shadows_have_offended | [for Harry

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[for Harry | Darkness aftermath]

When all was said and done, when he was settled back in his apartment after everything, he sent a slightly bewildered text to his boss--he'd just missed several weeks of work, but it was worth saying he was alive, at least, right?--and then he slept. He slept like he hadn't in the makeshift dungeons, in the cages, oppressed by cold and loneliness even when he was around people. He slept like he hadn't for the last weeks, since he'd been snatched off a street corner in broad daylight.

When he woke, he wasn't quite sure what time it was, or what day. He lazed in bed, knowing that he needed to do things. Check in with Gabriel and Rosie, who had both also been kidnapped. Nina, who would hopefully have her daughter returned to her now. A myriad collection of others who had been in Kagura or had not. He couldn't bring himself to.

It took a great effort to pull himself out of bed. It took a greater effort to change into clothes that weren't stale and rank, to at least wash his face and brush his teeth and comb his hair, all with the lights off and avoiding looking at himself. But it took less effort to leave the apartment and go seek out Harry's bar, once all that was done.

It was the early evening, he found. He didn't know if Harry would be there but he figured it was worth a shot, and if he wasn't, he'd at least have gone out.

In walking, he caught sight of himself in a shop window. He was still disheveled, and there were huge shadows under his eyes. One of them was a bit blacked, from being hit at some point during his captivity. His lips were awfully chapped, his knuckles bruised and fingernails ragged from chewing. A habit he'd dropped years ago at his father's insistence. But his clothes were neat and his hair reasonably combed, so everything else could wait.

He let himself into the bar, though it was obvious it was early for customers. He milled about at the door, feeling foolish for having come. Too late now.

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Harry is not proud of how he's spent the last few weeks. With the weather - and yes, with Neil's disappearance - he had fallen into one of his moods. Fortunately, his side-business meant he had enough medication to help him through it, but during the worst of it he had been in bed and unable to get up at all.

He can't really say that he's out of it, but at least he's been able to open the bar again now that the weather - and god knows what other horrors - passed.

Still, he ain't exactly happy.

But when he spots Neil standing by the door, his heart makes a fucking jump and he rushes over. He's only able to calm down a few steps before he gets to the boy and attempts to compose himself before he gets there.

"Neil. It's good to see you." He downplays it, but the relief is evident.

He sees it, before Harry manages to button it down, and there's something about the brief look in his eyes that does absolute wonders for Neil. He's been missed. It makes him feel wanted, in some strange, curious way. He refrains from reaching for Harry, though he very much wants to. Instead, he shoves his hands deeply into his jean pockets and offers a small smile that hurts the bruises on his face.

"Hey," he says softly. "Hey, it's good to see you too, Harry."

As he comes closer and the light falls on his face, Harry can see just how bad Neil looks. "Kid, you look like shit," he says, worried more than anything. "Come to the back, to my office, let's get you a drink." He puts a hand on Neil's shoulder and guides him along.

A flush works on Neil's cheeks, but he shrugs a little bit. It's the truth. He looks and feels a bit like shit, but the hand on his shoulder feels something like reassurance. It's easy, then, to go along with Harry, through the bar and passed the bar top and into the back and Harry's office. It's not the first time he's been in Harry's office, having helped him paint and renovate a little bit since Harry's bought the place.

In the office, Neil crashes into the chair behind Harry's desk rather than any other available seat. It's a presumption, but mostly he treats it like a comfort. Looking as poorly as he does, he doesn't think Harry will evict him immediately, at least.

Neil can sit where he likes and Harry debates whether to pour him a drink or put the kettle on for a cup of tea. He decides on both - but a drink first.

He pours them both a generous amount of whiskey and leans on the desk as he hands Neil a glass. "Want to tell me what happened?" He asks, gently as he studies the boy carefully.

For a moment, Neil is quiet. He murmurs a thank you for the whiskey and stares into it. He didn't really. What was there to tell? Mostly, he just felt like he should have done more, protected himself, fought back. Something.

In the end, he just shook his head a little bit.

Harry nods. He doesn't pry, not for now. He leaves the kid to calm down for a moment and moves to the small kitchen area where he puts a kettle on. As Englishman he's convinced of tea's miraculous calming properties.

He returns and puts his hand gently on Neil's knee. "I was worried about you."

Neil's breath hiccups in his chest. He looks up at the ceiling and his smile is sharp but wavering. "I'm glad someone was," he said. His whole voice warbled. He didn't want to cry in front of Harry. He didn't want to cry at all, really.

He drinks his whiskey. He can't call it sipping, because he isn't savoring it at all. It burns the back of his throat.

For a moment, he was quiet again, before softly, terribly, he confesses, "I just wanted to die."

That only makes Harry worry more. It also makes him want to murder whoever was the cause of it. And a small part of him feels a little guilty that he was unable to help. "Was it that bad?" he asks, still downplaying because he doesn't want to scare the kid.

"Probably not," Neil says, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling again. It might have been, or might just be that he's overdramatic and prone to these dark thoughts, and that that place seemed to feed them to him even more than normal.

He doesn't admit that he sort of hoped he'd waste away up there. He doesn't want to admit that he wishes for that with a startling regularity. That sounds too much like a cry for attention, and he doesn't want that. He just wants to be normal.

Harry would understand that better than most. And he would know attention has nothing to do with it. Nothing in his black moods is about attention, either. It's brain chemistry. He hates it, but he manages it.

He doesn't really know what to do here, but he doesn't like seeing Neil like this. "You can talk to me, Neil," he assures quietly. "Tell me what happened? I can't do anything if I don't know."

"You can't do anything about it now, anyway," Neil points out. Not in a real, physical way, not in a way that burns under Neil's skin in a way he doesn't like, that makes him think of the man Guy took blackmail pictures for him.

But Harry is here, wants to hear Neil cry about it for some unfathomable reason.

"I hate this place," he whispers, like a confession. "Just the things it does, without any warning. I spent almost a month being stalked by ghosts of my friends telling me what a selfish prick I was for killing myself. And all this, it just..."

He didn't want to kill himself in Darrow. But sometimes he think it would be better if he didn't exist.

Dutifully, he polishes off his whisky. The kettle starts to whistle, and he pulls himself out of the chair to tend to it because he needs something to do that isn't Harry worrying. What was he thinking, coming here when he feels this dismal? Who wants to be around someone that doesn't want to be around themselves?

Harry knows that too. When he's in his black moods he can barely manage to get out of bed. "Makes you wish it would just all go away," he says, because he's not a bloody therapist or anything, but he feels really bad for Neil and he does genuinely want to help.

"Kid, I get it, alright?" Harry tries to clarify without getting into shrink lingo. "You don't have to talk about it, but I hear you if you do."

Neil thinks about it for a second. He's never seen a shrink, because that would have involved an institution, and more than that it would have involved telling his parents all about everything he was struggling with. Neither of those things were going to happen. But anyway and besides all that, he comes to the conclusion that he doesn't really want to talk about what's happened to him.

He finishes making them cups of tea and comes back over, setting one down for Harry. He sets his down as well and then, feeling a little pathetic, sinks onto the ground next to Harry's leg so he can rest his head on his knee.

His shoulders shake. He doesn't want to cry, but he can't help it. It's a quiet, shivering thing that lasts only a few minutes, but the tears wet Harry's trousers and he feels miserable about it.

It's the sort of thing that would usually make Harry a bit uncomfortable, but this is Neil and he feels for the boy. So, he puts gentle hand through the boy's hairs and caresses the top of his head lightly as he cries.

"That's okay, kid," he assures. He doesn't press for him to talk, but he wants Neil to know he really doesn't mind.

It takes him a moment to compose himself, but he spends the whole time trying, at least. When he finally manages it, he just stays there on the floor for a moment, sort of curled around one of Harry's legs and feeling exceptionally stupid and childlike.

With a sniffle, he manages to pull himself together. Moving away and standing up and grabbing his tea, now almost room temperature.

"Sorry," he mumbles. "I'm alright, it's just--it's been a lot." He breathes a laugh and mutters, "And I didn't get a part in one of the plays I auditioned for, I found out."

Now, that is something Harry wouldn't have allowed had they been in England. He would have made damned sure that Neil would have gotten whatever part he wanted.

"I'd ask if you want me to talk to the director..." Harry said, only half-joking.

Neil is still and quiet in the the wake of the words. There is a part of him--petty, angry, vengeful--that almost takes that joke seriously. Why shouldn't there be a conversation, so to speak, about casting choices? He's got experience in the role. He's been in more plays than anyone else auditioning.

But then--it's Gabriel. And he loves Gabriel, needs his happiness like he needs breathing. And as angry as he is that he lost out, he can't--he couldn't do that.

So he breathes a bit of a laugh and shakes his head. Leans down and kisses Harry's cheek. "You'll just have to come and watch me be a villain, I suppose."

To be perfectly honest, said 'conversation' would probably entail Harry beating up the casting director until he saw the error of his ways.

He perks up at the kiss. He's been debilitatingly depressed as of late and while he's on the up, having Neil here is exactly what he needs. "Oh, but the villian's the best part," he assures with a smile. And then, more seriously. "I'd love to come see you, kid. I'm glad to see you-" He doesn't add 'alive'. "I've missed you. Quite a lot, actually."

Neil smiles, only a little shakily, because--well, because Harry sounds like he means it, and Neil can't not smile about someone genuinely pleased to have him around. He runs his fingers gently over Harry's carefully styled hair, cupping the back of his neck in an exceedingly gentle way. Intimate and terrifying.

He doesn't want to care quite so much, but he does. It's awful. He can't stop.

"It'll be in August," he says. "Not long before school starts."

Harry's very sure he's already fallen for this boy, but he's not worried about it. He doesn't mind one-sided affection, he's had infatuations in the past, but he does very much hope that his affection is returned. And when Neil leans in like that, and looks at him like that, he kinda dares to hope it is.

He does kiss him then, because he's been missing his lips as much or more than the rest of him.

"I'll be looking forward to it. Shakespeare, isn't it?"

It's sweet and quiet and exactly what Neil needs in the aftermath, even if he looks and feels like hell. He parks himself on the edge of the desk, forgetting the tea for now as he lingers against that kiss.

"Yeah," he says softly. "Yeah, I'm in Othello."

"Yeah, that don't mean much to me, kid," Harry said, unashamed, smiling. "Didn't come up in my education. What did your character do that makes him the bad guy?"

"He, um. He betrays everyone he cares about." It's a huge simplification, but trying to explain Othello to someone that doesn't know it is probably good for his understanding of the play.

"So. So Iago's jealous about a lot of things, like he's been passed over for this promotion and his friend had his love stolen from him, and he agrees to win this girl back for his friend. He sets Othello up that the man he promoted in his place is a drunkard and a fraud, and he's sleeping with Othello's wife. It all gets out of hand, you know, because that's how these plays are. There's a bunch of needless deaths. I won't give away the ending."

"Everyone dies," Harry says. "That's all I learned about those plays. It's in old English, right?" He asked, keeping the conversation to something that Neil seemed to at least be able to talk about.

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