Harry’s wings awkwardly bump against Alfred’s, trying to engulf him fully. His voice is thick with self frustration, and everything Jean told him about himself. He’s a coward.
“I got weird about things. It’s not your fault. I should’ve come by earlier…sent you a message or something. I’m sorry I made you worry.”
PERCEPTION - (With your face pressed against his shoulder you sniff him gently. First thing you smell is the first thing you’ve noticed in general: a lot less burning now, and a lot more like Alfred, clean and soft. That’s very good. It means he isn’t burning things or straining himself.)
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - (How Alfred smells is with a touch of mint. Like you could melt him with your mouth and not the other way around.)
“I haven’t been myself much. The movie stuff wasn’t great for me, threw me for a loop. And when I started being more me-me again I’ve been weird.”
HALF LIGHT - (Jean summed it up. You’ve been a freak, basically.)
VISUAL CALCULUS - (Let me take a look.) He carefully pulls away and looks at Alfred, reaching to cup his cheek like he might shatter his face. He breaks things. The proof of this is written all over his body. Harry’s hands are big, covered with a fine white spider’s web of scarring from broken glass from somewhere he doesn’t remember. Somewhere that was probably a long time ago. So he scans him like a crime scene. For signs of damage, exhaustion, sickness. For anything Harry can see when he looks in the mirror. Is a soul deep sickness communicable? Are there mind-lazareths that can help Alfred if he starts going crazy too?
“I’m not mad or angry…I know what happened. M'just worried. Are you okay?”
The boy hiccups another sob at that - making a keening noise somewhere in the back of his throat as he is wrapped up in that embrace. Why should Harry be sorry? He was the one who - who murdered him, there were no two ways about it. Murdered him and animated the husk left behind like some sort of sick, twisted puppet.
Ah, the movies. That hadn't been great for him, either. His two roles were that of a perverse murderer and a vindictive automaton. Logically, he knows he would never do either of those things, but...there were kernels of truth in both of them, if he looks at them for long enough. And he has been overthinking for a very long time, now.
When his face is cradled, inspected, he allows it - but he looks down and away, unable to meet Harry's eyes with his own teary ones. He looks...very tired, exhausted in a way he doesn't normally let show. His eyes are swollen from crying so much, his face drawn and pale and sallow from lack of sleep. He looks regretful. Haunted.
There are also scratch marks over the scar on his neck, as if he's been picking absentmindedly at it with his claws.
"...I...I'll be fine," he mumbles, completely unconvincingly. He winces at how it sounded. "I - I'm...I'm...no. No, Harry, I'm not - I'm not okay. I...I never want to do that again-"
His voice breaks, dies. His hands rest on Harry's waist now from where they've pulled back from the hug, fingers lightly twined in the fabric of his clothing.
Harry has no memories. He has nothing substantial in his mind to weigh against the things he’s seen and done, but one where he was a father is easiest for him to separate from the pile. Harry is not a father. Harry has never lived in a place called America. Harry did not murder his wife because he spoke on the phone with her a few months ago. She called him a drunk. He screamed and cried and beat his knuckles bloody on the pay phone when the call timed out. He can’t forget this.
The other one is much harder. Harry is already a Revacholian lunatic with a fixation on Her Innocence Dolores Dei. But it’s been the first and only time in memory he’s ever truly crawled out of his wife’s shadow to find a moment of mental clarity. He is very sick and he can’t help but feel a certain fondness for that Harry. That may be as sane as he’ll ever feel.
He is so very sick.
Alfred doesn’t look great either.
VISUAL CALCULUS - (The boy hasn’t been sleeping. Marks on his neck. Self inflicted. Paranoia. Neurosis.)
He brushes his thumb over his cheekbone, leads forward to rest his forehead against Alfred’s. He’s seen cats use similar displays of affection. He just rests for a moment. The boy’s hands are warm on his waist. He can feel the places in his chest, the places beyond his chest, behind the meat and bone where those hands tugged and pulled out something worthwhile from his decrepit husk.
He’s sure more than ever of the image he beheld of Alfred over him. A terrible angel. Beautiful. Magnificent. A crooked grin twitches across his face, an involuntary movement. It’s more of a rigid spasm than a human expression.
INLAND EMPIRE - (What an immense role to be given. Cosmic.)
EMPATHY - (Terrifyingly immense. Handle him gently.)
“You’re such a sweet thing…I want you to know it didn’t hurt.”
The soft resting of their foreheads together helps to bring Alfred somewhat out of himself - it's soothing, and he shuts his eyes, trying to quiet the sobs that shake his frame. Harry is being so gentle with him, and he - really feels like he doesn't deserve it. Doesn't deserve the forgiveness.
He's oblivious to the depths of Harry's self-loathing - he's a little aware that he's said he's not a very good person, but beyond that, he thinks little of it. The man has been little but kind in his eyes. And now he's here, hugging his own murderer.
Alfred slits his eyes open, sniffling at the words.
"...It - it didn't? I - I was so sure that it - it must have...."
There's also the other part of it, the other thing, the cruelty and seduction, but he - how can he even bring that up? He still feels sick over it, like some part of him is just...twisted up all wrong, and there's nothing he can do.
“It didn’t hurt, it was…beautiful. It was lovely and it was special, I’ve never had anything like that before.”
Harry’s been waxing poetic about this for weeks and now he’s stuttering like a fool, while Alfred quivers like a leaf.
COMPOSURE - (It’s because you’re crying hard now too. He’s very beautiful and very sad. You didn’t have much of a chance here. The odds were never in your favor against such forces.)
EMPATHY - (You saw his carnival of a museum exhibit. There’s a lot of baggage in this boy’s head. He’s sorry he touched you like that. For him it’s more than thinking it’s an inappropriate gesture between friends.)
[Like *that?* Well I’m not upset about the hot sexy grinding, it was *hot.*]
HALF LIGHT - (It was smothering, like smoke. Like being trapped in a burning building. Or like being a mouse under the paw of a cat. In a burning building. The burning is important, it fills your lungs with the scent of your own flesh and hair. Teasing death.)
COMPOSURE - (Everytime you smoke, you think of this young man. You think of the Lieutenant and of other smokers on balconies, and from their perches they laugh down at you for being foolish. You don’t mind.)
INLAND EMPIRE - (You look but the predator hides. For now it lurks somewhere deeper than the surface softness of his face. What would it take? To lure it back out.)
[I’m a little bothered by it. I *was* a little bothered with it. I’m fine now. It was hot.]
PAIN THRESHOLD - (You like the burn. You put a cigarette out on your thigh last night. It was good. You waited for the Lieutenant to smoke his one-a-day. You thought about him, his hands and the way he cradles it in his fingers.)
ESPIRIT DE CORPS - (A gross breach of professional boundaries. The lieutenant would not approve.)
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - (It was really sexy. I was there. I saw it. Felt it. It was fucking great, man. You’re a dirty old fuck and you know what you like.)
INLAND EMPIRE - (It was lonely afterwards. Alone in bed, wincing and biting your pillow until sleep came.)
EMPATHY - (He’s afraid. Be upfront with him.)
DRAMA - (No! Lie!) Harry grimaces.
“…I’m kind of messed up but I got here like this. I’m just me. But I like how I feel when I'm with you.”
His face is very red. The tears and the shame make his head feel swollen and stupid.
“I like it a lot. It’s frightening for me, but that’s just me. It’s a me thing. I was talking to a guy who used to know me and he told me some things. I’m just like this but I don’t want to be weird about it anymore. And I don’t want it to hurt you.”
Sometimes, Alfred doesn't quite know what to make of Harry. He knows he likes the man, even if he seems sort of...lost, much of the time. He's been there at a couple of his lowest moments, gentle, trying to help in his own way. When his horns had twisted open, he had brought serenity, kindness.
And now...he had given up his very soul to help sustain him. The idea sits heavy, still jangling around in him, resounding like the clapper in a bell.
Harry's words, his tears cut through that infernal ringing, though, sadness giving way on his young face in favor of gentle concern. Without thinking, he moves his hands upward from the man's waist to his cheeks, fingers hot as he wicks the moisture away with the calloused pads of his thumbs.
"...Who you are is my friend, Harry," he finally croaks, soft and shaking. "You - you haven't hurt me, not at all. I'm just...I'm scared. I'm so scared. Losing control like that was...was...."
Rapturous? That’s what it is for Harry, a release. His consciousness and animal self cease struggling against each other and fall into a harmonious dance. Then there's only meat and snapping bone. His eyes flutter close. He trusts Alfred, so let him see that. He lets his ruddy skin and whiskers write a map of the pads of Alfred’s fingers on his face. He’s the only one who touches him like this- and he preens at the attention, feathers literally fluffing up. He murmurs.
“You have really nice hands.”
INLAND EMPIRE - (It's terrifying. To see the furies. You can scarcely imagine it, Harry. For you we’ve simply always been here.)
[Always?]
INLAND EMPIRE - (Always.)
EMPATHY - (Alfred is a stranger to his own violences.)
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - (His desires.)
CONCEPTUALIZATION - (Desire is inherently violent. It takes and breaks. There is no such thing as a benign desire. Wanting something will change the shape of it forever.)
He opens his eyes.
“I’m glad we’re friends…I know you’re scared- once I tried to kiss a man and I bit him instead. It’s frightening. I was so scared I started drinking again, but Kim found me. He helped me find someone to eat- a corpse, and we went home.”
He hasn’t spoken of this before, it comes out of him slowly. Time has passed, he’s much more ashamed of his relapse than the bite.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
“I got weird about things. It’s not your fault. I should’ve come by earlier…sent you a message or something. I’m sorry I made you worry.”
PERCEPTION - (With your face pressed against his shoulder you sniff him gently. First thing you smell is the first thing you’ve noticed in general: a lot less burning now, and a lot more like Alfred, clean and soft. That’s very good. It means he isn’t burning things or straining himself.)
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - (How Alfred smells is with a touch of mint. Like you could melt him with your mouth and not the other way around.)
“I haven’t been myself much. The movie stuff wasn’t great for me, threw me for a loop. And when I started being more me-me again I’ve been weird.”
HALF LIGHT - (Jean summed it up. You’ve been a freak, basically.)
VISUAL CALCULUS - (Let me take a look.)
He carefully pulls away and looks at Alfred, reaching to cup his cheek like he might shatter his face. He breaks things. The proof of this is written all over his body. Harry’s hands are big, covered with a fine white spider’s web of scarring from broken glass from somewhere he doesn’t remember. Somewhere that was probably a long time ago. So he scans him like a crime scene. For signs of damage, exhaustion, sickness. For anything Harry can see when he looks in the mirror. Is a soul deep sickness communicable? Are there mind-lazareths that can help Alfred if he starts going crazy too?
“I’m not mad or angry…I know what happened. M'just worried. Are you okay?”
no subject
Ah, the movies. That hadn't been great for him, either. His two roles were that of a perverse murderer and a vindictive automaton. Logically, he knows he would never do either of those things, but...there were kernels of truth in both of them, if he looks at them for long enough. And he has been overthinking for a very long time, now.
When his face is cradled, inspected, he allows it - but he looks down and away, unable to meet Harry's eyes with his own teary ones. He looks...very tired, exhausted in a way he doesn't normally let show. His eyes are swollen from crying so much, his face drawn and pale and sallow from lack of sleep. He looks regretful. Haunted.
There are also scratch marks over the scar on his neck, as if he's been picking absentmindedly at it with his claws.
"...I...I'll be fine," he mumbles, completely unconvincingly. He winces at how it sounded. "I - I'm...I'm...no. No, Harry, I'm not - I'm not okay. I...I never want to do that again-"
His voice breaks, dies. His hands rest on Harry's waist now from where they've pulled back from the hug, fingers lightly twined in the fabric of his clothing.
no subject
The other one is much harder. Harry is already a Revacholian lunatic with a fixation on Her Innocence Dolores Dei. But it’s been the first and only time in memory he’s ever truly crawled out of his wife’s shadow to find a moment of mental clarity. He is very sick and he can’t help but feel a certain fondness for that Harry. That may be as sane as he’ll ever feel.
He is so very sick.
Alfred doesn’t look great either.
VISUAL CALCULUS - (The boy hasn’t been sleeping. Marks on his neck. Self inflicted. Paranoia. Neurosis.)
He brushes his thumb over his cheekbone, leads forward to rest his forehead against Alfred’s. He’s seen cats use similar displays of affection. He just rests for a moment. The boy’s hands are warm on his waist. He can feel the places in his chest, the places beyond his chest, behind the meat and bone where those hands tugged and pulled out something worthwhile from his decrepit husk.
He’s sure more than ever of the image he beheld of Alfred over him. A terrible angel. Beautiful. Magnificent. A crooked grin twitches across his face, an involuntary movement. It’s more of a rigid spasm than a human expression.
INLAND EMPIRE - (What an immense role to be given. Cosmic.)
EMPATHY - (Terrifyingly immense. Handle him gently.)
“You’re such a sweet thing…I want you to know it didn’t hurt.”
It was a clean death, flames aside.
INLAND EMPIRE - (A cleansing death.)
The pain came afterwards. Grief. Confusion. Kim.
no subject
He's oblivious to the depths of Harry's self-loathing - he's a little aware that he's said he's not a very good person, but beyond that, he thinks little of it. The man has been little but kind in his eyes. And now he's here, hugging his own murderer.
Alfred slits his eyes open, sniffling at the words.
"...It - it didn't? I - I was so sure that it - it must have...."
There's also the other part of it, the other thing, the cruelty and seduction, but he - how can he even bring that up? He still feels sick over it, like some part of him is just...twisted up all wrong, and there's nothing he can do.
His hands shake at Harry's waist.
cw: more of the usual, masochism
Harry’s been waxing poetic about this for weeks and now he’s stuttering like a fool, while Alfred quivers like a leaf.
COMPOSURE - (It’s because you’re crying hard now too. He’s very beautiful and very sad. You didn’t have much of a chance here. The odds were never in your favor against such forces.)
EMPATHY - (You saw his carnival of a museum exhibit. There’s a lot of baggage in this boy’s head. He’s sorry he touched you like that. For him it’s more than thinking it’s an inappropriate gesture between friends.)
[Like *that?* Well I’m not upset about the hot sexy grinding, it was *hot.*]
HALF LIGHT - (It was smothering, like smoke. Like being trapped in a burning building. Or like being a mouse under the paw of a cat. In a burning building. The burning is important, it fills your lungs with the scent of your own flesh and hair. Teasing death.)
COMPOSURE - (Everytime you smoke, you think of this young man. You think of the Lieutenant and of other smokers on balconies, and from their perches they laugh down at you for being foolish. You don’t mind.)
INLAND EMPIRE - (You look but the predator hides. For now it lurks somewhere deeper than the surface softness of his face. What would it take? To lure it back out.)
[I’m a little bothered by it. I *was* a little bothered with it. I’m fine now. It was hot.]
PAIN THRESHOLD - (You like the burn. You put a cigarette out on your thigh last night. It was good. You waited for the Lieutenant to smoke his one-a-day. You thought about him, his hands and the way he cradles it in his fingers.)
ESPIRIT DE CORPS - (A gross breach of professional boundaries. The lieutenant would not approve.)
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - (It was really sexy. I was there. I saw it. Felt it. It was fucking great, man. You’re a dirty old fuck and you know what you like.)
INLAND EMPIRE - (It was lonely afterwards. Alone in bed, wincing and biting your pillow until sleep came.)
EMPATHY - (He’s afraid. Be upfront with him.)
DRAMA - (No! Lie!)
Harry grimaces.
“…I’m kind of messed up but I got here like this. I’m just me. But I like how I feel when I'm with you.”
His face is very red. The tears and the shame make his head feel swollen and stupid.
“I like it a lot. It’s frightening for me, but that’s just me. It’s a me thing. I was talking to a guy who used to know me and he told me some things. I’m just like this but I don’t want to be weird about it anymore. And I don’t want it to hurt you.”
no subject
And now...he had given up his very soul to help sustain him. The idea sits heavy, still jangling around in him, resounding like the clapper in a bell.
Harry's words, his tears cut through that infernal ringing, though, sadness giving way on his young face in favor of gentle concern. Without thinking, he moves his hands upward from the man's waist to his cheeks, fingers hot as he wicks the moisture away with the calloused pads of his thumbs.
"...Who you are is my friend, Harry," he finally croaks, soft and shaking. "You - you haven't hurt me, not at all. I'm just...I'm scared. I'm so scared. Losing control like that was...was...."
He threatens to break again, eyes welling up.
cw: reference to relapse
“You have really nice hands.”
INLAND EMPIRE - (It's terrifying. To see the furies. You can scarcely imagine it, Harry. For you we’ve simply always been here.)
[Always?]
INLAND EMPIRE - (Always.)
EMPATHY - (Alfred is a stranger to his own violences.)
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - (His desires.)
CONCEPTUALIZATION - (Desire is inherently violent. It takes and breaks. There is no such thing as a benign desire. Wanting something will change the shape of it forever.)
He opens his eyes.
“I’m glad we’re friends…I know you’re scared- once I tried to kiss a man and I bit him instead. It’s frightening. I was so scared I started drinking again, but Kim found me. He helped me find someone to eat- a corpse, and we went home.”
He hasn’t spoken of this before, it comes out of him slowly. Time has passed, he’s much more ashamed of his relapse than the bite.
“We aren’t alone here, like we used to be.”