Lost Days
Title: Lost Days [part three: sun]
Pairing: James/Harry
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Into the hill, into the fog -- up and over we go.
I was sort of lying when I said I wanted to look for you.
I mean, I actually tried to.
But you know... you know what they said?
They said you were missing.
I... I didn't know what to do. So I kept my mouth shut...
-=-=-
This is, sadly, the cleanest that Harry's felt in the past couple of days.
He's dripping wet, sitting outside of the hotel room and staring out. They couldn't very well make it to Silent Hill in the same day, but they're not too far. Hell, he's sure if he pushed it, he could probably walk there, but...
He's dreading what he'll find out. Just what's wrong with him, why is he like this...?
If he's dead, why is he here?
Somehow, though, he... thinks about James. He's been trying not to. Harry can't make everything about him make sense. There's a lot he doesn't know, honestly; he remembers, distinctly, about James driving into the lake, and the brief mention of his dead wife, Mary. Something happened with her, specifically, that made James make that suicidal choice, but was it really just her death?
It's... it's not really Harry's business, but he isn't enjoying the wall between them.
Not that they're particularly close, in a mental nature. Physically, they have no problem.
Even Harry's beginning to find he can't help himself. Is that what it's like for James? It's... disconcerting that he's letting his body's desires do the talking; it's like Harry can't even think for himself sometimes...
He sighs and leans his head back, staring out.
The balcony provides him cover from the rain outside. It's pouring, and it feels appropriate enough. It doesn't feel as suffocating as ashes or snow, so Harry can't complain, really. The grayish nature, however, does make it... bleak.
He already misses the sun.
There's a loud thud as a car passes by on the road; Harry winces sympathetically as he sees a pigeon get hit. It slams into the mud and tries to move, not yet immediately dead. It gives pathetic noises, trying to drag itself along.
He swallows, and he finds himself moving again.
(Oh god not again)
Stiffly, Harry approaches the bird; he can't really help himself, and he still doesn't understand why that is. He's reaching down, grabbing the bird. It chirps at him, struggling against his grip, and he brings it to his mouth (stop it, STOP IT) and bites down hard at the stomach, tearing out guts and chewing away at the hot insides. It practicaly screeches at him before going still, and he's still biting away (stop stop stop).
"Harry."
He stills, and slowly turns to peer at James, knowing he has blood dripping down his lips and chin. The rain does little to wash it away. He feels horridly ashamed for doing this, but he can't help himself. He's lifting the bird, starting to shove it in his mouth.
"Spit it out," James says, all too calmly. "Harry."
He wants to gag. He doesn't. His teeth clench a moment, enough that he feels blood seeping into his mouth from the dead bird's body. The taste is revolting, but he's swallowing instinctively -- and eventually, he spits out the bird, letting its body crumple into the mud.
"Get over here."
Harry doesn't waste a moment; it doesn't feel like he's completely got control of himself yet, but he's just glad to not... not be eating that poor pigeon anymore. He can still taste the blood, though (shit he's licking his lips).
He's soaked, all the way through, and it's easy to be cold this way.
He shivers.
He stays very still as James begins to undress him, letting the pieces of clothing drop to the floor in a loud thud, soaking the carpet. It's that unfair part, where he's dripping wet and naked and he lets James do it anyway, who's dressed and dry and clean and it's really quite ironic.
There's silence between them; there's something on the other man's mind, as James is glancing around, scowling about something. It's strange, since he didn't seem to care much when Harry was raiding his fridge or when he ate that snake.
James reaches up, grabbing him suddenly by the arm; in a way, he feels dull, staring at the younger man as he's pulled down. As James sits, he twists Harry around so that he's bent facedown over the other man's knees; James hooks a leg between Harry's, and pins his arms behind his back.
Harry finds, really quickly, that he doesn't like this position at all. As much as he finds he can't ever say no to James, this is a little more... dominant then he cares for.
"James..."
"Stop eating like this." James sounds so... damned normal it's kind of eerie. A little annoyed, and that's about it. "I don't know what's going on with you, but--"
"I don't know, either!" Harry doesn't mean to snap at him, but. God, does James think that...? "I don't because I want to! It... it just happens--"
It happens before he knows it. There's a loud slap in the air, and he feels stinging on his rear.
Did... did James just...?! What the hell--
"Don't," James says, way too easily, as if Harry can control himself. "There's something wrong with you."
"Thanks for noticing," Harry replies, a little more wryly than he means to sound. He winces at another slap. "Ow-- damn it, sorry. I don't know, I--"
"Something wrong with you. Like... it's not always you."
Not always him? Harry tries to rethink that. There are times when he doesn't feel like he's completely in control of himself, like when he... was eating the reed or the snake. Or when, sometimes, he lets James fuck him and touch him however the hell he wants. He isn't sure what it is, really--
"James!" Harry yelps, jerking at the next slap on his backside. "For crying out loud-- stop it!"
Honestly... he's sure that if he struggled enough, he could writhe out of the grip from the other man, but Harry doesn't. He gives his vocal displeasure, and it does little; whatever entices James to... to slap him, it stays, and he shifts under the hand hitting him. His ass stings and...
God damn it, no, no he is not getting aroused by... by this.
He can't hide it well. Though he hangs his head and hates how flushed he feels (though he's still shivering), he's panting and-- shit, he didn't mean to rub up against the other man's leg.
James is still for a moment, wordless.
The hand removes itself from his backside, and fingers are pressing against Harry's lips instead. It doesn't take much to get the meaning; the older man is groaning a little and taking the digits into his mouth, sucking on them.
It's far too satisfying to hear James breathe a little faster, something... different than how disturbingly calm and still he's been.
A hand is still pinning his wrists behind his back, but Harry cares less about his sore muscles; he's still sucking on the fingers, as many as James can press into his mouth. He doesn't care about his teeth biting a little or the way it sounds like he's slurping.
Slowly, the fingers pull away; Harry licks his lips.
This is a bit different than usual. The past few times, they've had far more appropriate lubrication, and it doesn't seem like saliva is enough, and partially it really isn't. This is rougher, and it hurts a little more, but he doesn't really mind -- he's still kind of slick inside, anyway, since he hasn't... exactly bathed properly since their last bout of intimacy.
Harry groans and his body shivers against James. Just the fingers pressing inside, slowly, curling into him and dragging out -- that's all, and it's. It's still a lot. The younger man is being amazingly gentle at the moment, completely in contrast with what he was doing before.
He quivers and he tries to readjust his position to be a bit more accommodating, but there isn't much Harry can do about it. He lifts his hips as much as he can manage to, groaning and trembling as the fingers slide in. It begins with one, but it increases easily to five.
It's still terribly gentle, and he can't help but appreciate that much more than the both of them being so damned rough with one another.
(something is wrong with him, not always there, it's not always Harry)
He doesn't hold himself back, though he thinks he should because he's not sure if the rooms next door are vacant -- but Harry lets himself scream senselessly when fingers are too gently probing at the horridly sensitive spot in his body. He can't help but squirm now -- not to get away, but because his body doesn't know what to do with this sensation that's overwhelming him.
Harry groans and yelps, his hips shaking as James takes his time.
Why does it always come down to this?
(Can't ever say no.)
When he comes, even that feels too gentle. He moans and shakes against the other man's lap, arching his body a little. Harry is panting, but James is pulling away his fingers and tugging the older man up for a brief kiss.
In a way, it almost feels like an establishment of ownership.
Harry hates the idea, and throws it away; he's thinking too much about this.
"You should probably shower," James mutters against him.
Harry nods quietly.
He agrees; he's been feeling filthy for too long.
-=-=-
"I... thank you for your time. You must be Frank?"
"Yes? Can I help you?"
"I'm... well, maybe. I was actually looking for someone. I, uh... This is probably a jump -- you might not even know him -- but I was looking for this guy. James?"
"James?"
"Yeah. I mean, I think he's from Ashfield, right--?"
"You've seen my son?"
"I. Um."
-=-=-
The shower's the first normal thing that Harry's done, he expects. Between... this dead thing, James, Silent Hill, and eating random things, the shower's so damned nice and calming and hot and he's glad for it. It's enough that it burns him a little and he doesn't care, because he hates being cold.
Getting too cold lately. What's wrong with him?
Harry eventually turns off the shower and dries off, giving a little sigh of relief.
This is probably... the last time that he'll feel even remotely clean, he's sure. They're still going to Silent Hill, and James won't even turn back.
Nothing to lose, but what's he got to gain?
Harry glances around the bathroom for his clothes. Sopping wet as they are, they're the... they're the only things he has now, but they look like they're missing. He isn't too sure about just stepping out from the bathroom without notice. Fine, James has seen him enough that nudity shouldn't be a problem by now, but still.
Hesitantly, he steps out, and he already starts to feel cold. He hisses a little to himself before he turns.
James is sitting on the bed, hunched over and thinking. About what, Harry knows he'll never likely find out.
"Uh." Harry feels awkward like this, standing without any clothes on. At all. "Where...?"
"I hung them up. They're wet," James tells him, all without looking up.
For a moment, Harry glances around until he spots them by the sink, slung over some bars next to the small closet. They'll probably be wet until morning -- but at least... well, at least James thought to hang them. It was oddly thoughtful of him to do that.
"Come on," James calls for him.
Harry turns slowly, looking at him. "But. Uh."
He isn't terribly sure why lacking any clothing at all in front of James bothers him. It might have something to do with the fact that, up until this point, at least Harry's been able to keep some kind of layer of clothing on between them, that it somehow has been able to protect him.
Not that he feels like he has must to fear from James, but he's increasingly feeling more and more vulnerable, even though he was able to walk away from being hit by a car.
Eventually, he does approach. When James grabs his wrist, it's then that Harry notices just how cold he feels, because the other man's hand feels incredibly warm. Harry grits his teeth a little, but he allows himself to be pulled into the bed.
There's nothing comforting about the way James wraps his arms around Harry; the positioning is to be sure that they're not facing each other. It'd completely personal without being... well, personal. There are, at least, no roaming hands this time -- not that he could ever refuse James of that, either.
Harry lets out a sigh before his eyes close.
Maybe hours pass. Maybe minutes. It's hard to tell, sleepless as he is without being able to tell the time. There's hot breath on the back of his neck and eventually a word is murmured as Mary in passing. Harry doesn't wince.
He isn't sure if he can sleep.
And in the distance, he's sure he can hear bells, church bells...
-=-=-
Dreams are, typically, out of his range of reach; although James is completely aware that he has them, normally he can't recall them. Mostly, it's due to that fact that he doesn't care to, of course, but also that they feel far away, tucked away into a far corner of his mind that he doesn't dare to open.
In some ways, he knows, he scares himself. That "corner" is forbidden.
Whatever he's dreamed -- something thoroughly unpleasant, he knows that much -- James shoves it away and finds himself awakening.
The first thing he notices (something fairly stupid, he admits to himself) is that there is no one to hold onto. The bed is unfortunately empty. It's only been two days, and he's finding himself already getting used to Harry's presence, albeit he should not. Getting close physically isn't a problem, it's.
It's the emotional part that James would rather not nudge towards. That's dangerous.
The second matter is the smell. A very familiar one that he'd become acquainted with some years ago in Silent Hill. The scent of rot and rust and blood and ash, clogging his senses and making his mind dizzy. He remembers it well, and it makes him jerk out of bed immediately, barely finding the balance to his feet.
Harry catches him by the shoulders, silent, his gaze elsewhere. He's clothed, dry, and looking terribly normal for a dead man who seems to have caught the habit of eating incredibly strange things. Neat and perfectly average looking.
The room is not so much, by comparison. The walls are stained with something black, in a crude design of some sort of symbol that James doesn't recognize at all. The windows are grimy and stained, the floors rotten and the ceiling a rusted mess as the fan slowly but surely turns for no good reason. They never turned on the fan last night.
"We're not far from there," Harry comments quietly, gently letting go of the other man.
"No," James agrees, voice stilted. He was expecting to go to Silent Hill, yes, but.
This way, it looks more like the town's been waiting for them, clawing for them.
He's moving away, finding his clothes and getting dressed; Harry is approaching the window, wiping away dust and grime to stare outside. Already the older man looks tired at the very prospect of wandering into that place again. Admittedly, James isn't exactly looking forward on seeing Silent Hill again, either.
He wonders, faintly, what Harry's experience was like.
Even as James starts for the door, he hears the other man blurt out from behind him, "I'm sorry. I... you're really dragged into this now."
The younger man gives Harry a look over the shoulder, then shrugs. "I told you. It was my decision to come here. It's not like you made me do anything I didn't want."
In fact, it's been the total opposite. Every little thing, Harry has given him. James has taken what he's wanted from the other man, and yet still Harry has some sort of obligation to apologize and feel at fault. Even when they first met, Harry looked sorrowful that he couldn't help James, like he was responsible for everything, but damn it no.
And all for what? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Harry hasn't done a single damned thing wrong from what James can tell. The man's got to be a saint or something -- which doesn't justify Harry's rather unfortunate and unusual situation.
James steps outside, and it's just about what he expects. It's foggy as hell, and the air is a bit thick. Something doesn't taste or smell right, but that's about to be expected. The entire lot is abandoned, not another soul in sight.
It's just James and Harry now.
In all serious, he's certain there should be panic rising in him, or something -- but he feels numb, at best. He glances around a moment before turning to go find his car in the parking lot, unlocking the trunk.
"You came prepared?" Harry sounds mystified at that.
James doesn't blame him. He shrugs. "Not really. I don't have much of anything, but I figured we should take what we can get. Here."
It's a wheeljack; it's not much in the face of some monsters and guns are more comfort, but honestly a part of James is sort of counting on the idea that if Harry can get hit by a car and still walk that maybe monsters will have a similar effect on him. It's selfish thinking, but really James has no other way to work.
He hasn't for ages.
There's a revolver in a box, locked up, but James has the key on him.
Never know. He just wishes he had more bullets to go with it.
"Oh no," Harry mutters, sounding more disappointed than anything else.
James glances at him, confused, but he finds out why when he watches a snowflake settle onto his hand. It's late into summer, it's still hot and humid, and it's snowing.
This didn't happen to him when he was here last.
"It figures," Harry says, probably more to himself than to James, sighing and glancing away. "I don't suppose you have a radio in there?"
"I didn't think I'd ever come back here," James replies, shaking his head. "And before you can say it-- you don't have to apologize, Harry. I came here on my own."
It's not hard to tell; the man takes every little mistake to himself, every large one. Getting caught before it can be spoken actually causes the older man to flush a little in embarrassment and nod, looking awkward as hell.
(He hates to think to himself, not a bad expression, but not the time for this right now, damn it.)
There's the familiar sensation of seclusion as they explore down the road. It was like this on his first trip, and now it feels as though history is repeating itself, in a manner. Here they both are, men familiar with Silent Hill, only to return to it, looking for answers. Harry has better questions than James, but he knows he's looking for something, too.
James seriously doubts he'll find it. But it's worth a shot.
To be honest, they can't be far from town at all if the place has already transformed itself; just awhile until they get there. Where to go from there, of course, is another thing entirely.
"Did you have a place in mind?" James asks, tone flat as ever as they walk towards that damned town.
Harry frowns a little, then nods. "I was thinking that... maybe I should revisit a few places. If we can get there. I honestly don't know what'll happen, though -- or if I'll get the answers I need. But Midwich School is where I want to start."
"Why there?" Come to think of it, James doesn't even know why or how Harry was here before.
"It's... a really long story," Harry says softly. "But when I was here before, that was one of the first places I went to. If we start from there, I'm pretty sure we'll find some clues."
"Right. A school is going to tell you why you're a zombie," James mutters under his breath.
It causes Harry to shoot him a look, scowling at him. "I'm not a-- for crying out loud, James."
"I didn't mean it," the younger man responds, shrugging. Truthfully, he's not really sure what he means. It was just a passing comment, and really he feels sort of indifferent to Harry's reaction.
Even by just walking down the street in this godforsaken town, James isn't doing this for Harry. He's doing this for himself.
-=-=-
"It was the strangest thing. A few years ago, my daughter-in-law was sick, with something real awful. What did they call it..."
This man. Frank. At first, he seemed a little odd, Harry admitted, but after mentioning James, he was in a hurry to drag the author inside and discuss matters.
Harry was on the couch; Frank was fixing coffee, in spite of the fact that Harry had politely declined at the offer.
"Your daughter-in-law?" Harry asked.
"Mary." That was a name hard for Harry to forget. "James was head over heels for her. When she got sick, something in him died, too." Frank held up the mug. "How do you take it?"
"As it is, please," Harry responded quietly. "So she was ill."
"For three years. She wasn't getting any better, and the hospital let her go home. A little after that, the pair of them disappeared." Frank shook his head. "No word, not a thing."
"They disappeared... when exactly?"
"Had to have been four years ago now," Frank replied. "I know I'm foolish for holdin' out, but I keep hopin' they'll turn up here again."
Harry felt a knot in his stomach. What happened with Mary? Why didn't James talk to his father afterwards?
Where the hell was James?
"I'm sorry. How exactly did you say you know James?" Frank asked suddenly after giving Harry the mug.
As soon as it was handed, Harry dropped the coffee upon the question.
-=-=-
At first glance, the school looks about the same as it had seventeen years ago. Harry certainly can't tell if it's because of his own memories, or if it's because Silent Hill just sees no need to change it. Regardless, the sign is there; Midwich Elementary with the abandoned school bus parked nearby. There's deceptively nothing odd about this place, other than the fog obscuring the distance and snow falling to the ground in the month of August.
Before Harry takes a step further, he's sure that he gets this... dreaded feeling, twisting into a knot in his stomach.
"Harry?" James asks, surprisingly observant to the older man's behavior, though his voice remains rather unemotional, not really hinting at concern.
"There's..." The author frowns and turns to face James. "I feel like something awful is going to happen soon."
James just raises a brow at him and turns to continue advancing towards the school. "You do know what town we're in, don't you? Something bad is bound to happen."
"I know that," Harry grumbles. "I just mean... if we go in there, I just know something really... really messed up is going to happen and we're going to regret it. Something big. James, maybe we should rethink this a little?"
"In case you hadn't noticed? We're in Silent Hill," James tells him, shaking his head. "We don't have much of a choice now. If you think we need to go into the school, then that's where we'll have to go."
"Yeah." Harry sighs and gives up. "You're right."
The words really aren't much of a matter of comfort, not that Harry things that he should expect that from someone like James anyway. There's just that... that blockade there. It's always been difficult to know what the other man is thinking or feeling, and in that case it's just impossible to know what choice of action he'll take. Harry doesn't know what to expect from James, and... he hates feeling like he might never know much more about him.
Harry doesn't know how to have any expectations of him, other than selfish ones.
(Not that selfish is bad; God knows Harry doesn't know how to be, and as much as he's selfless, Harry can't ever manage to go to anyone's rescue, he always utterly fails at it.)
The front doors of the school open with a hideous creak, rust grinding against rust; the interior is as broken down as he can recall, the dust in the air and the smell of decay to go with it.
The hallways are lined with doors, and most of them being locked or jammed, naturally -- such are the expectations of Silent Hill. It's typical and frustrating; Harry listens to James sigh in annoyance at every opportunity, sounding impatient. Harry can only shake his head in return.
The feeling of dread never quite leaves him, though.
(Something is going to happen. Harry knows it.)
Eventually, after a bit of wandering and more locked doors, it's the door to the art classroom that remains unlocked for their finding. Harry gives a brief sigh of relief, and they step inside. There isn't much to it, really; old drawings by children on the walls (which gives Harry the hollow reminder of Cheryl and Alessa), a teacher's desk split open by force of man or monster, and a few stray desks cluttered in a corner. At one side of the room appears to be a kiln -- no doubt for pottery.
James goes off to explore the remains of the teacher's desk, although harry himself takes interest in the kiln at first, approaching it. It still feels warm, that much he can tell. The author leans over to peer inside of it.
There's something in there. ... A key?
Abruptly, the kiln turns on, flames licking at the interior; Harry flinches back, startled.
The key--
:"What happened?" James sounds puzzled, turning and looking at the fire.
"It just, um." For a moment, all Harry can do is gesture, at a loss for words. "There's something inside of it, and it... turned on by itself, I think." He tilts his head, trying to look around the kiln and see if he can turn it off. However, there doesn't appear to be a way to do that.
He pauses, finding himself looking at his own hand.
"Was it something important?" James asks. "The thing you saw."
"I'm not sure. It was a key, but I don't know what to," Harry admits. "It looked like it belonged to a car or something. I don't know -- what I learned from this place is that... is that chances are, if you come across something that's not broken or whatever, you'll probably need it."
"We don't exactly have a way of getting to it," James remarks. "Harry--"
"Just... hang on. I..." Harry bites down on his lower lip, as if in thought.
(Go on. Do it.)
He stares at his hand again.
(You can walk away from it. Just like you walked away from the car crash.)
The fire inside the kiln continues to flicker strongly. It's hot as hell, enough to make Harry sweat a little.
(The fire. It burns, but it won't stay.)
It's this again. It's his body moving without his say so, without his thinking, like when he was devouring the dead bird, or the snake, or the reeds. Harry grits his teeth and he tries to stop himself, but he moves anyway, plunging his arm into the kiln. He can't stop himself from yelling out in pain.
"Harry!" It raises emotion in James' voice, or at least shock; the younger man is grabbing onto the author by the shoulder, trying to pull him away, but Harry is groping around inside of the kiln for the key, in spite of the pain.
God, the fire -- he can feel the flesh of his arm burning and it smells. It's fucking agonizing, his skin crackling; his teeth keep grinding together so hard that he's afraid they'll break at the strain, but he's shocked at himself for not screaming more, although he shakes and whimpers at the pain.
He finds the key, surprisingly not melted; it burns his hand as he grabs it.
Finally, his arm pulls away from the kiln, trembling and suddenly all of the pain sinks in and settles to his brain; Harry gasps and struggles not to shriek at the sensation, his nerves screaming at him, but he doesn't quite manage to stop himself. The author quivers, staring at his armed, the way flesh has been scorched and blisters bubbled to the surface, and he swears it hurts enough that he thinks his arm just might fall off.
James is grabbing him by the front of his jacket, shaking him enough that it hurts, too; he's angry, yelling at him. "What the fuck were you thinking?!"
Harry cringes. He doesn't have an answer besides I wasn't, it just happened, and he glances at his arm.
Flesh starts to thread back together, blisters shriveling away, and the whole thing just regenerates itself back to perfection. Back to being completely fucking normal, like nothing happened and his sleeve is merely missing.
The younger man releases him, probably only on the base of reasoning that he's just as surprised to have seen the way Harry just healed up like that. He stares intently at Harry.
The writer winces, feeling like a freak in a cage. He doesn't say anything at the moment, just... just pocketing the key and turning away from the other man.
Eventually, he mutters, "Let's just keep moving."
"Harry..." James doesn't say more than that.
But Harry understands what he wants to say, and he turns to snap, "I don't know. I don't know what's wrong with me. But..." He sighs and holds his forehead. "God. I'm not crazy, James. I'm not."
"That part I can believe," James replies quietly.
Harry stares at him, frowning, not sure what to make of that. But they don't speak much more.
They're both just eager to leave the classroom, no doubt.
(He gets the feeling something bad is going to--)
Even after they exit the door, Harry is looking around, that feeling gnawing at the edges of his nerves. What is it that's bothering him so much? Just... the sensation that something is around the corner, waiting for them. Honestly, the fact that they haven't come across any unusual creatures is strange enough as it is.
So what exactly is going on here?
(something bad)
"Harry?" James has a hand on the writer's shoulder.
It's about then that it rings out, pounding inside of his skull. The sound of church bells, metal slamming against metal. It sounds so damned close, enough to be in Harry's head. He yelps out, clutching his forehead and trembling down to his knees--
"Harry?!" The way James is reacting, it's like he doesn't feel it at all.
The older man watches, dreading, horrified; the walls are rotting away, worse than usual. Paint peels, rust bubbles to the surface, and everything is getting so damned dark, and his head hurts so much that he almost feels like passing out.
It gets too damned dark to see. The ringing doesn't go away at first, but eventually, it starts to fade off.
He isn't sure if he's awake or not, at least not until James is shaking his shoulder again.
The air is heavier. It smells worse, God he doesn't even know how to describe it -- if something could... die ten times in a row while still rotting, that's about how he'd call this stench. The sight isn't much better when James turns on his flashlight.
"What the hell just happened?" the younger man mutters, baffled. "Those bells--"
"You did hear it?" Harry turns to face him after he slowly gets back onto his feet, brushing himself off.
James nods. "Yeah, but you just... you were in pain, weren't you?"
Harry has to bite his lip to keep from saying Like it even matters if I am. Honestly, his arm is like new after sticking it into the kiln... "A headache got me pretty hard. I don't know what's going on, though. But when I first visited this place, this... sort of thing only happened after I heard some kind of air raid siren. The church bells are something new."
"So's that," James says wryly, turning the flashlight over down the hallway.
The author starts to question what he means, but he immediately sees what James means. From one wall to another, there are gaping holes, like some thing rammed its way through and tunneled into the floor through the boys' bathroom.
Strange sight, and... it's starting to give Harry a bit of a headache.
He takes a step back. "James, I... let's not go this way. I don't know if..."
"There's something down there." James turns to look at Harry. "Isn't there?"
"What? Are you going to jump down without a care?" Harry asks, baffled. "Don't be crazy."
"Because sticking your arm into a fire wasn't nuts at all," James mutters under his breath, not at all bothering to hide his words.
The writer flinches faintly, turning his head away. "That... I couldn't help it. I..."
There's the echoing sound of gurgling coming from the depths of the gaping hole. Harry finds it to be a smarter idea to back up, but James just looks puzzled, peering down.
(getting closer getting closer)
"James--" Harry starts to say, suddenly feeling stiff with fear. He can hear a noise, something rapidly crawling up the tunnel.
Fast. Heavy. Big.
(closer)
The author grabs onto James' arm, yanking him away from the hole in the floor. It's just in time, to get away from what suddenly wriggles out from there -- a large... worm thing, slimy as hell. The head splits open, snarling, dripping what Harry hopes is just drool. It... seems to have a blonde mane running down its back, several rather human-looking arms protruding from its sides, holding itself up from the hole.
What the fuck--
It wavers around, and instinctively, Harry finds himself standing in front of James. The younger man actually starts to give argument, but it doesn't last; the worm creature swings down quickly, far faster than the author would expect from such a thick-looking monster.
Teeth are clamping down onto his shoulder, and the worm wriggles, pulling Harry into the air. The author lets out a surprised shout, trying to pull himself out of the grip of its jaws, but it just bites down harder. He hears gunshots, probably coming from James, but he can't see.
And everything moves so fast, so damned fast, when the worm suddenly drags Harry down the hole with it.
"HARRY!"
-=-=-
Harry left South Ashfield Heights, shaking his head a little. What was he hoping to do, anyway? To find that ... somehow, James was magically okay after everything? What would he even say to him?
Deep down, he knew. He wasn't expecting to see him.
He sighed. Going back home didn't sit right off with him.
There was a bar on the way to the highway. Some hole in the wall, some place that could have used some serious renovations, but he couldn't find himself caring too much.
He couldn't help but wince when the barkeep spoke to him, trying for conversation.
"You look like you're lookin' for someone."
Harry, in all of his... friendliness, his generosity, honest wished he could be left alone. "Yeah. Someone I met before. Thought I could just catch up with him, or something." Honestly, he didn't know what he was trying to find. "Does someone named James stop by here?"
"Oh. Yeah, sure, all the time."
Harry looked up, almost hopeful.
"Um. James Shepherd?"
"No." Harry sighed. "Thanks anyway."
Wherever the hell he was, Harry would probably never see his face again -- if he was still alive.
"It was Sunderland."
-=-=-
sun
under
the
land
Pairing: James/Harry
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Into the hill, into the fog -- up and over we go.
I was sort of lying when I said I wanted to look for you.
I mean, I actually tried to.
But you know... you know what they said?
They said you were missing.
I... I didn't know what to do. So I kept my mouth shut...
-=-=-
This is, sadly, the cleanest that Harry's felt in the past couple of days.
He's dripping wet, sitting outside of the hotel room and staring out. They couldn't very well make it to Silent Hill in the same day, but they're not too far. Hell, he's sure if he pushed it, he could probably walk there, but...
He's dreading what he'll find out. Just what's wrong with him, why is he like this...?
If he's dead, why is he here?
Somehow, though, he... thinks about James. He's been trying not to. Harry can't make everything about him make sense. There's a lot he doesn't know, honestly; he remembers, distinctly, about James driving into the lake, and the brief mention of his dead wife, Mary. Something happened with her, specifically, that made James make that suicidal choice, but was it really just her death?
It's... it's not really Harry's business, but he isn't enjoying the wall between them.
Not that they're particularly close, in a mental nature. Physically, they have no problem.
Even Harry's beginning to find he can't help himself. Is that what it's like for James? It's... disconcerting that he's letting his body's desires do the talking; it's like Harry can't even think for himself sometimes...
He sighs and leans his head back, staring out.
The balcony provides him cover from the rain outside. It's pouring, and it feels appropriate enough. It doesn't feel as suffocating as ashes or snow, so Harry can't complain, really. The grayish nature, however, does make it... bleak.
He already misses the sun.
There's a loud thud as a car passes by on the road; Harry winces sympathetically as he sees a pigeon get hit. It slams into the mud and tries to move, not yet immediately dead. It gives pathetic noises, trying to drag itself along.
He swallows, and he finds himself moving again.
(Oh god not again)
Stiffly, Harry approaches the bird; he can't really help himself, and he still doesn't understand why that is. He's reaching down, grabbing the bird. It chirps at him, struggling against his grip, and he brings it to his mouth (stop it, STOP IT) and bites down hard at the stomach, tearing out guts and chewing away at the hot insides. It practicaly screeches at him before going still, and he's still biting away (stop stop stop).
"Harry."
He stills, and slowly turns to peer at James, knowing he has blood dripping down his lips and chin. The rain does little to wash it away. He feels horridly ashamed for doing this, but he can't help himself. He's lifting the bird, starting to shove it in his mouth.
"Spit it out," James says, all too calmly. "Harry."
He wants to gag. He doesn't. His teeth clench a moment, enough that he feels blood seeping into his mouth from the dead bird's body. The taste is revolting, but he's swallowing instinctively -- and eventually, he spits out the bird, letting its body crumple into the mud.
"Get over here."
Harry doesn't waste a moment; it doesn't feel like he's completely got control of himself yet, but he's just glad to not... not be eating that poor pigeon anymore. He can still taste the blood, though (shit he's licking his lips).
He's soaked, all the way through, and it's easy to be cold this way.
He shivers.
He stays very still as James begins to undress him, letting the pieces of clothing drop to the floor in a loud thud, soaking the carpet. It's that unfair part, where he's dripping wet and naked and he lets James do it anyway, who's dressed and dry and clean and it's really quite ironic.
There's silence between them; there's something on the other man's mind, as James is glancing around, scowling about something. It's strange, since he didn't seem to care much when Harry was raiding his fridge or when he ate that snake.
James reaches up, grabbing him suddenly by the arm; in a way, he feels dull, staring at the younger man as he's pulled down. As James sits, he twists Harry around so that he's bent facedown over the other man's knees; James hooks a leg between Harry's, and pins his arms behind his back.
Harry finds, really quickly, that he doesn't like this position at all. As much as he finds he can't ever say no to James, this is a little more... dominant then he cares for.
"James..."
"Stop eating like this." James sounds so... damned normal it's kind of eerie. A little annoyed, and that's about it. "I don't know what's going on with you, but--"
"I don't know, either!" Harry doesn't mean to snap at him, but. God, does James think that...? "I don't because I want to! It... it just happens--"
It happens before he knows it. There's a loud slap in the air, and he feels stinging on his rear.
Did... did James just...?! What the hell--
"Don't," James says, way too easily, as if Harry can control himself. "There's something wrong with you."
"Thanks for noticing," Harry replies, a little more wryly than he means to sound. He winces at another slap. "Ow-- damn it, sorry. I don't know, I--"
"Something wrong with you. Like... it's not always you."
Not always him? Harry tries to rethink that. There are times when he doesn't feel like he's completely in control of himself, like when he... was eating the reed or the snake. Or when, sometimes, he lets James fuck him and touch him however the hell he wants. He isn't sure what it is, really--
"James!" Harry yelps, jerking at the next slap on his backside. "For crying out loud-- stop it!"
Honestly... he's sure that if he struggled enough, he could writhe out of the grip from the other man, but Harry doesn't. He gives his vocal displeasure, and it does little; whatever entices James to... to slap him, it stays, and he shifts under the hand hitting him. His ass stings and...
God damn it, no, no he is not getting aroused by... by this.
He can't hide it well. Though he hangs his head and hates how flushed he feels (though he's still shivering), he's panting and-- shit, he didn't mean to rub up against the other man's leg.
James is still for a moment, wordless.
The hand removes itself from his backside, and fingers are pressing against Harry's lips instead. It doesn't take much to get the meaning; the older man is groaning a little and taking the digits into his mouth, sucking on them.
It's far too satisfying to hear James breathe a little faster, something... different than how disturbingly calm and still he's been.
A hand is still pinning his wrists behind his back, but Harry cares less about his sore muscles; he's still sucking on the fingers, as many as James can press into his mouth. He doesn't care about his teeth biting a little or the way it sounds like he's slurping.
Slowly, the fingers pull away; Harry licks his lips.
This is a bit different than usual. The past few times, they've had far more appropriate lubrication, and it doesn't seem like saliva is enough, and partially it really isn't. This is rougher, and it hurts a little more, but he doesn't really mind -- he's still kind of slick inside, anyway, since he hasn't... exactly bathed properly since their last bout of intimacy.
Harry groans and his body shivers against James. Just the fingers pressing inside, slowly, curling into him and dragging out -- that's all, and it's. It's still a lot. The younger man is being amazingly gentle at the moment, completely in contrast with what he was doing before.
He quivers and he tries to readjust his position to be a bit more accommodating, but there isn't much Harry can do about it. He lifts his hips as much as he can manage to, groaning and trembling as the fingers slide in. It begins with one, but it increases easily to five.
It's still terribly gentle, and he can't help but appreciate that much more than the both of them being so damned rough with one another.
(something is wrong with him, not always there, it's not always Harry)
He doesn't hold himself back, though he thinks he should because he's not sure if the rooms next door are vacant -- but Harry lets himself scream senselessly when fingers are too gently probing at the horridly sensitive spot in his body. He can't help but squirm now -- not to get away, but because his body doesn't know what to do with this sensation that's overwhelming him.
Harry groans and yelps, his hips shaking as James takes his time.
Why does it always come down to this?
(Can't ever say no.)
When he comes, even that feels too gentle. He moans and shakes against the other man's lap, arching his body a little. Harry is panting, but James is pulling away his fingers and tugging the older man up for a brief kiss.
In a way, it almost feels like an establishment of ownership.
Harry hates the idea, and throws it away; he's thinking too much about this.
"You should probably shower," James mutters against him.
Harry nods quietly.
He agrees; he's been feeling filthy for too long.
-=-=-
"I... thank you for your time. You must be Frank?"
"Yes? Can I help you?"
"I'm... well, maybe. I was actually looking for someone. I, uh... This is probably a jump -- you might not even know him -- but I was looking for this guy. James?"
"James?"
"Yeah. I mean, I think he's from Ashfield, right--?"
"You've seen my son?"
"I. Um."
-=-=-
The shower's the first normal thing that Harry's done, he expects. Between... this dead thing, James, Silent Hill, and eating random things, the shower's so damned nice and calming and hot and he's glad for it. It's enough that it burns him a little and he doesn't care, because he hates being cold.
Getting too cold lately. What's wrong with him?
Harry eventually turns off the shower and dries off, giving a little sigh of relief.
This is probably... the last time that he'll feel even remotely clean, he's sure. They're still going to Silent Hill, and James won't even turn back.
Nothing to lose, but what's he got to gain?
Harry glances around the bathroom for his clothes. Sopping wet as they are, they're the... they're the only things he has now, but they look like they're missing. He isn't too sure about just stepping out from the bathroom without notice. Fine, James has seen him enough that nudity shouldn't be a problem by now, but still.
Hesitantly, he steps out, and he already starts to feel cold. He hisses a little to himself before he turns.
James is sitting on the bed, hunched over and thinking. About what, Harry knows he'll never likely find out.
"Uh." Harry feels awkward like this, standing without any clothes on. At all. "Where...?"
"I hung them up. They're wet," James tells him, all without looking up.
For a moment, Harry glances around until he spots them by the sink, slung over some bars next to the small closet. They'll probably be wet until morning -- but at least... well, at least James thought to hang them. It was oddly thoughtful of him to do that.
"Come on," James calls for him.
Harry turns slowly, looking at him. "But. Uh."
He isn't terribly sure why lacking any clothing at all in front of James bothers him. It might have something to do with the fact that, up until this point, at least Harry's been able to keep some kind of layer of clothing on between them, that it somehow has been able to protect him.
Not that he feels like he has must to fear from James, but he's increasingly feeling more and more vulnerable, even though he was able to walk away from being hit by a car.
Eventually, he does approach. When James grabs his wrist, it's then that Harry notices just how cold he feels, because the other man's hand feels incredibly warm. Harry grits his teeth a little, but he allows himself to be pulled into the bed.
There's nothing comforting about the way James wraps his arms around Harry; the positioning is to be sure that they're not facing each other. It'd completely personal without being... well, personal. There are, at least, no roaming hands this time -- not that he could ever refuse James of that, either.
Harry lets out a sigh before his eyes close.
Maybe hours pass. Maybe minutes. It's hard to tell, sleepless as he is without being able to tell the time. There's hot breath on the back of his neck and eventually a word is murmured as Mary in passing. Harry doesn't wince.
He isn't sure if he can sleep.
And in the distance, he's sure he can hear bells, church bells...
-=-=-
Dreams are, typically, out of his range of reach; although James is completely aware that he has them, normally he can't recall them. Mostly, it's due to that fact that he doesn't care to, of course, but also that they feel far away, tucked away into a far corner of his mind that he doesn't dare to open.
In some ways, he knows, he scares himself. That "corner" is forbidden.
Whatever he's dreamed -- something thoroughly unpleasant, he knows that much -- James shoves it away and finds himself awakening.
The first thing he notices (something fairly stupid, he admits to himself) is that there is no one to hold onto. The bed is unfortunately empty. It's only been two days, and he's finding himself already getting used to Harry's presence, albeit he should not. Getting close physically isn't a problem, it's.
It's the emotional part that James would rather not nudge towards. That's dangerous.
The second matter is the smell. A very familiar one that he'd become acquainted with some years ago in Silent Hill. The scent of rot and rust and blood and ash, clogging his senses and making his mind dizzy. He remembers it well, and it makes him jerk out of bed immediately, barely finding the balance to his feet.
Harry catches him by the shoulders, silent, his gaze elsewhere. He's clothed, dry, and looking terribly normal for a dead man who seems to have caught the habit of eating incredibly strange things. Neat and perfectly average looking.
The room is not so much, by comparison. The walls are stained with something black, in a crude design of some sort of symbol that James doesn't recognize at all. The windows are grimy and stained, the floors rotten and the ceiling a rusted mess as the fan slowly but surely turns for no good reason. They never turned on the fan last night.
"We're not far from there," Harry comments quietly, gently letting go of the other man.
"No," James agrees, voice stilted. He was expecting to go to Silent Hill, yes, but.
This way, it looks more like the town's been waiting for them, clawing for them.
He's moving away, finding his clothes and getting dressed; Harry is approaching the window, wiping away dust and grime to stare outside. Already the older man looks tired at the very prospect of wandering into that place again. Admittedly, James isn't exactly looking forward on seeing Silent Hill again, either.
He wonders, faintly, what Harry's experience was like.
Even as James starts for the door, he hears the other man blurt out from behind him, "I'm sorry. I... you're really dragged into this now."
The younger man gives Harry a look over the shoulder, then shrugs. "I told you. It was my decision to come here. It's not like you made me do anything I didn't want."
In fact, it's been the total opposite. Every little thing, Harry has given him. James has taken what he's wanted from the other man, and yet still Harry has some sort of obligation to apologize and feel at fault. Even when they first met, Harry looked sorrowful that he couldn't help James, like he was responsible for everything, but damn it no.
And all for what? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Harry hasn't done a single damned thing wrong from what James can tell. The man's got to be a saint or something -- which doesn't justify Harry's rather unfortunate and unusual situation.
James steps outside, and it's just about what he expects. It's foggy as hell, and the air is a bit thick. Something doesn't taste or smell right, but that's about to be expected. The entire lot is abandoned, not another soul in sight.
It's just James and Harry now.
In all serious, he's certain there should be panic rising in him, or something -- but he feels numb, at best. He glances around a moment before turning to go find his car in the parking lot, unlocking the trunk.
"You came prepared?" Harry sounds mystified at that.
James doesn't blame him. He shrugs. "Not really. I don't have much of anything, but I figured we should take what we can get. Here."
It's a wheeljack; it's not much in the face of some monsters and guns are more comfort, but honestly a part of James is sort of counting on the idea that if Harry can get hit by a car and still walk that maybe monsters will have a similar effect on him. It's selfish thinking, but really James has no other way to work.
He hasn't for ages.
There's a revolver in a box, locked up, but James has the key on him.
Never know. He just wishes he had more bullets to go with it.
"Oh no," Harry mutters, sounding more disappointed than anything else.
James glances at him, confused, but he finds out why when he watches a snowflake settle onto his hand. It's late into summer, it's still hot and humid, and it's snowing.
This didn't happen to him when he was here last.
"It figures," Harry says, probably more to himself than to James, sighing and glancing away. "I don't suppose you have a radio in there?"
"I didn't think I'd ever come back here," James replies, shaking his head. "And before you can say it-- you don't have to apologize, Harry. I came here on my own."
It's not hard to tell; the man takes every little mistake to himself, every large one. Getting caught before it can be spoken actually causes the older man to flush a little in embarrassment and nod, looking awkward as hell.
(He hates to think to himself, not a bad expression, but not the time for this right now, damn it.)
There's the familiar sensation of seclusion as they explore down the road. It was like this on his first trip, and now it feels as though history is repeating itself, in a manner. Here they both are, men familiar with Silent Hill, only to return to it, looking for answers. Harry has better questions than James, but he knows he's looking for something, too.
James seriously doubts he'll find it. But it's worth a shot.
To be honest, they can't be far from town at all if the place has already transformed itself; just awhile until they get there. Where to go from there, of course, is another thing entirely.
"Did you have a place in mind?" James asks, tone flat as ever as they walk towards that damned town.
Harry frowns a little, then nods. "I was thinking that... maybe I should revisit a few places. If we can get there. I honestly don't know what'll happen, though -- or if I'll get the answers I need. But Midwich School is where I want to start."
"Why there?" Come to think of it, James doesn't even know why or how Harry was here before.
"It's... a really long story," Harry says softly. "But when I was here before, that was one of the first places I went to. If we start from there, I'm pretty sure we'll find some clues."
"Right. A school is going to tell you why you're a zombie," James mutters under his breath.
It causes Harry to shoot him a look, scowling at him. "I'm not a-- for crying out loud, James."
"I didn't mean it," the younger man responds, shrugging. Truthfully, he's not really sure what he means. It was just a passing comment, and really he feels sort of indifferent to Harry's reaction.
Even by just walking down the street in this godforsaken town, James isn't doing this for Harry. He's doing this for himself.
-=-=-
"It was the strangest thing. A few years ago, my daughter-in-law was sick, with something real awful. What did they call it..."
This man. Frank. At first, he seemed a little odd, Harry admitted, but after mentioning James, he was in a hurry to drag the author inside and discuss matters.
Harry was on the couch; Frank was fixing coffee, in spite of the fact that Harry had politely declined at the offer.
"Your daughter-in-law?" Harry asked.
"Mary." That was a name hard for Harry to forget. "James was head over heels for her. When she got sick, something in him died, too." Frank held up the mug. "How do you take it?"
"As it is, please," Harry responded quietly. "So she was ill."
"For three years. She wasn't getting any better, and the hospital let her go home. A little after that, the pair of them disappeared." Frank shook his head. "No word, not a thing."
"They disappeared... when exactly?"
"Had to have been four years ago now," Frank replied. "I know I'm foolish for holdin' out, but I keep hopin' they'll turn up here again."
Harry felt a knot in his stomach. What happened with Mary? Why didn't James talk to his father afterwards?
Where the hell was James?
"I'm sorry. How exactly did you say you know James?" Frank asked suddenly after giving Harry the mug.
As soon as it was handed, Harry dropped the coffee upon the question.
-=-=-
At first glance, the school looks about the same as it had seventeen years ago. Harry certainly can't tell if it's because of his own memories, or if it's because Silent Hill just sees no need to change it. Regardless, the sign is there; Midwich Elementary with the abandoned school bus parked nearby. There's deceptively nothing odd about this place, other than the fog obscuring the distance and snow falling to the ground in the month of August.
Before Harry takes a step further, he's sure that he gets this... dreaded feeling, twisting into a knot in his stomach.
"Harry?" James asks, surprisingly observant to the older man's behavior, though his voice remains rather unemotional, not really hinting at concern.
"There's..." The author frowns and turns to face James. "I feel like something awful is going to happen soon."
James just raises a brow at him and turns to continue advancing towards the school. "You do know what town we're in, don't you? Something bad is bound to happen."
"I know that," Harry grumbles. "I just mean... if we go in there, I just know something really... really messed up is going to happen and we're going to regret it. Something big. James, maybe we should rethink this a little?"
"In case you hadn't noticed? We're in Silent Hill," James tells him, shaking his head. "We don't have much of a choice now. If you think we need to go into the school, then that's where we'll have to go."
"Yeah." Harry sighs and gives up. "You're right."
The words really aren't much of a matter of comfort, not that Harry things that he should expect that from someone like James anyway. There's just that... that blockade there. It's always been difficult to know what the other man is thinking or feeling, and in that case it's just impossible to know what choice of action he'll take. Harry doesn't know what to expect from James, and... he hates feeling like he might never know much more about him.
Harry doesn't know how to have any expectations of him, other than selfish ones.
(Not that selfish is bad; God knows Harry doesn't know how to be, and as much as he's selfless, Harry can't ever manage to go to anyone's rescue, he always utterly fails at it.)
The front doors of the school open with a hideous creak, rust grinding against rust; the interior is as broken down as he can recall, the dust in the air and the smell of decay to go with it.
The hallways are lined with doors, and most of them being locked or jammed, naturally -- such are the expectations of Silent Hill. It's typical and frustrating; Harry listens to James sigh in annoyance at every opportunity, sounding impatient. Harry can only shake his head in return.
The feeling of dread never quite leaves him, though.
(Something is going to happen. Harry knows it.)
Eventually, after a bit of wandering and more locked doors, it's the door to the art classroom that remains unlocked for their finding. Harry gives a brief sigh of relief, and they step inside. There isn't much to it, really; old drawings by children on the walls (which gives Harry the hollow reminder of Cheryl and Alessa), a teacher's desk split open by force of man or monster, and a few stray desks cluttered in a corner. At one side of the room appears to be a kiln -- no doubt for pottery.
James goes off to explore the remains of the teacher's desk, although harry himself takes interest in the kiln at first, approaching it. It still feels warm, that much he can tell. The author leans over to peer inside of it.
There's something in there. ... A key?
Abruptly, the kiln turns on, flames licking at the interior; Harry flinches back, startled.
The key--
:"What happened?" James sounds puzzled, turning and looking at the fire.
"It just, um." For a moment, all Harry can do is gesture, at a loss for words. "There's something inside of it, and it... turned on by itself, I think." He tilts his head, trying to look around the kiln and see if he can turn it off. However, there doesn't appear to be a way to do that.
He pauses, finding himself looking at his own hand.
"Was it something important?" James asks. "The thing you saw."
"I'm not sure. It was a key, but I don't know what to," Harry admits. "It looked like it belonged to a car or something. I don't know -- what I learned from this place is that... is that chances are, if you come across something that's not broken or whatever, you'll probably need it."
"We don't exactly have a way of getting to it," James remarks. "Harry--"
"Just... hang on. I..." Harry bites down on his lower lip, as if in thought.
(Go on. Do it.)
He stares at his hand again.
(You can walk away from it. Just like you walked away from the car crash.)
The fire inside the kiln continues to flicker strongly. It's hot as hell, enough to make Harry sweat a little.
(The fire. It burns, but it won't stay.)
It's this again. It's his body moving without his say so, without his thinking, like when he was devouring the dead bird, or the snake, or the reeds. Harry grits his teeth and he tries to stop himself, but he moves anyway, plunging his arm into the kiln. He can't stop himself from yelling out in pain.
"Harry!" It raises emotion in James' voice, or at least shock; the younger man is grabbing onto the author by the shoulder, trying to pull him away, but Harry is groping around inside of the kiln for the key, in spite of the pain.
God, the fire -- he can feel the flesh of his arm burning and it smells. It's fucking agonizing, his skin crackling; his teeth keep grinding together so hard that he's afraid they'll break at the strain, but he's shocked at himself for not screaming more, although he shakes and whimpers at the pain.
He finds the key, surprisingly not melted; it burns his hand as he grabs it.
Finally, his arm pulls away from the kiln, trembling and suddenly all of the pain sinks in and settles to his brain; Harry gasps and struggles not to shriek at the sensation, his nerves screaming at him, but he doesn't quite manage to stop himself. The author quivers, staring at his armed, the way flesh has been scorched and blisters bubbled to the surface, and he swears it hurts enough that he thinks his arm just might fall off.
James is grabbing him by the front of his jacket, shaking him enough that it hurts, too; he's angry, yelling at him. "What the fuck were you thinking?!"
Harry cringes. He doesn't have an answer besides I wasn't, it just happened, and he glances at his arm.
Flesh starts to thread back together, blisters shriveling away, and the whole thing just regenerates itself back to perfection. Back to being completely fucking normal, like nothing happened and his sleeve is merely missing.
The younger man releases him, probably only on the base of reasoning that he's just as surprised to have seen the way Harry just healed up like that. He stares intently at Harry.
The writer winces, feeling like a freak in a cage. He doesn't say anything at the moment, just... just pocketing the key and turning away from the other man.
Eventually, he mutters, "Let's just keep moving."
"Harry..." James doesn't say more than that.
But Harry understands what he wants to say, and he turns to snap, "I don't know. I don't know what's wrong with me. But..." He sighs and holds his forehead. "God. I'm not crazy, James. I'm not."
"That part I can believe," James replies quietly.
Harry stares at him, frowning, not sure what to make of that. But they don't speak much more.
They're both just eager to leave the classroom, no doubt.
(He gets the feeling something bad is going to--)
Even after they exit the door, Harry is looking around, that feeling gnawing at the edges of his nerves. What is it that's bothering him so much? Just... the sensation that something is around the corner, waiting for them. Honestly, the fact that they haven't come across any unusual creatures is strange enough as it is.
So what exactly is going on here?
(something bad)
"Harry?" James has a hand on the writer's shoulder.
It's about then that it rings out, pounding inside of his skull. The sound of church bells, metal slamming against metal. It sounds so damned close, enough to be in Harry's head. He yelps out, clutching his forehead and trembling down to his knees--
"Harry?!" The way James is reacting, it's like he doesn't feel it at all.
The older man watches, dreading, horrified; the walls are rotting away, worse than usual. Paint peels, rust bubbles to the surface, and everything is getting so damned dark, and his head hurts so much that he almost feels like passing out.
It gets too damned dark to see. The ringing doesn't go away at first, but eventually, it starts to fade off.
He isn't sure if he's awake or not, at least not until James is shaking his shoulder again.
The air is heavier. It smells worse, God he doesn't even know how to describe it -- if something could... die ten times in a row while still rotting, that's about how he'd call this stench. The sight isn't much better when James turns on his flashlight.
"What the hell just happened?" the younger man mutters, baffled. "Those bells--"
"You did hear it?" Harry turns to face him after he slowly gets back onto his feet, brushing himself off.
James nods. "Yeah, but you just... you were in pain, weren't you?"
Harry has to bite his lip to keep from saying Like it even matters if I am. Honestly, his arm is like new after sticking it into the kiln... "A headache got me pretty hard. I don't know what's going on, though. But when I first visited this place, this... sort of thing only happened after I heard some kind of air raid siren. The church bells are something new."
"So's that," James says wryly, turning the flashlight over down the hallway.
The author starts to question what he means, but he immediately sees what James means. From one wall to another, there are gaping holes, like some thing rammed its way through and tunneled into the floor through the boys' bathroom.
Strange sight, and... it's starting to give Harry a bit of a headache.
He takes a step back. "James, I... let's not go this way. I don't know if..."
"There's something down there." James turns to look at Harry. "Isn't there?"
"What? Are you going to jump down without a care?" Harry asks, baffled. "Don't be crazy."
"Because sticking your arm into a fire wasn't nuts at all," James mutters under his breath, not at all bothering to hide his words.
The writer flinches faintly, turning his head away. "That... I couldn't help it. I..."
There's the echoing sound of gurgling coming from the depths of the gaping hole. Harry finds it to be a smarter idea to back up, but James just looks puzzled, peering down.
(getting closer getting closer)
"James--" Harry starts to say, suddenly feeling stiff with fear. He can hear a noise, something rapidly crawling up the tunnel.
Fast. Heavy. Big.
(closer)
The author grabs onto James' arm, yanking him away from the hole in the floor. It's just in time, to get away from what suddenly wriggles out from there -- a large... worm thing, slimy as hell. The head splits open, snarling, dripping what Harry hopes is just drool. It... seems to have a blonde mane running down its back, several rather human-looking arms protruding from its sides, holding itself up from the hole.
What the fuck--
It wavers around, and instinctively, Harry finds himself standing in front of James. The younger man actually starts to give argument, but it doesn't last; the worm creature swings down quickly, far faster than the author would expect from such a thick-looking monster.
Teeth are clamping down onto his shoulder, and the worm wriggles, pulling Harry into the air. The author lets out a surprised shout, trying to pull himself out of the grip of its jaws, but it just bites down harder. He hears gunshots, probably coming from James, but he can't see.
And everything moves so fast, so damned fast, when the worm suddenly drags Harry down the hole with it.
"HARRY!"
-=-=-
Harry left South Ashfield Heights, shaking his head a little. What was he hoping to do, anyway? To find that ... somehow, James was magically okay after everything? What would he even say to him?
Deep down, he knew. He wasn't expecting to see him.
He sighed. Going back home didn't sit right off with him.
There was a bar on the way to the highway. Some hole in the wall, some place that could have used some serious renovations, but he couldn't find himself caring too much.
He couldn't help but wince when the barkeep spoke to him, trying for conversation.
"You look like you're lookin' for someone."
Harry, in all of his... friendliness, his generosity, honest wished he could be left alone. "Yeah. Someone I met before. Thought I could just catch up with him, or something." Honestly, he didn't know what he was trying to find. "Does someone named James stop by here?"
"Oh. Yeah, sure, all the time."
Harry looked up, almost hopeful.
"Um. James Shepherd?"
"No." Harry sighed. "Thanks anyway."
Wherever the hell he was, Harry would probably never see his face again -- if he was still alive.
"It was Sunderland."
-=-=-
sun
under
the
land