_mumble, who have been really patient with how long this took me to write. Beta by moorfaerie, who, as always, is amazingly fabulous, and who I love dearly. ♥
Also, I've uploaded a soundtrack here, so feel free to take that, if you want it.
The bust happens at their fourth guerrilla show in February - it’s a leap year, the 29th, and they’d wanted a special show to celebrate. Another four years - four years without being arrested.
The bust happens at their fourth guerrilla show in February - it’s a leap year, the 29th, and they’d wanted a special show to celebrate. Another four years - four years without being arrested.
There aren’t any sirens, no warning - there’s no need anymore. Just silent men in the night, with silent guns and silent feet. They’re on their last song, almost done for the night, but someone’d found out, led the government know. They’re not sure, afterwards, how word got out, but in the end, it doesn’t matter. The door flies open, and they swarm in - blank faces and bulletproof vests, their letters printed in bright white on their navy shirts: BAOT. The British Anti-Obscenity Taskforce.
“Oh, fuck,” Danny says, and unplugs his guitar from the small amp. They’re not dumb enough to have a stage anymore; they’re just on the bare floor, and most of the audience is between them and the squad.
“Leave the amps,” Tom yells, “just take the instruments, out the side door.” It’s hard to get amps, now, but it’s fucking impossible to get instruments. Harry’s been playing without a bass drum for almost two years, and he’s not sure how effective he could be if he loses anything else. He grabs his cymbals and the snare, letting Dougie and Tom help him with the rest. Danny’s already at the door, bouncing frantically on the balls of his feet.
“C’mon, c’mon,” he’s saying, over and over. The squad’s already arrested half the people in the room, and the rest are screaming, kicking, running. The first gunshot is no surprise.
They are so fucked.
+
It had started the way everything always starts - slow. Heightened security “for your protection”, and there hadn’t been any reason to doubt. The bombings were more and more frequent, more destructive, and with the new regulations, people felt more in control. Safer.
The first arrests were nothing - suspected terrorists and political threats, and hardly anyone thought to question the limits on personal freedom. It was war - sacrifices had to be made. No one thought. That was the problem.
By the time they looked around and saw what their country had become, it was far, far too late.
+
“Clear off the table, Dougs,” Tom says, and he sounds calmer than he is, Harry knows. Danny hasn’t said anything for ten minutes at least, propped up between them, and -
“Fuck, fuck, Tom,” Harry says, looking down at Tom’s hand, pressed tight to Danny’s chest, “he still bleeding.”
“I know, Harry,” Tom says, cool and collected like he has to be, even with the blood seeping between his fingertips. “Help me get him on the table.” Dougie’s cleared off the stainless steel table that serves as their main base of operations, shoving papers and cutlery and pens onto the floor. Harry helps Tom hoist Danny up, gently laying him on the cold surface. He’s especially careful of Danny’s head, pillowing it with his hand, soft strands of hair against his fingers. “Bandages, Dougs, first-aid,” Tom is saying, wiping at his forehead with the back of his hand. His fingers are covered in still-wet blood, and Harry can only glance at the wetness soaking through Danny’s shirt. He feels vaguely nauseous, like he’s not getting quite enough air.
“Got it,” Dougie says, and sprints off down the hall.
“Harry,” Tom says, and Harry glances over. There’s a reason Tom’s in charge in situations like this. “Don’t fall apart.”
“Got it,” Harry says. He leans in, pressing down on warm wetness, ignoring the squelch of it against his fingers, and puts pressure on the wound.
+
They’d heard of anti-obscenity arrests in the United States earlier in the year, but no one thought that the UK would follow suit. They were wrong.
The first arrests were after a particularly deadly theatre bombing in France - political novelists and musicians and painters, the ones who would speak out, were taken in their sleep. No warning, no warrant, no nothing. The radio and television stations broadcasted the news in the morning, spinning lies and truth together for mass consumption.
Harry remembers hearing it on the radio in his parent’s kitchen. They had just gotten back from the studio, just finished the album, their first album, taking a few weeks off to miss each other and think about the tour and the album drop date, but.
Harry’s phone had rung in his pocket, loud to his shocked ears.
“Yeah?” he’d asked, only half listening - the radio blathered in his ear. He could feel how fast his heartbeat was in his chest, pounding.
“Did you see the TV?” Danny asked, his voice alarmed and slightly too loud. Harry sucked in a breath through his teeth, and switched the radio off.
“I haven’t - the radio, they said on the radio -”
“Yeah,” Danny said. “Turn on the TV. I’m calling Tom and Dougie.” He’d hung up before Harry could say anything else, and Harry didn’t know what to do except go into his parent’s over-decorated living room and turn on the television.
“Fuck,” he’d said. “Holy fuck.”
+
They move Danny to his bed about twelve hours after - he still hasn’t woken up, but Harry doesn’t let himself worry about it. He pulls the covers up over Danny’s bandaged chest, and closes the door softly behind him when he leaves, joining the other three in the living room.
Tom’s sitting at the table, staring at the stainless steel, which is still speckled with Danny’s blood. Harry looks away to Dougie, collapsed in the overstuffed armchair against the wall.
“What do we do?” Harry asks, because someone has to. The question is directed at Tom, but it’s Dougie who answers.
“They’ve definitely identified us this time,” he says.
“You have confirmation?” Harry asks, sitting backward in one of the kitchen chairs, letting his arms drape over the back.
“Just our faces on every television screen in the country,” Dougie says, rolling his shoulders, stretching them. Harry can hear the joints in his spine pop. Dougie’s the only one of them who still has a cover job - he works full time, serving at a restaurant downtown. The rest of them have disappeared from the system completely, disconnected. It’s safer for them, that way - after all, Dougie’s the only one of them without a record. His file’s clean - or was, at least, until last night. Harry sometimes wonders about their parents. Their sisters, brothers. Wonders what they’ll say when the BAOT officers knock on their doors for the fifth time and they don’t have any new information. Wonders if they’ll be believed. Arrests have less and less reason, nowadays.
“We have to get out of the country,” Tom says. His fingers are brushing lightly over the tabletop, and Harry doesn’t have to look to know he’s picking at the dried splotches of blood.
“Is that even possible anymore?” Harry asks, because the borders have been closed since early 2005, and getting in or out of the country is only viable with a special government-sanctioned permit, and fuck if they’re going to get those, not without pulling some major strings.
“Maybe,” Tom says, finally looking up. His face is thoughtful and serious. “I’m not sure, but. Maybe. I think James - I think I might be able to get in touch with some people.”
James. Harry hadn’t even known that Tom was still in contact with him, not since the gig that went wrong the previous year. It had been a blow to what was left of the scene, but James. James they don’t talk about. Not ever.
What this means, Harry’s isn’t quite sure. What he does know is that he doesn’t care.
+
Harry’s never been sure how they decided that music is terrorism - he just knows what they say on the government bulletins, what they tell the public, most of whom are too scared or apathetic to care anymore. Free speech leads to radical ideas, they say loud and angry on the television, which leads to terrorism, more bombings, death. Catastrophic disorganization and chaos. Every word overblown and dramatic - they crave fear, sheep to the slaughter, and the country gives it to them.
Music and novels and art were officially declared illegal in May 2005, in an act passed by what remained of the parliamentary system about two months after the borders were closed permanently.
Their first album was released to the public in July 2004. They never get a second.
+
Harry spends about two hours in his own bed, staring at the ceiling, before he sighs and grabs Watership Down from the nightstand, it’s pages creased and yellowed. The book was his mum’s, one of the ones he took with him when he told her he’d probably never see her again. She’d managed not to cry, he remembers, but pressed the book into his hands and said,
“It was my favourite to read to you when you were small. Take it.” He hadn’t been able to say anything in response; he’d just nodded and carefully put it in his backpack. She’d said,
“I love you,” just before he closed to door. Sometimes he still wishes he hadn’t left. He’s read the book five times in the intervening years, and every time, it’s her voice in his head, aloud.
He rubs at his eyes, and slides off his bed, his feet soft on the cool floorboards. He walks carefully into Danny’s room, pausing with one hand on the doorframe - Danny is still sleeping, his breath stuttering on the inhale as his chest expands, pulling apart the edges of his wound. Harry watches him silently for a few moments, before crossing the room to sit by his bed. The chairs in the kitchen are the only ones in the house, but the floor is swept clean, and he’d rather be here than back in his bed, sleepless.
He cracks open the book halfway through, and starts to read. He can still hear Danny breathing softly above him, but he just wishes he could get the smell of blood to go away.
+
They’d still toured from July though August that first year, but the arrests didn’t go away. In the US, anyone found with abortion equipment could be arrested, anyone with a political past, or political parents. Anyone gay, bi, or transgendered. Harry remembers wondering if the craziness would spread to the UK - the links between the two countries were getting more complicated and twisted every day.
They played their music to the crowds, and knew they were getting away with it simply because their music was escapist. It wasn’t political, it had no goals, and so they played every night while everyone buckled down, or tried to leave the country. Harry stared at his drum kit, night after night, in order to avoid the sea of terrified faces, helplessly hoping that maybe, maybe for one night they could forget.
He didn’t want to be that person anymore.
“It isn’t right,” he seethed, backstage. “They shouldn’t be able to do this.”
Tom had just shaken his head. “But they can, Harry. They do. What else can we do but keep going on?”
“It’s not enough, Tom,” Harry’d said, and he knew he was taking his anger out on Tom, but Tom could take it.
“What is it that you think we should be doing?” Danny asked, his voice stony, serious. Harry hadn’t even known he was near, hadn’t know Dougie was, either, standing behind Danny in the doorway to their dressing room. They look like two twin statues, identical expressions of attention and tension and a tinge of fear.
“Anything but this,” Harry said.
+
Danny wakes him with fingers on the side of his face, pressed warm against his cheek. He opens his eyes slowly, curled up on the floor, book face down beside him.
“Hm?” he hums, only half awake, before his brain catches up, flitting Danny - awake across his mind, half formed thoughts. Danny is leaning off the mattress, arm outstretched to touch Harry, his torso hanging out in open space, the white bandages stark against his skin. Harry can still see the smudges of blood he hasn’t had time to wash off yet. “You shouldn’t be moving,” he says.
“I’m fine, dude,” Danny says, his mouth stretching into a grin. His fingers are still pressed lightly against Harry’s skin. Harry resists both the urge to lean in and to pull away. Neither will help, at this particular moment. “You weren’t waking up.”
“I didn’t fall asleep until late.” Harry sits up, rolling his shoulders to get the stiffness out. He’s slept on harder surfaces, but the floor is never good on the muscles. He wraps his hand around Danny’s still-extended wrist, and pushes him back down onto the bed. Danny’s pulse is even and somehow comforting against Harry’s palm. He lets go. “Seriously, no moving. If that bullet had been a few inches to the left, we wouldn’t have been able to do anything.”
“Lucky me, then,” Danny says with a smile in his voice, and flops onto his back, huffing out a breath to get his hair out of his eyes.
“Lucky fucking you, Dan,” Harry says, utterly serious. “Tom had to stitch you up. There’s going to be a scar.”
“I’m sure it’ll match all my other scars perfectly,” Danny says, arching his neck up and grinning at Harry. Harry scowls, not because he’s angry that Danny is feeling okay, it’s just.
“Stop joking around, Dan, you almost fucking died. Can’t you be serious for even one fucking second?”
“Don’t really see the point,” Danny says, his shrug muffled by the bedclothes and his reclining position. “Don’t have the time, Harry. There’s no time for self-pity. Rather joke about it, myself.”
It doesn’t seem like a particularly healthy response to trauma, but who is Harry to begrudge him a coping mechanism? Harry just sighs, and says,
“Okay, sure, but we’re going to have to change those bandages soon.”
+
It was James who told Tom about the first show, whispered it to him backstage at the last date of their tour - it wasn’t the first underground show ever, just the first they’d been to, but Harry will remember it for the rest of his life. He has no idea what the band was called, if they even had a name, but it didn’t matter then, and it still doesn’t. They weren’t good - they could barely play their instruments - but they were angry, and they weren’t afraid, and they were saying fuck you with every note that left their fingertips.
James had leaned his chin on Tom’s shoulder and grinned, Charlie and Matt standing just behind, and Harry had known right then. No matter how dangerous, no matter the costs.
It was better than nothing. Despite everything, it still is.
+
When Harry enters the kitchen, Danny’s arm around his shoulders, bandaged chest pressed against his side, James is sitting at the table. Harry can see where Tom still hasn’t washed the blood off.
“James - ” Danny says, his voice trailing off. Harry can hear the surprise there; maybe he should’ve said something.
“No one’s filled you in yet, huh?” James says, and his lips twitch up into a small smirk - the expression is almost welcome on his face, which is too wan, too pale, too blank. Harry doesn’t know how to compare this James to the one he knew before, but anyone would change after - anyone would. Danny throws him a glance.
Harry just pushes Danny down into one of the kitchen chairs, and goes to the half filled coffee pot. He presses his fingers to the side and finds it still warm, so he grabs two mugs from the cupboard, and pours coffee in - milk and sugar for Danny, black for himself. The kitchen is the only room in the their half-abandoned house that feels lived in. He hands Danny his mug, and then leans back against the counter.
“Dougie and Tom?” Harry asks, glancing at James.
“Supplies,” James says, shortly. “They’re being careful, Harry,” he adds, when Harry opens his mouth again. Harry snorts. He’s not sure that careful really exists anymore.
Danny is staring into his mug of coffee. “What’ve you been - up to, James?” he asks, significantly more subdued than earlier - more, even, than when Harry’d had to clean the stitches up with peroxide.
“Bartending,” James says. “Making a living. Smuggling shits like you out of the country.” He cracks that smile again, the one that’s mostly smirk and half-forgotten. Danny half-smiles, and Harry misses the grin from earlier - he misses James’ old smile, too, with a pang.
“You’re - well. You’re okay, then?” Danny asks, looking up from his coffee. James’ smile softens at the edges - less sharp, less jagged.
“I’m okay, Dan. My bosses are good guys. I’m still helping out. I’m - not entirely useless.” Danny makes a noise that means he wants to protest but doesn’t know if he should.
“Your bosses are the ones getting us out of the country?” Harry asks, if only to derail the conversation. If they have to talk about it, he doesn’t want to be there.
“Yep,” James says, and shrugs. “It’s going to be expensive, but you guys can handle it, right?”
Harry just nods, and glances at the bandages winding around Danny’s chest.
He says, “We can handle whatever we have to.”
+
The trick to guerrilla shows is to publicize them enough to get word out, but only to people you know won’t talk. It’s hard to know who to trust, but they develop a knack. Dougie, especially, has the nose for it - he wasn’t that big on the underground scene to begin with, but once they won him over, he was pretty fucking dead on. Best publicist in the scene, even.
Busted was much more famous than McFly before the government went into action, and it served them well, after. Their shows, though just as secretive and underground as anyone else’s, always had a good crowd. Sometimes Tom or Danny would play with them; sometimes all seven of them would be on the floor at the same time. Mostly, though, the show was Busted’s and it worked out that way.
Harry wasn’t surprised in the least by how successful their crossover was - James was a fucking wily bastard, a musician where it mattered, and this, this was the scene where music could still be made.
“The thing is,” James had said, one night, after the show. “I don’t even miss the big stages anymore. This is real, this here, and that’s better.” He was smoking a cigarette, leaning against the brick of the building. Harry was leaning next to him with his own cigarette. The others were still inside, finishing clean up. It couldn’t look like they were ever here, and the bigger the crowd, the bigger the mess.
“Oh, yeah,” Harry said, “all it took was the government making music illegal for you to finally be satisfied with yourself.” He’d laughed and taken a drag of his cigarette, watching the trails of white smoke diffuse as he exhaled. He’d never known James as well as Danny and Tom did, and never much cared too, but they were close enough to joke around.
“Oh, fuck off,” James had said. He was smiling, his teeth glinting in the streetlight. It made him look dangerous, Harry thought.
Busted went strong for just about two years - after that, it went to shit, just like everything always does.
+
Harry leaves Danny in the kitchen - he has no inclination to listen to them talk about what he’s sure they’re going to. He picks up Watership Down again and lies on Danny’s bed, waiting for Tom and Dougie to get back. He tries not to worry about them, because Tom can be a hard bastard, and won’t let anything happen to Dougie, and Dougie’s just as slippery as the rest of them, but he can’t entirely keep himself from thinking about it.
After about an hour, Danny comes back into his room, but doesn’t say anything about Harry on his bed. He just slides under the covers, wincing at the movement, and closes his eyes. Harry watches him for a few minutes, wondering if he’s going to start talking, but almost immediately his breaths lengthen, and he dozes off. Harry measures the steady rise and fall of his chest, and then goes back to his book.
Tom and Dougie get back about another hour later - Harry sits straight up in bed when he hears the door slam. Danny doesn’t even stir.
“Everything all right?” he asks from the top of the stairs, taking them two at a time.
“Fine,” Tom says, shortly. Dougie’s a little pale beside him, but neither of them appear hurt - no new visible bruises, even. “We’ll leave when it gets dark.”
“But, Danny -” Harry starts, glancing at the stairs.
“Will have to make due like the rest of us,” Tom says. He smiles out of the corner of his mouth, shrugging. It means, what can you do? in that apologetic Tom way, and that’s the thing. There isn’t a single fucking thing they can do.
“Okay,” Harry says. “Let me pack a few things.”
+
The only reason they’d gotten out with only few nights in prison and a tab on their files was because they were in the audience that night - they weren’t playing, not like Charlie and Matt and James.
Dougie was fucking lucky - he was home for that show, laid out with the flu. He was puking, yeah, but he wasn’t in the basement when the doors burst open. Immediate chaos, people screaming, and Harry lost track of Tom and Danny - Matt was standing with his bass like he didn’t know what to do -
And Charlie, Charlie was so fucking stupid. So stupid. Harry was closest to him, can remember pushing him toward the door - trying to get him out. But he’d just held his guitar up like a tennis racket and said,
“I’m not fucking running like some rat.”
He hadn’t run, hadn’t ever, but they’d shot him in the head right there - the blood running from the hole in his skull as he’d twitched and collapsed, brain spatter and bits of bone and hair on the wall behind him. Harry’d been close enough to be sprayed in the face and neck with it, and was hauled into the police station still reeking.
Resisting arrest, they’d said later on the news, one member was killed while resisting arrest. Hardly a dignified way to die. He hadn’t even managed to hit any of them.
Matt hadn’t got much better - in times of war, torture and execution of terrorists isn’t something to be balked at. They don’t know for sure if he’s dead, but it doesn’t matter. He’s not coming back. Not that BAOT had gotten anything interesting out of him; just another success for the crown.
Harry’s not sure that James will ever forgive himself for getting out. Harry’s not sure he’ll ever forgive James for leaving them.
+
Danny’s still sleeping when the time comes for them to go - Harry’d thought it best not to wake him. He has no idea how far they’re driving tonight, or under what conditions. He’d stuffed most of Danny’s clothes, his remaining possessions, into a bag, which is sitting, currently, on the floor by the end of the bed.
He climbs onto the mattress, sitting back on his knees as he reaches to touch Danny’s shoulder. Danny turns his head to look over at Harry, rubbing one clenched fist against his eye like a child.
“What?” he asks sleepily, shifting onto his back, wincing. He’s still shirtless, but for the bandages, and his skin is warm and soft under Harry’s fingers. Harry pulls his hand away, putting it safely in his lap.
“Time to go,” he says. Danny raises an eyebrow at him, biting his lip.
“Where’re we going?”
“Wherever James works, I suppose,” Harry says with a shrug. “Not like it can be much worse than here, right?” Danny smiles, and it’s the one Harry recognizes as the I’m fine, really, I am smile. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Danny says, “I’m fine.” He’s lying, Harry knows, his grin too wide to mean anything other than completely and utter bullshit.
“Bull,” he says, nudging Danny with his knee. “Spill it, whatever it is.”
“Think we’ll ever be able to come back?” Danny blurts out, as if forcing the words past his lips, looking away.
“To this house? Or back into the country?” Harry has to refrain from wrapping his fingers around Danny’s chin and forcing eye contact. He keeps his hands to himself. Danny just pulls himself up into a sitting position, wrapping his arms around his knees. It must tug at the skin of his chest, but he doesn’t seem to care.
“I was just thinking about my family,” Danny says, eventually. “I know I can’t see them now, but at least I’m not that far away, you know?” Harry glances over at the door, knowing that Tom will be up to fetch them if they don’t show up soon. He sighs, and slings an arm around Danny’s shoulders.
“Yeah, mate, I know. But there’s nothing we can do, really. We can’t stay here.” Danny nods and leans his head on Harry’s shoulder, nose pressing into the side of Harry’s neck, nudging against his skin. Harry can feel Danny’s breath against his neck, and he shivers with it - can’t help himself. “Danny -” he starts, the sigh in his voice familiar to both of them.
“Sorry, sorry,” Danny says, pulling away slightly. He doesn’t actually sound sorry at all, just frustrated and the tiniest bit hurt. “I just don’t get -”
“Leave it, Danny,” Harry interrupts, “we have to go.” He feels guilty, but he can’t do this. He wants - he can’t.
“Fine,” Danny says, quietly, brushing his fingers over the inside of Harry’s wrist. Harry knows he should pull back, but he doesn’t. Not yet.
+
Danny and Harry have had sex exactly twice.
The first time was just after they were released from jail - kept in separate holding cells, three days without word. Harry hadn’t known if Danny or Tom had been hurt, if they were alive, not until they’d all been pushed into the back of the BAOT van, and taken back to the local station to be released. Harry was still covered in flecks of blood, still wearing the clothes he’d worn to the show three days earlier. He couldn’t get the copper tang of blood out of his nose, the salty taste of his own sweat.
All he’d been able to think about, through the questions and the yelling, the dark and silent nights, was Charlie’s shocked face, the trickle of blood from the hole in his forehead, of Danny’s instead, or Tom.
Seeing them alive, dirty and bruised but nominally unhurt, Harry’d had to bite his lip to keep from crying, just a little. Just a little. He’d clasped Danny’s hand in his the whole ride back, Tom on his other side, with his other hand. None of them said anything about what had happened.
Later, Harry was in the shower, finally, finally washing off the remnants of Charlie’s brain matter, his blood, when the glass door slid open. Water sprayed onto the white tile floor, but Harry wasn’t paying attention to that; instead, he was looking at Danny looking at him. Danny biting his lip. Harry hadn’t even heard him enter the bathroom, hadn’t heard his bare feet on the tile, his fingers turning the doorknob. He could see the fear on Danny’s face, almost smell it, and Danny had clasped a hand around the back of Harry’s neck, pulling him forward, out of the shower stall, fingers slippery against Harry’s wet skin.
“I thought - all I could think -” Danny started, “you weren’t with us and -”
Danny kissed him without finishing a single sentence, breath shallow and warm against Harry’s mouth. Harry didn’t care, he just bit into Danny’s lip, scrabbling with Danny’s clothing, more desperate than he thought he could be about anything anymore. His wet body dampened Danny’s shirt, the thighs of his jeans where they pressed together. The spray of the shower was still warm on his back.
It wasn’t good, not in the way sex usually is. It was harsh, rough, rushed. It was life - it was them, alive. Danny’s warm skin under his hands and chest and thighs. Under his mouth.
It was them, alive.
+
The drive takes about three and a half hours, give or take, and Harry knows he should sleep, but he can’t. James drives most of the way. He’s still tagged by BAOT, technically, but no one’s seen him for over a year now, and he was never brought in, while the McFly bust is breaking news. It’s not that they are that big a catch, even - none of the musicians matter that much to the government, really, not the way political protesters do - but they’d still look good on some officer’s resume, should they be seen.
Tinted windows have been outlawed for almost three years now, except for use by government officials - black cars with black windows, the obvious sign of a police presence - so they just have to lie low in the back seat. Tom’s sleeping, Harry can tell by the soft huff of his breath, his head leaning on Dougie’s shoulder. Harry’s got an arm around Dougie’s waist, letting Dougie lean against his side - he’s asleep like Tom, his breath whispering against Harry’s shoulder, heating the skin through his shirt. Harry smiles ruefully at them - of course they can sleep, even as fugitives driving through a military dictatorship.
Danny is sitting in the front, next to James, curled up on his side in the seat. He’s still awake - Harry can see him glance back at the three of them, something like jealousy in the set of his features.
“Danny?” Harry whispers. He doesn’t want - no. He hopes he hasn’t caused it, but he knows it’s in vain.
Danny glances at him, and Harry can see his eyes flicker to Dougie’s nose pressed into Harry’s shoulder. He shakes his head, and shrugs. It’s nothing, really, his posture says. Harry doesn’t believe him.
+
Harry remembers the week after they were let out of jail more vividly than any other week in his entire life. Dougie, left alone in the house for three days without word of them - nothing but Charlie’s death on the television - was curled up in a ball on the couch when Tom pushed the door open.
Harry remembers the exact expression on Dougie’s face as his head had shot up, looking in alarm at the door - shifting quickly from terror to shock and intense relief.
He’d been on his feet in less than a moment.
“Oh, god,” he’d said, wrapping his arms around Tom’s middle and clinging close. “Fucking hell, I thought you guys were fucking - goners. I thought - Fuck.”
“We’re fine,” Tom had said, and it was kind of a lie, but enough truth for them to pretend to believe it. He pressed his cheek against the top of Dougie’s head and breathed in, closing his eyes. Harry had leaned against them before he could stop himself, just - relieved. Happy to be alive.
“Alive, anyway,” Danny said, as if reading his mind, and his hand had fisted in the back of Harry’s shirt. Harry could feel the press of his knuckles in the small of his back.
“Unspeakably dirty,” Harry said, finally. “But alive.” Dougie hadn’t said anything in return; he’d just reached out and wrapped his hand around Harry’s wrist. Harry could feel Dougie’s small fingers against the beat of his pulse.
They were rarely out of each other’s site for the rest of the week - clingy and close and ever watchful.
Charlie was dead, Matt never came back, and James was all alone.
continued in part two