harry harbourne will be your pet pop star (harisha) wrote in dissentwo, @ 2013-04-03 11:20:00 |
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LOG: Chicken or egg: were they this weird before? Or did pop stardom do it?
FORMAT: Log
WHO: Mainly PJ Primpernelle and Harry Harbourne, with Reagan Macdonald towards the end.
WHEN: Last week? October 1976.
WHERE: Chez Elixir, London.
WHAT: Um? Drug use, cooking, fire, eyebrow accidents, homosociality.
It wasn’t as if they needed to learn how to cook. To be honest, the boys didn’t need to know anything, something that while PJ really appreciated at times, others it really just got him... bored. Reagan had run into PJ’s room earlier with an armful of fireworks, asking if PJ wanted to join, but PJ was never one to really enjoy explosives before a hangover turned into a drunk. Too many headaches. So Reagan had been gone for the better part of the day, and PJ sought out Harry telling him it was activity time. PJ really loved activity time. Today’s activity was cooking, and so PJ just removed everything in the fridge and pantry, dumping it on the counter, and looked over at Harry grinning. “Something in here has to be able to make... something else?” PJ asked, picking up a green vegetable (he assumed it was a vegetable) with a strange look. “How hard could this be?” “Can’t be too bad,” agreed Harry, dividing things up by category over the island in the centre of their unnecessarily decked out kitchen. He sorted green bits to one side, things in bottles on another, cheese and sorts all piled up, meats and the like to the corner and eggs in a different place because eggs hardly made any sense anyway, he thought. “Eggs make hardly any sense,” said Harry, his lazy voice slow and stoned. He opened the carton and examined one, weighing it against his palm and throwing it up so it came down heavy against his skin. “How are they liquid chickens? Where do the feathers come in?” He rolled the eggshell against his mouth, orally fixated as always, pretending to bite into it. “Tasty white shell bits.” “Figure we are liquid little chickens in the womb at some point?” PJ asked, picking up an egg of his own, trying to balance it on the back of his hand, considering this. “Minus the chickens, plus the human being.” He tried tossing the egg up to catch gently, but as it has been proven countless times in the past, alcohol and marijuana do not good coordination make, and it fell to the floor. PJ stood there, staring, before shrugging it off and grabbing a tomato. “We can take care of the double dead chickadee later. It’s fine. We’ll funeral all the fallen food groups later, write a really soulful song and everything.” “’kay,” said Harry agreeably, stepping around the egg to get to the stove. “Let’s make some liquid chickens then, I’m well peckish.” He flicked a stick of celery at PJ like a slingshot on his way over to the other side of the room, and it bounced ineffectively off of the other boy’s shoulder. He fished a pan out of a cabinet and lit the stove. The next step he knew was oil, so he poured a bunch in. It was then that Harry came to a standstill. He looked around himself, seeming a bit confused and put out that everything wasn’t within his reach. He reached ineffectively at nothing, eyebrows furrowed, before turning towards PJ. “Chickens,” he said, making grabby hands towards the carton on the island, eyebrows raised hopefully at his partner in crime. “Is this all one chicken or just parts?” PJ asked, perplexed as he grabbed the carton and walking it over to Harry. “I feel like… between the liquid chicken and the actual chicken parts, we really need to do something for the live chickens out there.” “Dunno, we should ask Helen about feather benefits,” said Harry, brow furrowed. He thanked PJ when he was passed the carton, grinning and bumping his shoulder before turning back to the stove, deliberating. “I think I need more oil,” he said thoughtfully, unscrewing the cap and pouring it in. Half got on his fingers. “Cooking lube,” he grinned, smearing two fingers on PJ’s cheek, “Take it, PBJ.” Harry’s laugh was more of a giggle as he dodged back preemptively, already ducking retaliation, hands going in front of his face reflexively. PJ just grabbed a loaf of bread, thwacking Harry in the side, not being one to not retaliate, but also always toning it down with Harry, whereas he probably would have tried for the face with something harder with the other boys. He held the loaf of bread, tossing it between his hands before throwing it back to the counter. “Edible pillow, of the sliced variety. Next time, I won’t be as gentle.” “Rawr,” protested Harry unconvincingly, since he made sense as a human being, and also had deeply enjoyed being hit by the bread. He lunged forward and bit the fabric of PJ’s sweatshirt for a second before releasing him and tending to the stove, kicking back at PJ’s shin lightly. “Gimme some Irish rocks?” He pointed at the potatoes. “Wanna make food for your people.” Potatoes were something PJ knew. He didn’t know how to cook them, but damnit, he knew what they fucking were. He grabbed the sack of potatoes and a wooden spoon (figuring that it would probably be necessary), giving Harry a quick, careful smack on the bottom with it before handing them over. “Bad kitty.” Harry barely covered his bark of laughter with a pout. “Heyyy,” he whined, and it was even less convincing than his growl. He passed PJ a knife. “Cut those please. Twoish? Double. Wait, should we make for the other lads?” “We should definitely cook for everyone,” PJ answered, holding the knife and staring at the potatoes on the counter, before working the knife more like a saw as he went to cut them straight on the counter. “Last activity time broke Finlay’s mirror and dresser, so this can be like an apology? We’ll put extra cheese on as a ‘sorry.’” “Cheese is the best sorry,” agreed Harry, stealing cut potatoes from around PJ and tossing them into the oil. “Cut some more then. And then c-c-c-ut it out.” He broke into a verse of one of their new songs for the last bit, obnoxiously dancing into PJ’s space with the signature Elixir hip thrust. They’d been writing and recording the new track all week and it was perpetually stuck in his head now, even if he had spent a good chunk of the writing time asleep on Callum’s lap. Harry liked recording time, though. Touring got stressful fast, and it was nice to be back in London and away from (as many) crowds. He ruffled out and pushed around his hair in the moment of introspection, forcibly shaking the thought off. It was time to potato. It was not time to feeling. PJ just shook his head with a small smile as Harry danced, continuing to saw apart the potatoes. He may or may not have offered a small, instinctual hip thrust and swivel in return, and the fact that any thrust and swivel came instinctually to PJ was something that would forever upset him. “Think Michael would appreciate a song about a love that boils like a cauldron, my heart being a potato drowning in its heat and intensity?” “Deffos,” said Harry, agreeable as always. He dumped more potatoes onto the other potatoes, adding salt and garlic and a few other things from the “jar” section. He wasn’t sure when eggs happened, but he knew it was later. He’d watched the house elves prepare food enough to have a basic grasp of steps, which was more than he could say for most of the activities he and PJ tried during activity time. “Groovy tune.” “What do we do with the liquid chickens?” PJ asked once he finished cutting up all of the potatoes. “Do we just throw it in the firebox?” “Yeah, later. Sorta. We’ll do it; it’ll be ace.” Harry’s vague explanations sounded suspiciously like all the times he agreed that Reagan’s plan to go and draw penises in chalk all over the sidewalk was a brilliant plan. Harry was sad when their management put a stop to that one. Still, cooking was something he felt he had a basic grasp on. In most of the other activities, Haz would sort of hang back and wait for PJ’s instructions, but this made slightly more sense. “Cut up some more stuff, go on. Green things? Get some vitamins’n things. Callum likes vitamins ‘n things.” “I can assume anything green is fair game, yeah?” PJ asked, walking over and grabbing a cucumber, lettuce, and something that he really couldn’t name. “Reagan likes sweet things. Should we also have dessert?” He put the greens on the counter in front of him, making sure to stay near Harry and picked up the cucumber. “Leprechaun prick.” “Not that, don’t want that,” said Harry in a faux-squeamish voice. “Get it awayyyyy.” He batted it out of PJ’s hands until it tumbled onto the floor. “Oy! Don’t be intolerant of the tiny Irish,” PJ argued, pinching Harry’s side. “You’ve offended me, and if Reagan ever felt insulted, he would feel it, too.” Harry made big sad eyes at PJ. “Sorry. Your cultural heritage isn’t funny... It’s just mostly funny.” “Don’t apologize to me,” PJ said, bending down to pick up the cucumber, holding it in front of Harry. “Sorry, tiny leprechaun genitals,” said Harry solemnly to the cucumber. “It’s not your fault you’re gross.” PJ pressed the cucumber to Harry’s mouth before tossing it over his shoulder back onto the floor. “All is forgiven. Now I just chop the rest of these up and put them in the bowl, right? I really can’t see it being more complicated than that.” Harry had attempted to bite the cucumber when PJ pushed it towards his face, but forgot about it once it was out of eyesight. “Yeah, I think so. Oh, bollocks, burning things.” Harry whipped around to the counter and examined the potatoes, turning them over with a spatula. So far so good. “Never mind, no burny. Irish rocks are resilient against fire. Like regular rocks.” “It’s not the rock in them, it’s the Irish.” “Is that why the stage manager’s never worried about you’n Reagan and the pyrotechnics?” To be fair, the stage manager didn’t worry about Callum or Finlay and the pyrotechnics either. It was mostly Harry, who kept accidentally wandering past his mark and ending up in smoke bursts. “I’m impervious to fire,” PJ said with a serious face. “That and because I’m just a really amazing dancer.” “Do the scissor arms,” said Harry, perfectly mimicking PJ’s signature dance move. “Scissor arms are where it’s at.” “I’m hoping to one day be able to graduate to flailing,” PJ said, trying his best to do just that, dropping the knife in his hand while doing so, grimacing at Harry. “Let’s be honest, more dangerous things than that happen in the house on an hourly basis.” “No bloooood,” whined Harry, drooping theatrically. “Blech blech. Keep the sharp thing away from flesh, I don’t like it.” “Bleeding builds character,” he said, smirking before picking up the knife and finishing up the vegetables. “Plus, I’m the ‘bad boy,’ so a few scars could only benefit me.” “I hate character, no character for me,” said Harry, piling a truly impressive amount of cheese over the potatoes and stirring. “Character is the path to bad. No go. Here, give me those vitamin havers.” “You mean the taste reducers?” PJ asked, handing over the vegetables, cringing. “Just think of your skin,” said Harry as he poured the vegetables over the concoction. “Gotta keep that complexion nice and smooth.” “I have good products, don’t worry,” PJ answered, surprisingly honest. “Callum would petition to kick me out if I messed up this moneymaker.” “You’ve already petitioned to kick him out,” said Harry matter-of-factly, though to be honest the actual incident had rather upset him. In retrospect he’d been trained to find it mostly hilarious, especially since Callum had pinned the paper to the wall and signed his own name on it. “Yeah,” he said with a smile. “I will say one thing about Callum, he’s a good sport 25% of the time. Respect. Don’t tell him I said that.” “I’ve recorded you saying it and will be giving it to him as a singing holiday card.” Harry poked at the potatoes and tilted his head back so he could grin angelically at PJ. “I have a knife in my hand, don’t test me,” he said lightly. “Plus, Callum would be sad if he had less of a reason to yell at me. It just makes him so happy.” “It is one of his top three favourite hobbies,” agreed Harry. He moved the potatoes to a different burner and cracked an intense amount of eggs into another pan. “We should probably tell Witch Weekly when they send over the reporter tomorrow.” PJ cringed at the reminder of the interview. “Anything more I can do that isn’t chopping things?” “Divide it up?” Harry flipped the eggs, only breaking three of the ten yolks, which he thought was a pretty brilliant ratio. He reached behind him for one of the bottles of seasoning and struggled to get it open, finally managing to pop the seal and spilling sauce all over the counter in the process. “Oops,” he said guiltily, but just proceeded around the mess, getting sauce on his socks. PJ looked down at the mess and laughed at his socks. “So, please explain to me why you feel the need to wear nothing but your underwear and socks?” Harry looked down at his mismatched, differently striped socks with an expression of mild surprise, as if he had just realized that they were there and was rather pleased that they existed. “Oh. Yeah. Feet were cold, earlier.” He absently itched his collarbone, shrugging one shoulder. “Sounds reasonable,” PJ agreed, mostly because he was just used to his bandmates and their.... could you call it logic? He stood in front of the stove and grinned at Harry. “When can I start using the fire for the cooking?” Harry flipped the eggs over from the pan to over the potatoes. “I did a thing,” he said proudly, indicating the combination. “I’m gonna bowl it. You should do a thing next. Have at.” “You’re really good at this activity,” PJ stated, as he poured much more oil than was necessary into a pan and not paying attention as he went to place the pan over the stove, whose fire was on a much higher setting than was advisable. “I don’t think that I am qu--” But his sentence was cut off when the pan tipped over, a damn near waterfall of oil pouring straight into the fire, causing the heat and, yes, flames to get way too close to PJ’s faces, his eyebrows and the front of his hair to catch on fire. “MOTHERFUCKER!” “FUCK!” shouted Harry, leaping back from where he was at the counter pouring food into bowls. “Fuck, fuck!” He threw his hands up, looking around the room wildly as if someone could be found who could help. PJ, having had things blow up in his face before (thanks, Reagan), made quick work of putting out the fire on his fucking face, before running around trying to put the rest out. Taking deep, heavy breaths when it was all over with, PJ looked around the kitchen, shaking his head. It was then that he caught his reflection in the stainless steel of the top of the stove, his eyebrows just about burnt off, the front of his hair singed. He groaned and looked over at Harry. “Helen is about to shit a fucking brick.” “Fuck, mate,” said Harry, wide eyed. “Yeah. Fuck.” He reached out and ran his fingers over the place where PJ’s eyebrows used to be. “Shit, we have that interview tomorrow.” He examined the damage for a moment. “Dibs on not telling her.” PJ brought his hands up to where his eyebrows were, frowning at the lack of hair beneath his fingers. He pouted at Harry, thankful that the drugs only seemed to be amplified by the adrenaline. “Am I still the most handsome?” “Course,” said Harry, pressing his face into the other boy’s neck for a minute, one hand curled around PJ’s waist and the other on his shoulder. “Look at them cheekbones. Top marks.” PJ’s hand reached up to ruffled Harry’s hair as he did so, laughing. “We’ll have to think up a more badass story to explain this, though. Cooking accident is too manly.” “Rode your motorcycle through the fires of hell. Dragon attack at a concert. Fell into a volcano rescuing Finlay from wolves.” Harry leaned into PJ’s touch as he spoke, catlike. He always liked a petting. “Maybe we should all just have a different story about what happened to tell at the interview,” PJ decided, continuing ministrations. “Let’s not tell Helen until the man arrives, yeah?” “Yeah, alright,” agreed Harry, who definitely did not want to be in the room when Helen found out. “Hold on, gotta buzz the lads for chicken things.” He ducked out from under PJ’s arm and went to the intercom. “Food in the kitchen if you want,” he called, pressing the button for the whole house. That done, he turned back towards PJ and surveyed the damage. “Let’s couch. Smells burny in here.” “No need to tell me twice,” PJ said, walking over to the most comfortable of the couches and plopping down, legs stretched out before him. “Cooking is dangerous. I’m always up for doing again, though.” Harry brought two bowls of the irish rocks/liquid chickens thing over to the couch and handed one to PJ before draping himself half over him, mostly lying down with his legs over PJ’s lap. “‘S good,” he mumbled through a forkful, having immediately began shoveling it into his mouth. PJ kept instinctively rubbing the tender spot where both his eyebrows had been before digging into the food. “Who knew you had it in you, little chef man?” “My mum says I’m special,” said Harry, mouth still full. He ate silently for a while before nudging PJ with his heel. “What’re we doing tonight?” “We have drugs, food, and,” PJ looked around the room, seeking out the closest idea. “I think Reagan bought some bicycles. We can try to ramp things?” Harry had sort of fancied going out, but frankly, he fancied the drugs more. “Yeah alright. What do we have?” His bowl was empty and he set it carelessly to the side, next to the array of half empty mugs of whatever had been in there recently, and half curled in closer to PJ, half sprawled out over the couch. “We have coke, some pot, Ludes, shrooms, acid, and anything else is just out of eyesight, I’m sure,” PJ told Harry, putting aside his own bowl, grabbing Harry’s ankles. “So really it’s whatever you want.” “Mmm,” said Harry thoughtfully, messing with his hair and examining the ceiling. “Don’t feel like a full trip, so no Lucy, ‘n Snow just makes me want to go out. Ludes, maybe?” “Some Q it is then,” he agreed, lifting Harry’s legs so that he could get up and slip into his room grab his little baggie of goodies. There was a bunch around the house, but sometimes it was just too hard and too much effort to figure out what was what, and this was just easier. He took his place back on the couch, dangling the plastic bag in front of Harry. Harry bit towards the bag, not lifting himself up much from his prone position. “Gimme,” he said, sounding eager and not caring. He liked Ludes. He and PJ sometimes called them whore pills, like you’d ask for on the street, or disco biscuits, like you’d ask for in the disco, or whore biscuits, like you’d use inside Elixir’s weird little drug-infused world. Ludes were probably at least sixty-five percent responsible for how touchy-feely they all were. Harry thought they were a nice habit, like putting brown sugar on porridge. PJ opened the baggie up, taking out one of the pills and holding out toward Harry, but just out of his reach. “Hazza, where are your manners? Say please.” “Please,” said Harry immediately, then opened his mouth like a baby bird. PJ took a tablet, pressing it gently down onto Harry’s tongue, before grabbing another tablet and popping it into his own. “Much better. You really should learn to be as refined as yours truly.” Harry could dry swallow, but he washed it down with part of a mug of some’s — it was vodka cranberry, so Callum’s — discarded beverage. “Should give me etiquette lessons, Peej.” “Right, fuck, okay,” PJ started, sitting up straighter, running a hand through his hair. “First off, don’t curse. I think my mum always told me that. So don’t do that. Also, always walk around with a book on your head or something.” “Fuck that,” said Harry, leaning forward so that he could poke PJ in the side. “Got too much hair for a book. You’d have to shave it like Finlay’s.” “You’ll never be a proper lady now,” PJ admonished him, shaking his head. “If you shave your head, Helen’s head would explode.” Harry made a rueful expression and messed with his hair so that it fell properly over his forehead. “And with you missing your eyebrows, Witch Weekly’ll say we’ve alopecia. Or lice, or sommat.” “Nah, I have to keep up my image, mate,” he said, rubbing absently at his brows. “Can’t be a kitchen accident or lice. Has to be like, a motorcycle accent or an explosion. Or both.” “Motorcycle explosion,” agreed Harry, stretching his limbs out in anticipation of the come up — 10 minutes, and he didn’t know how many it’d been — half off the couch now. He flexed his fingers and toes, eyes falling half shut. “Volcanoes and shit. Or a fight with your hair dryer that got ugly.” PJ leaned back against the back of the couch, letting his body kind of melt in with the cushion to get comfortable. “I tried to blow dry a dragon.” There was a pause, and then Harry started to giggle uncontrollably, turning his face toward the couch and throwing his arms over his head, before quieting down for a second only to start up again at the image. “Sounds... scaley,” he managed to get out. Returning the laugh, PJ threw his head back as he sank further into the couch. “Scales take forever to dry. It’s a big issue that no one ever talks about. I was just trying to bring light to it.” Harry only laughed harder. “Shoulda used a bit of lube, mate,” he snickered, mind having been firmly in the gutter as usual for the past few minutes. “This coming from some experience there, Harry?” PJ quirked a... well, an imaginary brow. “Not with dragons,” said Harry, finally not actively cracking up. He ran a hand up the side of the couch, his skin starting to feel all tingly. “Never have I ever sucked off a dragon.” He brought his hand to his face, pushing hair out of his eyes with slow, stoned motions. “Got an O in my Care of Magical Creatures OWL ‘n I never saw a dragon’s dick, actually. Dunno if they even have ‘em. Think that’s taught in NEWT level?” “If they don’t have dicks, probably explains why they’re so ornery all the bleedin’ time,” thought PJ, as he became quite fixed on the arm of the sofa, running his fingers along the fabric. “If they do, I wouldn’t want to suck it. Probably a massive fucking dick.” “No kidding,” agreed Harry. He twined himself around the couch so that his head was in PJ’s lap, angled for his hair to be pet. This, he figured, wasn’t obvious enough, so he reached up and forcibly moved one of PJ’s hands to his head. “It’d be a safety hazard. Gray wouldn’t like it.” PJ didn’t argue when Harry moved his hand to his hair, the boy did, after all, have very nice hair. He tangled his fingers in the locks, occasionally scratching the scalp, down to the nap of his neck. “You should ask Gray if he would fight a dragon for us – well, you. I think he would enjoy feeding me to one, given the chance.” Harry fairly purred, eyes going half mast at the touch. Scratching at his scalp was by far the easiest way to get Harry to go docile, and everyone knew it. Hell, Witch Weekly knew it. “He would, probably. Both. Feed you to a Welsh Green as a tasty treat. Essence of PJ, tastes of curry and garlic salt.” “I don’t want to be fed to a Welsh Green,” PJ pouted, his fingers continuing their ministrations, tugging a bit at the locks. “If I have to be fed to any dragon, it better be a really badass one. Try again.” It’d been a long time since Harry had been in Care of Magical Creatures, although it had ostensibly been one of his NEWTs and he’d ostensibly been tutored it. Really, he’d mostly tried to get out of tutoring as much as possible by taking excessive bathroom/tea/Mary Jane breaks, throwing things across the room at Reagan and flat out skiving. He burrowed further into PJ’s lap and tried to remember. Mostly, he remembered how bloody boring his tutor had been. He’d tried not to show him how bored he’d been, since he felt really bad, but it was just a fact of life. She’d been like a younger, poorly paid Binns. “Ummm... Swedish... Shortsnout.” He was fairly sure that was one. “What about a Danish Destroyer? Or a Malaysian Murder Machine?” PJ asked, having been the boy who never even attempted his OWLS before Elixir was even a thing. “Yeah, feed me to one of those.” “Cheers, I’ll ask Erik to put some of those in the shows.” Harry stretched his long legs out over the couch again, out onto the coffee table, displacing a few mugs, and pressed his face into PJ’s thigh. “I’ve come up. Fuck I love disco biscuits.” “Mmm, fucking same,” PJ agreed, moving his hand from Harry’s hair to the side of his neck, the warmth there feeling really fucking great against PJ’s palm. “Just want to do fuck-all for the rest of the evening.” “Yeah, yeah,” said Harry hazily, leaning his head back obligingly for PJ’s hand. “Want some music, though. Where’s my wand, we’ve that new sound system haven’t we? The... thing. That thing, I don’t know.” PJ grabbed a wand that was sitting on the side table next to him, handing it to Harry. He wasn’t sure whose wand it was, but he was 88% sure it wasn’t his, so most likely it was Harry’s. “Anything but our music. If you have any mercy, you will never play Elixir in this household.” Harry started to laugh, softly at first and then full body, curling into himself. “Nope, Callum’d murder me. And then you’d murder me. And then Helen’d murder me ‘cause that’s shit press, innit.” He waved his wand said something, and Pink Floyd queued up. It hadn’t been exactly what he meant to do, but it was close enough. If Finlay was there he’d have done it right. Finlay had NEWTs. He’d paid attention in class. He hadn’t had the most dull tutor ever. God, Harry’d flirted with that tutor for months and she’d never even noticed. It had been tragic. He tossed the wand back on the table. PJ shifted in his seat, frowning as he listened to the music. “I’m not in comfortable position for this song. I don’t think I’ll be able to get comfortable again.” “C’mere,” said Harry, pulling PJ around like taffy. “Lie down a bit, ‘s better.” PJ moved around so that he was lying down and looked at Harry. “Horizontal feels a lot better and my limbs prickle in the good way. I approve.” “Mm.” Harry adjusted himself so that he was half on top of PJ, his typical octopus limbs twining around the other boy before grabbing at one of his arms and clumsily moving it in the direction of his hair. “More petting.” PJ lifted one arm to lazily wrap around Harry’s waist, holding him there, while his other had no choice but to go back to stroking Harry’s hair, which it did so willingly. “Babydoll is going to get really jealous of you one day.” It was entirely possible (actually, it was completely possible) that Harry sometimes got jealous of Babydoll, for sometimes getting attention when he wasn’t. When he was on drugs, to be fair, but it had happened. Whatever. He didn't care. It was fine. He shrugged one shoulder minutely. “Yeah, probably,” he said, unbothered. “Oh, forgot to ask — how was that party yesterday? Meant to go but I went out with Cazza and them instead.” “Same as most parties,” PJ shrugged, twirling a strand of hair between his fingers. “Lots of blow, a lot of girls, can’t remember getting home, but Pablo told me that I wasn’t being too difficult, so. Small victories. And your night with Cazza?” “Glad Pablo’s not mad at you anymore,” said Harry lazily, “That was lame.” He pressed his head into PJ’s hand, remembering the night in flashes and snippets. There had been a lot of drugs, and dancing. And kissing. Harry liked kissing. He'd gone home with a girl named Pamela who scratched his back up a little. “And yeah, it was good. Went to Wolfsbane, you know, that club in Camden? ‘S cool. Bands with loads of screaming. Cynth poured a whole beer on the lead guitarist. Hilarious.” “Should’ve come out with us,” PJ said, stretching his legs and tightening his grip around Harry’s waist. “Glad you had fun, though.” “Nah, you should’ve come with us,” said Harry, “Caroline’s friends are cool. We went to this club after Wolfsbane that’s in an abandoned Underground station. It was major. Blinky lights." Harry flashed his hands in an approximation of their beat. "One of them had this cool drug, can’t remember the name. Liked it, though. Like Snow White but touchier, and you swallow it.” He twined an arm around PJ’s knee so that he was securely attached. “We should get some.” “I feel like I may have tried that before,” PJ thought hard on his past drug experiences, but gave up quickly. “Or not. Bring some home. We can do it. I love Lady, so anything like her, I’m in.” “Cheers.” Harry felt really, really good. Sort of floaty and happy, and his scalp felt amazing. He loved ludes. He wished they could take them all the time, like that one week they had off during their first tour where they did them for three days straight and by the end he thought he was one giant erogenous zone but lazier, sort of. Just a passive erogenous experience, lying on the bus couch for twelve hours and breathing. “Did the others go with you? Yesterday?” “They did,” he said, drawing figure eights into Harry’s scalp, sliding down to the small patch of hairless skin behind his ear. PJ loved his depressants as a general rule, usually upping it up when there was a party or interview or show. If he could always remain this relaxed and floaty he would. Well, he tried. “I broke off from the rest a while in, though. It was a good time.” “What’d you do?” asked Harry, smiling blissfully, before innuendo caught up with him as usual and he giggled slightly. “Or who, I guess.” Harry always wanted to know the details, when he wasn’t there. It was his way of feeling included. He had a horror of missing things. “What is correct,” PJ clarified. It always made him laugh that the press (thanks, Helen) made him out to be the bad boy who could break girls’ hearts left and right, when really, he would probably be considered the most chaste (though nowhere close to saintly) of the five. After having a relationship with a girl he truly loved fall apart in the public eye, PJ had been in no rush to run to any girls’ arms, except for the occasional one night stand. “Danced. I think at one point I told them all I could disc jockey, which, as you can remember, only ended really well. I think I also played the game Lose the Pablo. It was fun.” “Lose the Pablo is fun,” agreed Harry, “When he’s not mad at you.” He patted PJ’s knee, just in case he had been thinking about the Ex-Girlfriend Of Whom They Did Not Speak. He'd spent many hours reassuring PJ that she was the worst kind of floozy. Harry had liked her, but PJ was his boy and it was a mate's job to accuse the ex of a plethora of nasty venereal diseases, he thought. “And the others?” “You’d have to ask them,” said PJ, removing both hands from Harry to stretch above his head, because holy balls that felt amazing. Before Harry had time to complain, one hand went straight back to his hair, though the other just laid at his side. “Lady and I drank a little bit too much, and it got dark pretty quickly.” “Mm,” said Harry, nodding, his head lolling back idly. He almost wished he had gone with them yesterday, because there was no telling what they did and Harry hadn’t been there and what if they'd liked it more than they liked it when he was there and Harry felt very annoyed for a minute thinking about all the things he probably missed out on. But he remembered how he'd had fun with Caroline’s friends. He liked how cool they were and how they didn't mind some teenage teeny bopper tagging with them. He liked how all looked at him, like he was something they wanted. A lot of people looked at him like that. Harry liked that look, he liked how it felt, made him feel enough. “Tricky combo, yeah.” “Come out with us tomorrow after the interviews and shite, yeah?” PJ asked, because of all the bandmates, it was Harry who often had more of a life outside the five of them, and while PJ was not a clingy or even social person by nature, fame had caused him to hold on a little closer to his four friends. “Fuck off any other plans, we’re better.” Harry felt warm in his chest in a way that wasn’t just the drugs, because a lot of the time along with being a usually sweet person, he was also sort of a selfish little shit who had to have everyone love him best or he’d lose his mind. When he realized that about himself he hated it and himself, and got very upset, and tried to prove that he didn't, but it didn’t make it any less a little bit true. “Yeah, alright,” he said, sounding sleepy and pleased, “Let’s do a proper mashup. Get Finlay drunk, since he won’t dance with Lady.” “And it break lil’ ol’ Lady’s heart, it does,” PJ said with a chuckle, lifting his arm which felt oddly jellylike for no other reason than it felt funny. “A real proper party with fuckin’ everything, but I’m lockin’ Mr. Fluffy up, because the last time I didn’t, someone charmed him some fuckin’ colours that took weeks to uncharm.” “Good colours, though!” Harry had liked the way they’d changed. It’d been brilliant, but PJ had been narked. He didn’t know who did it. “Mr. Fluffy is not a fuckin’ toy,” PJ tried to explain, though the usual heat that would accompany the words were too busy being really comfortable on the couch. His arms that was just stretched out onto the air falling down to rest along his abdomen. “He’s got fuckin’ feelings.” “Yeah,” agreed Harry, “Definitely.” He scootched up a bit so that he could nuzzle PJ’s neck. “He’ll be okay. You’ll hide him.” The hand in Harry’s hair pressed him a little closer against his neck, the Ludes making any bit of contact feel even more amazing than it normally would have. “Your food was good. Different, but good. You won this activity.” Harry preened at the praise, beaming. “Yes!” he said, lifting one fist up in the air in a vague approximation of a fist pump ala Reagan. “Winning of things, that's me. Suck it, all other other things.” The fist pump was a valiant effort, but it didn’t get very far up because his limbs felt very, very heavy. Pleasantly heavy. Sort of wobbly, too. The room spun a bit, which Harry liked, because it was like a carousel. “Best at cooking.” “At least I managed to walk away from it unharmed,” PJ exclaimed, proudly. Then he remembered that one little mishap and frowned down at Harry. “Mostly. Now I’m ugly. I may not survive this. It was great knowing you, though.” Craning his head so that he could examine PJ above him, Harry frowned, a little theatrically. “Nope. Still gorgeous.” He reached up and traced the line of his jaw. It was so sad that PJ didn’t like boys. Harry’d put that possibility in a box in the back of his head a long time ago, like he had with the rest of them, and he honestly didn't think about it anymore, but still, it was very sad. He was just so pretty. Harry was like a saint to survive such a sadness. He would be canonized and his picture put on a wall next to Gandhi. That’s how saintly he was. He patted PJ on the cheek, before withdrawing his hand. “Your cheekbones could survive anything.” “It’s true,” he muttered, burying his face into Harry’s hair. “They are really nice.” “Yup,” said Harry matter-of-factly, never one to parse the truth. “And we’re magic so they can fix your eyebrows.” “A little bit of fire has never killed anyone before,” he said, though he rethought his statement before continuing, face still in Harry’s hair. “A lot, yes. But I don’t think a little. If that were the case, Reagan would be dead a thousand times over. I quite like him alive, that one.” “He’s the best,” agreed Harry easily. He thought for a moment about Reagan, and how yesterday the had tried to make parachutes out of bin bags, and realized he hadn’t seen him all day, which was very upsetting. “Where is he? I miss him.” “He ran into my room earlier with explosives,” PJ recalled, rolling his neck back, so that his head rested against the arm of the sofa, staring at the ceiling. “That’s all I know.” “I wish he was here,” said Harry in a wistful voice that one would use to say, ‘I wish there were never-ending chocolate bars’, or ‘I wish I could fast forward through hard work’ or, 'I wish I was a teenage popstar.' Well. One out of three. “Normally he comes running when there’s food. I guess he's out. I hope he’s okay.” “Rea is never not okay,” PJ laughed, comforting Harry by rubbing the back of his neck. “Reagan is always awesome.” “He’s the best. I like having him around. I miss him so much. Oh, I’m really sad now, I really want him to be here,” said Harry, getting upset halfway through his sentence, his voice cracking a little. He curled himself down so that he was in PJ's lap and pressed his face into his thigh, feeling like there were big cracks splitting in his heart and everything was suddenly awful. Drugs always made Harry even more ridiculous, which was probably a common theme with most human beings. “He’ll be here soon, Hazza,” PJ tried comforting him, continuing to rub his neck and biting back a laugh. “What would cheer you up right now? Something that I am able to actually provide, so no asking for Reagan. Or Callum. Or Finlay. Or... other people.” Harry made his most pitiful face up at PJ. “I miss Callum and Finlay too,” he said. “I miss everyone. People leave too much, I don’t like it.” “You leave us all the time,” PJ pointed out with no malice or accusation in his tone, leaning down to press a quick kiss to the top of the boy’s head. “People always come back, so calm down, enjoy your drugs, and just talk to me. Otherwise I’m going to go chill out with Babydoll and Mr. Fluffy who will appreciate my company.” Harry wanted to explain that it was different, that they shouldn’t leave him but he couldn’t seem to find words to formulate it in a way that didn’t sound completely insane (because he couldn't, it was completely insane no matter what words you used). And at his threat to leave he clamped on to PJ’s leg with a death grip, shooting him a plaintive look. “Don’t,” he said, a little desperately. “You know I’m not going anywhere, Harry,” PJ consoled him, smiling. “I’m too much of a bleedin’ softie to upset you guys. Will I be enough until the others return?” Harry nodded, resting his head back again. He was nothing if not easy to please. “Tell me a story. Tell me what you and Reagan did yesterday. Or day before yesterday. Whichever day it was you guys went out during the day. I don’t even know what day of the week it is. Tuesday? Saturday?” “Mate, I’m not entirely sure if we’re in ‘76 or ‘77, so you’re askin’ the wrong person,” PJ laughed, scratching the back of his neck, not wanting to think too hard on it. “Right, a story. Well, the other day, we’ll say two days ago, yea? Right, so two days ago I went and woke Reagan up cause it was pretty fuckin’ lovely outside, one of the last ones we’ll probably get I’m guessin’. So I wake him up, and we decide to Floo home for the day, go see my mum and da and little sister. We get there, have a good lunch, then we decide we should play Quidditch for a bit, but Reagan had this mad idea that instead of a quaffle, we should use Mandrake roots, yea? Don’t worry, none were harmed. But we didn’t realize that the fuckin’ earmuffs would probably be fallin’ off with all the bleedin’ loops and fuckin’ showin’ off we were tryin’ to do, so basically, we went the rest of the day with my mum screamin’ at us, which was fine cause we couldn’t hear her. Then we hit up a pub near my old place, partied with Lady and Mary Jane, came back home, and continued the party here. It was a good time, really.” “It was a great time, you mean,” Reagan corrected as he entered the room--as usual, moving faster than necessary and always with a distinct threat of breaking something (bones or inanimate objects, really didn’t matter which). “Did I hear ‘food’?” he asked with an excited grin spread across his face (a face that, like his hands, seemed to have distinct patches of what may or may not have been gunpowder residue on them). “Reagan!” cried Harry happily, reaching out towards him and grinning wide enough to split his face. The world was suddenly better and shinier, as if someone had put glitter all over the lightbulbs. He and Reagan had done that once. “Yeah, I made a thing. Irish rocks and chickens. ‘s good, you should eat it.” “Liquid chickens,” PJ quickly corrected, smiling up at his best friend, also happy to see him back, though he would never be quite as vocal about it as Harry was. “You didn’t manage to get yourself killed. Congrats.” “Yum,” Reagan replied enthusiastically, reaching to ruffle Harry’s hair before quickly grabbing a bowl of said yum and returning to the couch. He climbed onto the couch and sat on the back of it, his feet on the seat cushions, as he began to eat before replying to PJ. “Nope, still alive--you’re welcome, by the way--it was a close one though,” he admitted with utter glee. For a moment, he studied his best friend, his glee melting to a mild look of confusion before--after far longer than it would’ve taken most people--he added, “We need a funeral for your eyebrows though, don’t we?” “Bets on how hard Helen is going to flip out?” PJ asked with a smirk. “I’m not telling her,” said Harry, repeating his statement from earlier. “Oh man,” Reagan’s face--again--breaking into a wide grin. “She’s going to lose it, mate.” He really didn’t need to say ‘it’ll be awesome’ because it was clear that was how he felt about the whole thing. “Right, anyway, so we have learned that I am an amazing cook’s assistant and that Harry here is actually a talented little chef in the making,” PJ ruffled Harry’s hair up a bit. “I chopped off a total of zero fingers, and the only casualties were my eyebrows. I am getting us aprons for the next time.” “And that we have an interview tomorrow’n you’re probably fucked,” added Harry, arching up into PJ’s fingers. “We’ll sing at your funeral.” “Make sure whoever replaces me in the band is not as attractive, yeah?” Reagan put a hand on PJ’s shoulder and gave him his version of a Serious Look (which, basically, was just a close-lipped smile) and said, “If you’re going down, I’m coming with you, mate.” He smiled wider again, “Not like it’d be the first time I lit part of you on fire, right?” “United we stand, mate,” PJ said as he rested his hand on top of Reagan’s on his shoulder. “I feel fucking fantastic right now.” “Me too,” agreed Harry, content. “I love Ludes. We should do them all the time. Like in France, that week.” “I saw we just go for it, starting now,” PJ offered, looking over at Reagan, then Harry. Reagan shrugged agreeably, “I’m in.” He held out a hand, quite ready to join them. “Oh no,” giggled Harry, putting his hands over his face, “We’re going to get murdered. Or lectured. Or lectured until murdered.” It was sort of a given that he was in. When was the last time Harry had said no to anything? “Excellent,” PJ grinned, grabbing his baggie, pulling out one for Reagan, snapping another in half, giving the half to Harry, before swallowing the other. “They’ll love us no matter what we do.” “We are very lovable,” Reagan agreed, setting aside the now empty bowl on the arm of the couch and sliding off the back to sit properly on the couch as he swallowed. And by ‘properly’, he promptly became a jumble of limbs and made sure to be touching each Harry and PJ in one way or another before he settled in completely. Harry adjusted himself so that he was essentially draped over the two of them. It suited him, as a choice in his life, he figured. “So do we tell Callum and Finlay or let them guess later?” he asked. “Let them guess,” PJ decided quickly for the rest of them, falling back against his spot in the couch, under a tangle of limbs. “Also, new game. During their interview, slip in a ‘meow’ as many times as possible with a straight face, never bring attention to it.” “Oh man. Yes. Done,” Reagan agreed happily. “I’ll even start meow,” he said, not being able to even say the sentence without laughing. “Rea, how do you expect to pull this off in the interview, if you can’t even keep from laughing right meow?” PJ said, also unable to stop himself from laughing. “It’s a good thing we’re starting meow because you’ll need to get some practice,” said Harry, who was clearly the best at the game. He didn’t even crack a smile through his slow, lazy drawl. Harry had far too much practice with the lyrics change game. It took a lot more than meows to crack him. “Very true,” PJ said, coming down from his laughter. “Anymeow, we’ll see see if Callum wants to join in halfway through the interview. I’ll carry around the Ludes throughout the week, and we’ll see where the fuck we end up by the end of it.” “Monte Carlo,” predicted Harry nonsensically. Their scheduler would never let them go to Monte Carlo. Their scheduler barely let them go to the loo on their on days. “Meow--” Reagan laughed again, “--about Thailand? Thailand would be epic.” “Let’s go now,” said Harry, but it was not convincing. For one thing, he was very comfortable. For another, he had never bought a long-distance Portkey ticket in his life, nor had he had to make the times without help, nor had he actually had to remember his Gringott’s account number, or even pack his own damn trunk, not since Hogwarts. If he went to Thailand, he’d have their scheduler take care of it. “You already lost, you forgot to say meow,” PJ pointed out to him, put pat his head to let him know it was all alright, they could just try again. “I saw we take a trip to this couch right here, because I am pretty sure we have found the center of the universe, lads, and that nothing will ever compare to right here, this spot, right meow.” “I think that’s a lyric,” said Harry. “With the meow and all?” PJ asked, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “We can write some beautiful poetic shit about what’s keeping us grounded and centered, then just claim that instead of the drugs, it’s a girl. Then we can get Finlay to sing about it.” “Deal.” Harry closed his eyes, feeling the second come up wash over him, sweet and sleepy and close. He rubbed his cheek against PJ’s jeans. It was better here than outside. They shouldn’t have to do that anymore, the outside. He wished Finlay and Callum were here, though. He missed them. “Tell Howie tomorrow. Or tell Finlay and he can do a poem.” “Poems are awesome,” Reagan said with far less enthusiasm, but significantly more lazy happiness than was his norm, as he gave way into the drug’s effects. Normally, he didn’t prefer depressants, but right now, he couldn’t quite remember why he wouldn’t want to be like this all the time. He reached to loosely hold PJ’s hand as he lay his head back against the couch. With one hand in Harry’s hair and the other now holding Reagan’s PJ laid back with a satisfied smile against the couch. He felt completely at bliss at the moment with two of his closest friends. “Let’s just sit here in silence for meow, and create a song and never sing it. Then let time happen.” “Yeah. Meow is good,” said Harry, sinking into a hazy half-sleep. “That’s the title.” |