Lost Days
Title: Lost Days [part two: reed]
Pairing: James/Harry
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Harry is dead. Harry is alive. Neither of them really understand it.
"Daddy! Daddy, the bogeyman's back! Daddy!!"
Sometimes, he's ready to believe her immediately. He remembers twisting, snarling beasts from Silent Hill, and that's what he first thinks of. However, when she describes it to be nothing more than a noise and a shadow, he relaxes.
But only a little.
"Do you want to sleep in my bed tonight, sweetie?"
She nods eagerly. She's small against him, curled up and holding on tight.
And he promises her,
"Daddy will protect you."
-=-=-
Before they left, the option to shower was there. Harry waited for James instead, oddly feeling disinterested. Though he feels a layer of oil, feels incredibly filthy, he can't find himself caring; he accepts it all right now. His clothing, every little bit of him -- it's disgusting, and he's not going to do a thing about it.
Maybe because he feels numb. Feels cold. Indifferent, in some ways.
Hell, he just doesn't know.
They had left, and not once did James blink and glance over his shoulder in regret. Maybe he doesn't have anything in Ashfield.
Harry honestly doesn't know.
He sinks in his seat and closes his eyes, frowning. The chill hasn't gone away in his body. Ever since he woke up, he's felt terribly cold; in due time with... James's (somewhat less than preferable) assistance, it seems to have subsided somewhat, thankfully. Still, it lingers after him, like winter clawing its way inside of him, smothering him.
"You mentioned a woman, and a monster," James says, sounding awkward.
Harry grimaces. He's not sure if he can talk about this, but he's not about to say 'no' to James now. "Yeah. I was waiting for my daughter to come home. This... woman showed up, then a monster came at me and stabbed me." A lot. Stabbed me a lot. "I thought I was a goner." I'm sure I was. It felt like I was... like I was dying. But I'm not...? "I'm not sure how I got to Ashfield, or... why I'm missing so many days of my life."
"Lost memory." The way James says it makes it sound as though he completely understands that.
"You don't sound surprised at all." Harry gives him a look. "I mean, the monster--"
"I've seen my fair share," James mutters, keeping his eyes locked to the road.
Does James really mean what Harry is insinuating...? He isn't so sure. When he... thinks about it, that monster scraping blades together, stabbing Harry before he could even stand up--
He can remember what it felt like. Getting stabbed, bleeding out, dying and gagging, and he's so sure he could hear how pleased that woman was. She had to be part of that cult in Silent Hill, surely. Who the hell else would be responsible?
But he still doesn't get it, why he's all the way out here. Why does he have a memory gap?
Is... Cheryl okay?
Harry sinks in his seat a little, leaning back and closing his eyes a moment. He feels so tired, but he knows he can't even sleep on the way. This is ... it's just gnawing at him on the inside. All of this doesn't make any sense.
He blurts out, without thinking about it, "What've you been doing?" James doesn't look at him, but when he opens his eyes, he sees he's quirked a brow. "Ah, I mean. The last few years."
"Not much." It sounds like the truth, too.
"I was ... kind of worried," Harry admits. "A part of me wanted to go find you and see how you were doing, but..."
James's tone goes flat. "But?" Harry gets the feeling he might have offended him somehow.
"A lot of stuff was going on," the older man replies, a bit more quietly. "And I wasn't really sure what you would have thought about it. You just... really seemed like you wanted to be by yourself." James frowns, and Harry says, "Sorry."
Because he probably should have gone looking for James. He wasn't well, probably isn't well.
Honestly, Harry's worst flaw is being so incapable of helping people.
He sighs and closes his eyes, hating the awkward silence between the both of them.
-=-=-
It's been a couple of hours of driving. Mostly, it's been terribly quiet, and Harry hates it, but he can't force conversation. He can't think of a topic that wouldn't just drag up bad feelings and memories for both of them, and Harry definitely has no idea how to go on about even asking or talking about their physical interaction with one another.
He doesn't get it. But he doesn't hate it.
He's cold, and getting colder. His jacket's been long since zipped up and he's got his arms around himself, but he doesn't plan on making it an issue. Harry just wants to get to Portland and figure this out somehow.
However, Harry must be loud and shivering; he glances and realizes belatedly that they're parking at a rest stop. Not a single other car or truck in sight in the lot.
"James?" Harry lifts his head and sits up a bit more straight. Well, they have been driving awhile, so maybe it's just a break.
He hears James unbuckle himself, feels his hand on his shoulder, enough pressure to hint that he's going to insist that Harry stays sitting back. James sits with his legs folded under him, mostly on Harry's lap, straddling him; he reaches down, pulling the switch to lean the chair back almost flat.
"You're cold again," James says simply.
Harry can't argue that. "Yeah. But you don't have to--"
Too late. He feels the other man's lips and tongue. "Mmm." Harry closes his eyes and leans into the heat, needy.
He questions it, honestly. Harry remembers, when he brought James home with him after helping him out of the lake. Of course, he let it happen then, too -- he wanted it then, he wants it now. Then it was because James seemed to need it, and now.
Now, Harry thinks, maybe he is the one who really needs it.
He curls his fingers onto James's shoulders, shifting under him as he feels his jacket being opened; James is shoving his (nice warm) hands under his shirt and sliding them up against his stomach. Harry groans into the kiss, tightening his grip a little. He jerks when he feels fingers brushing up against a nipple. That is more sensitive than he predicted it would be.
Harry stills, hearing a hiss.
Sounds like... a snake?
James is pulling away sharply, looking over his shoulder. "What the hell is that--?"
Sitting up, Harry is glancing over James's shoulder, staring at the windshield. A snake, slithering over the glass.
"How did a snake get there?" James wonders out loud.
Something... he doesn't get it, but something in Harry makes him shove James back. He doesn't mean to hurt him, and isn't sure if he has, but he doesn't stop; he's stepping out of the car and reaching over the windshield, grabbing the snake.
It hisses at him, but makes no move to attack.
Harry--
He doesn't realize what he's doing immediately, but he's biting down on the snake's head. He bites and tears off the head, chewing and swallowing eagerly, and quickly he starts devouring the rest of the serpent, crunching down on bones that shouldn't break so easily in his mouth (what is he doing, WHAT THE HELL IS HE DOING). The flesh is hot, it's got a strange flavor to it, he tastes blood and scales and just eats the damned thing.
He can't help himself. He's licking off his own fingers and eager to get every last bit (should be feeling sick instead). Every lap at the leftover pieces, bit of blood--
He wants to throw up. It doesn't happen.
He hears James get out of the car, and he's approaching. Honestly, Harry has no idea what he might be thinking, so he tries to get in a word. "James--" he starts.
But he has to pause when the other man is grabbing his wrist and starts to suck on his fingers.
God damn-- what the hell.
He's felt this before from him, before in the apartment, the kitchen. James's tongue is curling over his fingers and there's teeth and saliva and-- shit this is weird. This is too crazy, Harry doesn't get it, really, but he finds he can't tell James to knock it off, or push him away.
He probably likes it, too.
They're out in a resting station on the highway. Anyone could drive up suddenly; it's broad daylight. But James is pushing in to kiss him anyway, shoving him towards the hood of the car. The older man grunts, feeling his back collide with metal. It's uncomfortable, but he won't complain. It's hotter, being this close to James, and it's better than being so damned cold, even if this is so damned messed up.
At the very least, the taste of raw flesh and blood is being replaced with something different. That much is his only relief in his matter. He twists a little under James, shuddering a little when he takes place where he left off. Fingers pluck at a nipple; it's a stupidly sensitive area and it's enough to make Harry squirm a bit, hiss softly.
Though they part briefly for breath, they're quick to kiss again, almost all teeth and tongue, and he doesn't understand why they're both so responsive right now. They're in a bad spot and honestly Harry isn't up to being caught in such a place like this by anyone, but he knows he can't turn down James, either.
It's almost a bit frightening to himself how quickly he's getting aroused. Harry shivers under the other man, and not because he's cold anymore. He's lifting a leg, hooking it around the hip of the younger man and pulls him closer, shifting to rub up against him. James doesn't complain and rocks back, just as eagerly, breathing raggedly into Harry's ear.
God damn it. God damn it why are they doing this again? Harry's never really understood, or tried to question it. The first time, six years ago -- James was just. Was just confused or something and Harry just hadn't been touched like that in what seemed to be forever. And last time, he's just been so damned cold, but now.
Fuck, why doesn't he care that they are doing this?
James is biting down on his throat and Harry is gasping under him, grabbing the back of his shirt and curling his fingers in tightly as he tugs; he moves up against the other man again, pressing against him flush.
As before, it's not like he has much room to dictate anything -- but Harry knows if he really wants to, he can. He probably should. Now isn't appropriate, but then again it never is and he doesn't shove away James, ever. Their flies are down and he lets James tug them until he's bare.
He knows where this is leading, he has no idea if this is where he wants to go. Harry isn't saying no and isn't pushing him away, he can't tell what he really actually wants -- unless this is it, this is what he wants.
Briefly, hands are pulling away from Harry's body; he can guess why, as he listens to James shuffle into his pockets. The older man tries not to growl in frustration, but he's feeling ridiculously aroused; he hits his head a bit against the hood of the car, trying to stay patient.
This is different than last time; he's not feeling James just shove his way in after minor preparation. There's a slick finger probing its way inside that makes Harry shiver uncomfortably; he grabs onto James a bit more tightly.
"Is this okay?" James is suddenly asking.
Harry just stares at him, then sucks in air sharply at the way the finger crooks inside of him. "James," he groans. "You don't just... nn. Stick it in, then ask." He jerks a bit when he feels James turn the finger inside of him. It's embarrassing as hell, but he gets the feeling James likes watching this.
"You're talking like you know." James sounds a little too smug, and a little too calm, considering how aroused they both are -- but then again, it's not like anything is sticking its way inside of the him.
Harry frowns at him. "Only from spending time with you," blurts out of him before he can properly keep his mouth shut.
There's a slight pause between them, not even much movement -- not until James is pressing in a second finger, a little harder than Harry expects. He can't help but gasp and he leans his head back. "Sorry," he moans. "Sorry."
"You apologize way too much."
And it kind of annoys Harry how this conversation is probably the most normal, the easiest one they've ever had, all the while James is fucking him with his fingers.
When there's a third, he's still damned sure he can take more than that. He responds, groaning and holding onto the other man, finding that he's starting to actually rock towards the intrusion. It hadn't been until James that he even considering this form of sex -- all this with another guy, much less being treated like this.
He doesn't care, except for the part where he's sure he's enjoying it.
James is probably getting a kick out of seeing how far he can push Harry; there's a fourth finger prying its way inside, jerking inside of the older man. He doesn't complain, even if isn't terribly comfortable. The way his nerves are screaming at him, reassuring that he is alive is enough to make his body pleased.
"Shit," he hisses when he feels a thumb pressing in with the other fingers. "James--" And Harry finds it harder to breathe when the other man is twisting up his fingers inside of him like that, digging inside of him and making him writhe.
Harry is sure that he shouldn't have this much energy to keep up with James, but he doesn't complain or question it. He likes it, he lets it happen, and he groans for more as he shifts under the younger man. Fingers press up, just past the knuckles, but no more than that.
But enough to reach up inside of Harry and make him just about tremble.
"C'mon," Harry finds himself slurring, not quite sure where the words are coming from. "Know what you-- nngh. Really want."
What the hell is he saying?
But James takes it as a cue, no argument. The fingers are pulling away, making Harry gasp sharply.
There becomes a different sort of pressure. James is leaning over him, pressing up against him and moaning into his ear. This time, there isn't a name, and Harry is sure he knows which one James wants to really cry out for. Frankly, Harry isn't sure if he can take pleasure in this and imagine someone ideally at the same time. All he can think of is James thrusting into him so very eagerly, the way his back hits against the hood of the car again and again.
He should be getting a headache. He isn't.
It feels like he doesn't completely have control of himself anymore. Harry is reaching up and touching the side of James's face (what the hell is he doing) and he's hissing, "You're holding back, don't bother." What he's saying, what he's doing, this isn't him, why is he saying these things.
It's closer to hurting when James seriously doesn't hold back, yet it's numb and far away. It doesn't bother Harry and he curls his fingers tightly into the other man's shirt, pulling as he's yelping at the sensation, caring less on who might show up in the parking lot with them in broad daylight.
Everything else matters less, and for some reason, all he's thinking about is what James must be needing from him right now.
(Because Harry can't say no.)
He comes just little bit before James, pulling him along as he's groaning and leaning his head away. Teeth drag on Harry's neck and it makes him moan, clutching a littler harder onto the other man before he tries to relax -- which is quickly foiled as he feels James slide out, hears it too.
There wasn't a condom this time. He knows it isn't the safest, but it's as if neither of them could bear to wait.
In turn, he feels dripping, and -- hell that's not comfortable at all, but it's not like it matters, because James is already walking off to the bathroom.
Harry can't help but glare at him, then slam the back of his head against the car. What the hell.
Reluctantly, he pulls up his pants, sets himself back in order, and simply attempts to ignore how dirty he feels right now.
-=-=-
He's the bestest daddy in the world, and nothing could ever take her daddy away.
-=-=-
Sitting is much less than comfortable, but Harry doesn't find it in himself to complain. Once James had returned, Harry was already in the car; he doesn't feel better, and he isn't sure what to think -- if he can even think at all. At the very least, he won't be cold for awhile, or so he hopes.
He hasn't bothered much with cleaning up, although it'd be ideal. He feels grimy, stick -- he can definitely smell himself, the way he really shouldn't be.
Somehow, it doesn't seem to bother James much either.
When he sees the street with his apartment, he feels mixed. There's the dread that maybe the monster is waiting to finish the job, but also the feeling of warmth. He's lived in fear of the Order, but on the same token he's lived in joy with his daughter for most of the years with her. In most cases, it's been... a decent home.
But he tenses when he sees the sign in the window.
"What the hell--" Harry begins to mutter under his breath, already starting to unbuckle his belt, ready to jump out before James even finishes parking.
James has his hand on Harry's shoulder, keeping him down as he parks at the side of the road. "Let me take a look. Okay?"
"I..." Harry hesitates. "Are you sure?"
James doesn't verbally respond, or look Harry in the eye. He just gets out of the car and heads into the apartment building.
For Rent, the sign claims.
Two bedrooms, the apartment number--
It's all his. Harry doesn't get it. What happened to Cheryl? What happened to him?
It's been a couple of months. Why can't he remember?
He sighs and leans his head back, shutting his eyes. He isn't sure if he can stand to look at this. Harry isn't even sure if he entirely wants the truth to it, either -- but he's going to be restless no matter what he does in this situation, unfortunately.
He thinks about Cheryl, and what that woman would have been after. Would have been after Cheryl -- but it's been a couple of months. If that cult wanted God, then wouldn't it have been done already?
Maybe. Maybe they took her to Silent Hill--
Harry jumps; the door slams closed and James is back already. Or maybe Harry's spent too much time thinking; he can't tell how long it's been, how short it's been.
Time just keeps being lost somehow.
He leans his head to the side a little, staring at James -- who isn't looking at him. The younger man's got his hands on the steering wheel, but they aren't driving, car's not even on. He just can't seem to quite focus, not immediately.
Then, James turns to glare at Harry.
"What the hell are you?"
Harry flinches. "What?"
"What the hell are you? I went in there, and." James points at the apartment building. "They said you died, two months ago."
Logically speaking, he guesses, he shouldn't have been able to survive that stab in the chest. As a matter of fact, he has no markings on himself. He doesn't remember a thing -- but if he's dead, then why is he alive like this?
James just laughs suddenly, holding his head. "Maybe I'm imagining all of this."
Harry narrows his eyes. "I'm right here. What, did you imagine me when I let you fuck me on your car?"
There's a moment of silence; James is keeping his eyes averted. Eventually, he mutters, "I can imagine a lot of things."
"I sure as hell don't feel imaginary. I'm confused as hell about what's going on, but I'm not... just some figment of your imagination." Harry lets out a heavy sigh. "...I'm sorry for snapping--"
"Don't be." James sounds a little amused.
"--but I don't understand what's going on. If..." Harry frowns. "We could... try the cemetery I guess. Or something. It's not far from here."
James doesn't say a thing; he just turns his head away, starts the ignition.
Harry sighs.
-=-=-
He stands and sheets slip by him.
As he leaves, there are foot prints.
He can't remember why this is.
-=-=-
For a long while, Harry stares at his own grave.
Harry Mason
The date is appropriate to his last memory. The stone stands there, carved with truth, but the grave itself lies. Though reeds have been placed on the headstone, the dirt before it has been dug out, like something's crawled out of it. The coffin's been broken, it all looks so.
Fresh.
Harry holds his breath and stares.
James doesn't say a damned thing.
With a trembling hand, Harry reaches out and grabs a handful of the reeds. He doesn't know what he's doing again; he's devouring them, even though some of them are crisp and dry, some of it crunches in his mouth. It's bitter, but he's eating it anyway--
This is getting to be too much. (It was too much before, now it's just unbearable)
He shivers and he's cold again, but he doesn't want to reach out for James. He turns away from his own grave and bolts. James makes a surprised sound, slowly turning after him, but Harry isn't waiting for him.
He's running down the hill, away from the graves, and he's clenching his teeth trying to make sense of this.
Did he really die? Why can't he remember anything--?
"Harry!" James shouts after him.
Turning around to shout back, Harry barely gets out a, "What--"
Abruptly, something hard slams into him. Metal bends and glass shatters as a car slams into him as he blindly doesn't pay attention to where he's going. Harry hits the pavement and already knows he's felt crunches of bone and the tear into his flesh.
Likely, again, he should be dead, but he feels things popping back into place.
"Watch where the fuck you're going!" the driver snarls out the window, seemingly unaffected by the front of his car being damaged.
Harry's already scrambling to his feet, albeit with a temporary limp in his walk; the pain is there, but it's starting to disappear, and he doesn't get it. What... what the hell is wrong with him...?! He hurries away from the street, grabbing onto the fence to lean against for a moment.
What the hell was that?
"Harry!" James is catching up now. "What--"
"I don't know," Harry interrupts, trying not to snap at him. "Do you think I understand any of this? I don't. I don't... I don't know why I'm like this, James. I..."
He hates to think about it. It's the last thing he wants to do, but where else can he go? If he's... if he's really dead. Really, really supposed to be, where else but.
But that place.
Harry jerks his head instinctively. He doesn't want to go back. He's dumb for thinking so.
But if Cheryl isn't here, where else can she be, too?
"Damn it," he hisses under his breath, holding his forehead (feeling cold again). Harry shivers.
Slowly, he steps away from the fence. In spite of what he wants, he knows for sure that he's got to go there. God, it makes him feel sick, but what else can he do? That fucking cult--
"James." Harry looks at him apologetically. "I... thanks for your help, but I--"
"What is this?" The other man looks annoyed. "Where are you going now?"
Harry scowls. "I... think I need to go back there."
It didn't need to be said much more than that. Though they hardly know a thing about each other, but the details were not needed. They knew that place.
"I don't have anything else." James doesn't sound depressed when he says it; just stated as a simple fact. "I really don't. It doesn't matter where I go. I might as well do this."
Even though neither of them have a clue what's going on.
"James..." Harry shakes his head.
"What're you going to do? Walk? You don't own a car anymore." It doesn't need to be dug in, but James does it anyway, raising a brow at him. "As far as everyone else is concerned, you're dead."
Harry winces. It's true. He doesn't have much ground to argue on.
It's not like he's been very good at saying no, anyway. James has a car, Harry has less than that. Just the filthy clothes on his back, and some sweat and grime to go with it. He doesn't really understand why James is volunteering; in spite of their physical intimacy, it's not like they're particularly close, which is a first for Harry in terms of any relationship. It's strange, how much he lets James touch him, but they don't know much about each other.
For all Harry knows, James might just be going along with this because Harry never says no to him. It's not like it's for a petty thing like emotions or simple consideration.
Harry's voice is smaller when he says, "All right."
-=-=-
He leaves, bloody foot prints marking the way.
He breathes, raggedly.
A hand grasps his own and leads the way out.
He can't remember why.
-=-=-
The shower is brutally hot. It's inappropriate, considering the weather and how humid it is, but in a way James enjoys the faint burning feeling on his skin, how red it gets. It's harder to breathe with the steam, harder to think, but that's not really such a bad thing.
It's been completely messed up, this trip. They're still in Portland, but they've got a crappy hotel by the highway right now. He can't figure it out; Harry's supposed to be dead, but Harry isn't dead, unless James is completely hallucinating -- which, he figures that logically he can't be because the bartender saw Harry, too. Harry's here, Harry's real, but then what the hell is going on? Who the hell would dig up a dead guy's grave?
How is Harry even here?
Silent Hill's got to be part of this business somehow. James seriously isn't sure if he's ready to go back there. He can't help but think of Mary, can't help but think of his car sinking and Harry pulling him out. Monsters, people, and sometimes two are the same in that place. Most often, James agrees with himself that's something of a monster himself.
What the hell does that make Harry?
His mind fogs up. When he thinks of Harry, he can't seem to decide anything about him. He wants him, he doesn't want him, want to help, doesn't want to -- he's nothing like Mary, yet he's just like her. He doesn't really get it, but James has never been much of a deep thinker, and he doesn't bother.
He lets his body do what it wants. He gets hard. It could be belated thoughts on his late wife, or hearing and remembering how Harry groans and squirms under him. Either way, he's already taking his hand to himself, a familiar territory.
It's not as if the older man isn't unattractive, even for his age (god he's gotta be what, in his late forties). Not that it matters to James (he's not gay, he doesn't like men that way, it's just been a real long time). Anyway, Harry's a nice guy, kind of the way James wishes he could be, but he knows that's unrealistic. He likes it, he wants it (he's jealous, he's envious), he pities the poor guy having to deal with this bullshit that doesn't make a lick of sense. (That's Silent Hill for you.)
He squeezes a little more and groans to himself, leaning against the wall of the shower as he works.
His hand doesn't pull away when the shower curtain is shoved aside suddenly. James simply stares back at Harry, doesn't stop stroking himself. Not much to hide (and Harry probably relates anyway). Still, he's surprised -- he didn't hear the door open or anything. How the hell did he get sneaked up on like that?
Harry is completely clothed, except his feet. He's suddenly stepping into the shower, sliding up right behind James and pushing away his hand. He takes hold instead, stroking.
Honestly, James doesn't like giving away the control to someone else, but he expects that if he said no, Harry would back off. It's not as if he doesn't want it anyway, so he relaxes against the other man and lets himself moan, rocking into the slick hand. He listens to Harry breathe next to his ear, can hear him, feel him.
He's not all that sure whose name he's groaning, he doubts he cares. Someone else's touch isn't so bad, though it feels like Harry's hands are smoother than his own. He's too damned gentle, but he seems to get rough enough when his mind thinks of it, like he's some kind of mind-reader. Just enough to lead him along, get him towards the end -- not too much, not too little. James is sure he can take more, but Harry probably can give only so much.
James is close; his noises are cut off when Harry leans over his shoulder and goes in for a kiss. He tastes a lot of the water from the shower, and feels a tongue probing. He fights back, biting Harry and pressing against him. The other man doesn't put up a fight, lets him do what he wants -- lips, teeth, tongue (god it's too hot now).
He jerks away from the kiss so he can breathe, coming over Harry's hand; he doesn't have enough air to make any proper noises to go with it, but it's just as well.
For a moment, he has someone to lean against.
Only for a moment, because Harry is pulling away, stepping out of the shower, all without a word.
He can't imagine what Harry might be thinking, or thought at the time. What brought him in, what made him do that -- why's he putting up with this from James?
James decides he can't afford to think about it.
Pairing: James/Harry
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Harry is dead. Harry is alive. Neither of them really understand it.
"Daddy! Daddy, the bogeyman's back! Daddy!!"
Sometimes, he's ready to believe her immediately. He remembers twisting, snarling beasts from Silent Hill, and that's what he first thinks of. However, when she describes it to be nothing more than a noise and a shadow, he relaxes.
But only a little.
"Do you want to sleep in my bed tonight, sweetie?"
She nods eagerly. She's small against him, curled up and holding on tight.
And he promises her,
"Daddy will protect you."
-=-=-
Before they left, the option to shower was there. Harry waited for James instead, oddly feeling disinterested. Though he feels a layer of oil, feels incredibly filthy, he can't find himself caring; he accepts it all right now. His clothing, every little bit of him -- it's disgusting, and he's not going to do a thing about it.
Maybe because he feels numb. Feels cold. Indifferent, in some ways.
Hell, he just doesn't know.
They had left, and not once did James blink and glance over his shoulder in regret. Maybe he doesn't have anything in Ashfield.
Harry honestly doesn't know.
He sinks in his seat and closes his eyes, frowning. The chill hasn't gone away in his body. Ever since he woke up, he's felt terribly cold; in due time with... James's (somewhat less than preferable) assistance, it seems to have subsided somewhat, thankfully. Still, it lingers after him, like winter clawing its way inside of him, smothering him.
"You mentioned a woman, and a monster," James says, sounding awkward.
Harry grimaces. He's not sure if he can talk about this, but he's not about to say 'no' to James now. "Yeah. I was waiting for my daughter to come home. This... woman showed up, then a monster came at me and stabbed me." A lot. Stabbed me a lot. "I thought I was a goner." I'm sure I was. It felt like I was... like I was dying. But I'm not...? "I'm not sure how I got to Ashfield, or... why I'm missing so many days of my life."
"Lost memory." The way James says it makes it sound as though he completely understands that.
"You don't sound surprised at all." Harry gives him a look. "I mean, the monster--"
"I've seen my fair share," James mutters, keeping his eyes locked to the road.
Does James really mean what Harry is insinuating...? He isn't so sure. When he... thinks about it, that monster scraping blades together, stabbing Harry before he could even stand up--
He can remember what it felt like. Getting stabbed, bleeding out, dying and gagging, and he's so sure he could hear how pleased that woman was. She had to be part of that cult in Silent Hill, surely. Who the hell else would be responsible?
But he still doesn't get it, why he's all the way out here. Why does he have a memory gap?
Is... Cheryl okay?
Harry sinks in his seat a little, leaning back and closing his eyes a moment. He feels so tired, but he knows he can't even sleep on the way. This is ... it's just gnawing at him on the inside. All of this doesn't make any sense.
He blurts out, without thinking about it, "What've you been doing?" James doesn't look at him, but when he opens his eyes, he sees he's quirked a brow. "Ah, I mean. The last few years."
"Not much." It sounds like the truth, too.
"I was ... kind of worried," Harry admits. "A part of me wanted to go find you and see how you were doing, but..."
James's tone goes flat. "But?" Harry gets the feeling he might have offended him somehow.
"A lot of stuff was going on," the older man replies, a bit more quietly. "And I wasn't really sure what you would have thought about it. You just... really seemed like you wanted to be by yourself." James frowns, and Harry says, "Sorry."
Because he probably should have gone looking for James. He wasn't well, probably isn't well.
Honestly, Harry's worst flaw is being so incapable of helping people.
He sighs and closes his eyes, hating the awkward silence between the both of them.
-=-=-
It's been a couple of hours of driving. Mostly, it's been terribly quiet, and Harry hates it, but he can't force conversation. He can't think of a topic that wouldn't just drag up bad feelings and memories for both of them, and Harry definitely has no idea how to go on about even asking or talking about their physical interaction with one another.
He doesn't get it. But he doesn't hate it.
He's cold, and getting colder. His jacket's been long since zipped up and he's got his arms around himself, but he doesn't plan on making it an issue. Harry just wants to get to Portland and figure this out somehow.
However, Harry must be loud and shivering; he glances and realizes belatedly that they're parking at a rest stop. Not a single other car or truck in sight in the lot.
"James?" Harry lifts his head and sits up a bit more straight. Well, they have been driving awhile, so maybe it's just a break.
He hears James unbuckle himself, feels his hand on his shoulder, enough pressure to hint that he's going to insist that Harry stays sitting back. James sits with his legs folded under him, mostly on Harry's lap, straddling him; he reaches down, pulling the switch to lean the chair back almost flat.
"You're cold again," James says simply.
Harry can't argue that. "Yeah. But you don't have to--"
Too late. He feels the other man's lips and tongue. "Mmm." Harry closes his eyes and leans into the heat, needy.
He questions it, honestly. Harry remembers, when he brought James home with him after helping him out of the lake. Of course, he let it happen then, too -- he wanted it then, he wants it now. Then it was because James seemed to need it, and now.
Now, Harry thinks, maybe he is the one who really needs it.
He curls his fingers onto James's shoulders, shifting under him as he feels his jacket being opened; James is shoving his (nice warm) hands under his shirt and sliding them up against his stomach. Harry groans into the kiss, tightening his grip a little. He jerks when he feels fingers brushing up against a nipple. That is more sensitive than he predicted it would be.
Harry stills, hearing a hiss.
Sounds like... a snake?
James is pulling away sharply, looking over his shoulder. "What the hell is that--?"
Sitting up, Harry is glancing over James's shoulder, staring at the windshield. A snake, slithering over the glass.
"How did a snake get there?" James wonders out loud.
Something... he doesn't get it, but something in Harry makes him shove James back. He doesn't mean to hurt him, and isn't sure if he has, but he doesn't stop; he's stepping out of the car and reaching over the windshield, grabbing the snake.
It hisses at him, but makes no move to attack.
Harry--
He doesn't realize what he's doing immediately, but he's biting down on the snake's head. He bites and tears off the head, chewing and swallowing eagerly, and quickly he starts devouring the rest of the serpent, crunching down on bones that shouldn't break so easily in his mouth (what is he doing, WHAT THE HELL IS HE DOING). The flesh is hot, it's got a strange flavor to it, he tastes blood and scales and just eats the damned thing.
He can't help himself. He's licking off his own fingers and eager to get every last bit (should be feeling sick instead). Every lap at the leftover pieces, bit of blood--
He wants to throw up. It doesn't happen.
He hears James get out of the car, and he's approaching. Honestly, Harry has no idea what he might be thinking, so he tries to get in a word. "James--" he starts.
But he has to pause when the other man is grabbing his wrist and starts to suck on his fingers.
God damn-- what the hell.
He's felt this before from him, before in the apartment, the kitchen. James's tongue is curling over his fingers and there's teeth and saliva and-- shit this is weird. This is too crazy, Harry doesn't get it, really, but he finds he can't tell James to knock it off, or push him away.
He probably likes it, too.
They're out in a resting station on the highway. Anyone could drive up suddenly; it's broad daylight. But James is pushing in to kiss him anyway, shoving him towards the hood of the car. The older man grunts, feeling his back collide with metal. It's uncomfortable, but he won't complain. It's hotter, being this close to James, and it's better than being so damned cold, even if this is so damned messed up.
At the very least, the taste of raw flesh and blood is being replaced with something different. That much is his only relief in his matter. He twists a little under James, shuddering a little when he takes place where he left off. Fingers pluck at a nipple; it's a stupidly sensitive area and it's enough to make Harry squirm a bit, hiss softly.
Though they part briefly for breath, they're quick to kiss again, almost all teeth and tongue, and he doesn't understand why they're both so responsive right now. They're in a bad spot and honestly Harry isn't up to being caught in such a place like this by anyone, but he knows he can't turn down James, either.
It's almost a bit frightening to himself how quickly he's getting aroused. Harry shivers under the other man, and not because he's cold anymore. He's lifting a leg, hooking it around the hip of the younger man and pulls him closer, shifting to rub up against him. James doesn't complain and rocks back, just as eagerly, breathing raggedly into Harry's ear.
God damn it. God damn it why are they doing this again? Harry's never really understood, or tried to question it. The first time, six years ago -- James was just. Was just confused or something and Harry just hadn't been touched like that in what seemed to be forever. And last time, he's just been so damned cold, but now.
Fuck, why doesn't he care that they are doing this?
James is biting down on his throat and Harry is gasping under him, grabbing the back of his shirt and curling his fingers in tightly as he tugs; he moves up against the other man again, pressing against him flush.
As before, it's not like he has much room to dictate anything -- but Harry knows if he really wants to, he can. He probably should. Now isn't appropriate, but then again it never is and he doesn't shove away James, ever. Their flies are down and he lets James tug them until he's bare.
He knows where this is leading, he has no idea if this is where he wants to go. Harry isn't saying no and isn't pushing him away, he can't tell what he really actually wants -- unless this is it, this is what he wants.
Briefly, hands are pulling away from Harry's body; he can guess why, as he listens to James shuffle into his pockets. The older man tries not to growl in frustration, but he's feeling ridiculously aroused; he hits his head a bit against the hood of the car, trying to stay patient.
This is different than last time; he's not feeling James just shove his way in after minor preparation. There's a slick finger probing its way inside that makes Harry shiver uncomfortably; he grabs onto James a bit more tightly.
"Is this okay?" James is suddenly asking.
Harry just stares at him, then sucks in air sharply at the way the finger crooks inside of him. "James," he groans. "You don't just... nn. Stick it in, then ask." He jerks a bit when he feels James turn the finger inside of him. It's embarrassing as hell, but he gets the feeling James likes watching this.
"You're talking like you know." James sounds a little too smug, and a little too calm, considering how aroused they both are -- but then again, it's not like anything is sticking its way inside of the him.
Harry frowns at him. "Only from spending time with you," blurts out of him before he can properly keep his mouth shut.
There's a slight pause between them, not even much movement -- not until James is pressing in a second finger, a little harder than Harry expects. He can't help but gasp and he leans his head back. "Sorry," he moans. "Sorry."
"You apologize way too much."
And it kind of annoys Harry how this conversation is probably the most normal, the easiest one they've ever had, all the while James is fucking him with his fingers.
When there's a third, he's still damned sure he can take more than that. He responds, groaning and holding onto the other man, finding that he's starting to actually rock towards the intrusion. It hadn't been until James that he even considering this form of sex -- all this with another guy, much less being treated like this.
He doesn't care, except for the part where he's sure he's enjoying it.
James is probably getting a kick out of seeing how far he can push Harry; there's a fourth finger prying its way inside, jerking inside of the older man. He doesn't complain, even if isn't terribly comfortable. The way his nerves are screaming at him, reassuring that he is alive is enough to make his body pleased.
"Shit," he hisses when he feels a thumb pressing in with the other fingers. "James--" And Harry finds it harder to breathe when the other man is twisting up his fingers inside of him like that, digging inside of him and making him writhe.
Harry is sure that he shouldn't have this much energy to keep up with James, but he doesn't complain or question it. He likes it, he lets it happen, and he groans for more as he shifts under the younger man. Fingers press up, just past the knuckles, but no more than that.
But enough to reach up inside of Harry and make him just about tremble.
"C'mon," Harry finds himself slurring, not quite sure where the words are coming from. "Know what you-- nngh. Really want."
What the hell is he saying?
But James takes it as a cue, no argument. The fingers are pulling away, making Harry gasp sharply.
There becomes a different sort of pressure. James is leaning over him, pressing up against him and moaning into his ear. This time, there isn't a name, and Harry is sure he knows which one James wants to really cry out for. Frankly, Harry isn't sure if he can take pleasure in this and imagine someone ideally at the same time. All he can think of is James thrusting into him so very eagerly, the way his back hits against the hood of the car again and again.
He should be getting a headache. He isn't.
It feels like he doesn't completely have control of himself anymore. Harry is reaching up and touching the side of James's face (what the hell is he doing) and he's hissing, "You're holding back, don't bother." What he's saying, what he's doing, this isn't him, why is he saying these things.
It's closer to hurting when James seriously doesn't hold back, yet it's numb and far away. It doesn't bother Harry and he curls his fingers tightly into the other man's shirt, pulling as he's yelping at the sensation, caring less on who might show up in the parking lot with them in broad daylight.
Everything else matters less, and for some reason, all he's thinking about is what James must be needing from him right now.
(Because Harry can't say no.)
He comes just little bit before James, pulling him along as he's groaning and leaning his head away. Teeth drag on Harry's neck and it makes him moan, clutching a littler harder onto the other man before he tries to relax -- which is quickly foiled as he feels James slide out, hears it too.
There wasn't a condom this time. He knows it isn't the safest, but it's as if neither of them could bear to wait.
In turn, he feels dripping, and -- hell that's not comfortable at all, but it's not like it matters, because James is already walking off to the bathroom.
Harry can't help but glare at him, then slam the back of his head against the car. What the hell.
Reluctantly, he pulls up his pants, sets himself back in order, and simply attempts to ignore how dirty he feels right now.
-=-=-
He's the bestest daddy in the world, and nothing could ever take her daddy away.
-=-=-
Sitting is much less than comfortable, but Harry doesn't find it in himself to complain. Once James had returned, Harry was already in the car; he doesn't feel better, and he isn't sure what to think -- if he can even think at all. At the very least, he won't be cold for awhile, or so he hopes.
He hasn't bothered much with cleaning up, although it'd be ideal. He feels grimy, stick -- he can definitely smell himself, the way he really shouldn't be.
Somehow, it doesn't seem to bother James much either.
When he sees the street with his apartment, he feels mixed. There's the dread that maybe the monster is waiting to finish the job, but also the feeling of warmth. He's lived in fear of the Order, but on the same token he's lived in joy with his daughter for most of the years with her. In most cases, it's been... a decent home.
But he tenses when he sees the sign in the window.
"What the hell--" Harry begins to mutter under his breath, already starting to unbuckle his belt, ready to jump out before James even finishes parking.
James has his hand on Harry's shoulder, keeping him down as he parks at the side of the road. "Let me take a look. Okay?"
"I..." Harry hesitates. "Are you sure?"
James doesn't verbally respond, or look Harry in the eye. He just gets out of the car and heads into the apartment building.
For Rent, the sign claims.
Two bedrooms, the apartment number--
It's all his. Harry doesn't get it. What happened to Cheryl? What happened to him?
It's been a couple of months. Why can't he remember?
He sighs and leans his head back, shutting his eyes. He isn't sure if he can stand to look at this. Harry isn't even sure if he entirely wants the truth to it, either -- but he's going to be restless no matter what he does in this situation, unfortunately.
He thinks about Cheryl, and what that woman would have been after. Would have been after Cheryl -- but it's been a couple of months. If that cult wanted God, then wouldn't it have been done already?
Maybe. Maybe they took her to Silent Hill--
Harry jumps; the door slams closed and James is back already. Or maybe Harry's spent too much time thinking; he can't tell how long it's been, how short it's been.
Time just keeps being lost somehow.
He leans his head to the side a little, staring at James -- who isn't looking at him. The younger man's got his hands on the steering wheel, but they aren't driving, car's not even on. He just can't seem to quite focus, not immediately.
Then, James turns to glare at Harry.
"What the hell are you?"
Harry flinches. "What?"
"What the hell are you? I went in there, and." James points at the apartment building. "They said you died, two months ago."
Logically speaking, he guesses, he shouldn't have been able to survive that stab in the chest. As a matter of fact, he has no markings on himself. He doesn't remember a thing -- but if he's dead, then why is he alive like this?
James just laughs suddenly, holding his head. "Maybe I'm imagining all of this."
Harry narrows his eyes. "I'm right here. What, did you imagine me when I let you fuck me on your car?"
There's a moment of silence; James is keeping his eyes averted. Eventually, he mutters, "I can imagine a lot of things."
"I sure as hell don't feel imaginary. I'm confused as hell about what's going on, but I'm not... just some figment of your imagination." Harry lets out a heavy sigh. "...I'm sorry for snapping--"
"Don't be." James sounds a little amused.
"--but I don't understand what's going on. If..." Harry frowns. "We could... try the cemetery I guess. Or something. It's not far from here."
James doesn't say a thing; he just turns his head away, starts the ignition.
Harry sighs.
-=-=-
He stands and sheets slip by him.
As he leaves, there are foot prints.
He can't remember why this is.
-=-=-
For a long while, Harry stares at his own grave.
Harry Mason
The date is appropriate to his last memory. The stone stands there, carved with truth, but the grave itself lies. Though reeds have been placed on the headstone, the dirt before it has been dug out, like something's crawled out of it. The coffin's been broken, it all looks so.
Fresh.
Harry holds his breath and stares.
James doesn't say a damned thing.
With a trembling hand, Harry reaches out and grabs a handful of the reeds. He doesn't know what he's doing again; he's devouring them, even though some of them are crisp and dry, some of it crunches in his mouth. It's bitter, but he's eating it anyway--
This is getting to be too much. (It was too much before, now it's just unbearable)
He shivers and he's cold again, but he doesn't want to reach out for James. He turns away from his own grave and bolts. James makes a surprised sound, slowly turning after him, but Harry isn't waiting for him.
He's running down the hill, away from the graves, and he's clenching his teeth trying to make sense of this.
Did he really die? Why can't he remember anything--?
"Harry!" James shouts after him.
Turning around to shout back, Harry barely gets out a, "What--"
Abruptly, something hard slams into him. Metal bends and glass shatters as a car slams into him as he blindly doesn't pay attention to where he's going. Harry hits the pavement and already knows he's felt crunches of bone and the tear into his flesh.
Likely, again, he should be dead, but he feels things popping back into place.
"Watch where the fuck you're going!" the driver snarls out the window, seemingly unaffected by the front of his car being damaged.
Harry's already scrambling to his feet, albeit with a temporary limp in his walk; the pain is there, but it's starting to disappear, and he doesn't get it. What... what the hell is wrong with him...?! He hurries away from the street, grabbing onto the fence to lean against for a moment.
What the hell was that?
"Harry!" James is catching up now. "What--"
"I don't know," Harry interrupts, trying not to snap at him. "Do you think I understand any of this? I don't. I don't... I don't know why I'm like this, James. I..."
He hates to think about it. It's the last thing he wants to do, but where else can he go? If he's... if he's really dead. Really, really supposed to be, where else but.
But that place.
Harry jerks his head instinctively. He doesn't want to go back. He's dumb for thinking so.
But if Cheryl isn't here, where else can she be, too?
"Damn it," he hisses under his breath, holding his forehead (feeling cold again). Harry shivers.
Slowly, he steps away from the fence. In spite of what he wants, he knows for sure that he's got to go there. God, it makes him feel sick, but what else can he do? That fucking cult--
"James." Harry looks at him apologetically. "I... thanks for your help, but I--"
"What is this?" The other man looks annoyed. "Where are you going now?"
Harry scowls. "I... think I need to go back there."
It didn't need to be said much more than that. Though they hardly know a thing about each other, but the details were not needed. They knew that place.
"I don't have anything else." James doesn't sound depressed when he says it; just stated as a simple fact. "I really don't. It doesn't matter where I go. I might as well do this."
Even though neither of them have a clue what's going on.
"James..." Harry shakes his head.
"What're you going to do? Walk? You don't own a car anymore." It doesn't need to be dug in, but James does it anyway, raising a brow at him. "As far as everyone else is concerned, you're dead."
Harry winces. It's true. He doesn't have much ground to argue on.
It's not like he's been very good at saying no, anyway. James has a car, Harry has less than that. Just the filthy clothes on his back, and some sweat and grime to go with it. He doesn't really understand why James is volunteering; in spite of their physical intimacy, it's not like they're particularly close, which is a first for Harry in terms of any relationship. It's strange, how much he lets James touch him, but they don't know much about each other.
For all Harry knows, James might just be going along with this because Harry never says no to him. It's not like it's for a petty thing like emotions or simple consideration.
Harry's voice is smaller when he says, "All right."
-=-=-
He leaves, bloody foot prints marking the way.
He breathes, raggedly.
A hand grasps his own and leads the way out.
He can't remember why.
-=-=-
The shower is brutally hot. It's inappropriate, considering the weather and how humid it is, but in a way James enjoys the faint burning feeling on his skin, how red it gets. It's harder to breathe with the steam, harder to think, but that's not really such a bad thing.
It's been completely messed up, this trip. They're still in Portland, but they've got a crappy hotel by the highway right now. He can't figure it out; Harry's supposed to be dead, but Harry isn't dead, unless James is completely hallucinating -- which, he figures that logically he can't be because the bartender saw Harry, too. Harry's here, Harry's real, but then what the hell is going on? Who the hell would dig up a dead guy's grave?
How is Harry even here?
Silent Hill's got to be part of this business somehow. James seriously isn't sure if he's ready to go back there. He can't help but think of Mary, can't help but think of his car sinking and Harry pulling him out. Monsters, people, and sometimes two are the same in that place. Most often, James agrees with himself that's something of a monster himself.
What the hell does that make Harry?
His mind fogs up. When he thinks of Harry, he can't seem to decide anything about him. He wants him, he doesn't want him, want to help, doesn't want to -- he's nothing like Mary, yet he's just like her. He doesn't really get it, but James has never been much of a deep thinker, and he doesn't bother.
He lets his body do what it wants. He gets hard. It could be belated thoughts on his late wife, or hearing and remembering how Harry groans and squirms under him. Either way, he's already taking his hand to himself, a familiar territory.
It's not as if the older man isn't unattractive, even for his age (god he's gotta be what, in his late forties). Not that it matters to James (he's not gay, he doesn't like men that way, it's just been a real long time). Anyway, Harry's a nice guy, kind of the way James wishes he could be, but he knows that's unrealistic. He likes it, he wants it (he's jealous, he's envious), he pities the poor guy having to deal with this bullshit that doesn't make a lick of sense. (That's Silent Hill for you.)
He squeezes a little more and groans to himself, leaning against the wall of the shower as he works.
His hand doesn't pull away when the shower curtain is shoved aside suddenly. James simply stares back at Harry, doesn't stop stroking himself. Not much to hide (and Harry probably relates anyway). Still, he's surprised -- he didn't hear the door open or anything. How the hell did he get sneaked up on like that?
Harry is completely clothed, except his feet. He's suddenly stepping into the shower, sliding up right behind James and pushing away his hand. He takes hold instead, stroking.
Honestly, James doesn't like giving away the control to someone else, but he expects that if he said no, Harry would back off. It's not as if he doesn't want it anyway, so he relaxes against the other man and lets himself moan, rocking into the slick hand. He listens to Harry breathe next to his ear, can hear him, feel him.
He's not all that sure whose name he's groaning, he doubts he cares. Someone else's touch isn't so bad, though it feels like Harry's hands are smoother than his own. He's too damned gentle, but he seems to get rough enough when his mind thinks of it, like he's some kind of mind-reader. Just enough to lead him along, get him towards the end -- not too much, not too little. James is sure he can take more, but Harry probably can give only so much.
James is close; his noises are cut off when Harry leans over his shoulder and goes in for a kiss. He tastes a lot of the water from the shower, and feels a tongue probing. He fights back, biting Harry and pressing against him. The other man doesn't put up a fight, lets him do what he wants -- lips, teeth, tongue (god it's too hot now).
He jerks away from the kiss so he can breathe, coming over Harry's hand; he doesn't have enough air to make any proper noises to go with it, but it's just as well.
For a moment, he has someone to lean against.
Only for a moment, because Harry is pulling away, stepping out of the shower, all without a word.
He can't imagine what Harry might be thinking, or thought at the time. What brought him in, what made him do that -- why's he putting up with this from James?
James decides he can't afford to think about it.