harry harbourne will be your pet pop star (harisha) wrote in dissentwo, @ 2013-04-14 17:16:00 |
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Entry tags: | !logs, char: harry harbourne, char: pj primpernelle, group: elixir, place: ldn (london), player: jess, player: kelly, plot: it's fine it's fine, ship: harry/pj |
LOG: i really don't want to do my taxes so i'm putting this up instead.
FORMAT: Log
WHO: PJ Primpernelle and Harry Harbourne
WHEN: Sometime in 1976? To be set when dates are decided. After PJ and Callum were incarcerated for fighting.
WHERE: Chez Elixir, London.
WHAT: It's fine. It's fine. They're just both emotional wrecks, whatever.
It had been a hectic 24 hours, not that PJ minded all that much. He took most of the heat for the arrest the night before, because even if he disagreed with Callum most of the time, he was still (much as PJ never admit to it) one his closest friends. He had explained that the brawl was his fault, and though he read no press on it, he knew the headlines would read how PJ Primpernelle was arrested for more disorderly conduct and arrested, bringing Callum down with him. PJ expected this when, especially since he did conjure the story up himself. It was unspoken that Callum and him would never bring it up. He already received Howlers from his parents, which stung more than he would ever admit. He hated when they learned of his drug use. So instead of facing reality, he opted for just lounging in his room, an ice pack on his face to try and contain the swelling, and was on more than one or two different drugs to cope with the rest of his body. Babydoll at the foot of his bed and Mr. Fluffy on his chest also helped. Harry had woken up a little disoriented from the hangover and drug use, messy haired and emotionally drained, in Callum’s bed. He hadn’t gone to PJ the night before — well, afternoon, as he suspected it was probably three or four pm now but he wasn't sure — and needed to see him. Harry eased himself out of bed, trying not to disturb the still sleeping Callum. He allowed himself a few moments to examine Callum's face without its usual guarded expression. He looked so much younger, more vulnerable in sleep, and Harry watched the rise and fall of his chest and the way that his eyelids fluttered before he turned away decidedly, tamping down any rising emotion. That way was madness. He slipped out of Callum’s room to make the short (but more than slightly harrowing, embarrassingly) solo trip down the hallway to PJ’s door. He creaked it open slowly, trying not to disturb the older boy, and slipped in to crawl into PJ’s bed, octopus arms first. PJ was lying prone on the bed, with his eyes closed, so Harry took no issue with curling up around him as he lay, sprawling himself half on top of PJ’s chest, resting his face in the curve of PJ’s neck. “Hi,” he said faintly, into the skin. PJ grabbed Mr. Fluffy with one arm, putting him to his side to make room for Harry. He was glad it was Harry and not Reagan (his best friend through and through, make no mistake of that), as Harry was less prone to being loud, and that wasn’t something that PJ could really handle right now. His left arm curled around Harry, holding him as he octopussed his way into his bed and shifted the ice pack with his free hand. “You’re not Mr. Fluffy,” he joked. “No, I’m mad at you,” said Harry, petulant, clinging on tighter. He wasn’t as upset as he’d been when he’d gotten home but it still hurt, and now that he was away from Callum and with PJ, who hadn’t yet talked him down, the emotions rose up again. It was easy for Callum to talk Harry down. Harry wanted to please him more than anyone really, he wanted it like a desperate ache, followed him around sick from a pit of something — useless longing, maybe, or nerves — that he tried not to think about. It was easier to stay mad at PJ, who was harder to anger, who didn't scare Harry as much as Callum could sometimes. Harry wasn’t sure why he’d been so rattled by the experience. It wasn’t just about PJ and Callum, even, there was how he’d been coddled and kept out of the loop when Finlay and Reagan hadn’t and how he worried now that Caroline only took him out last night because Michael or someone asked her to keep him occupied. His brain was too fuzzy and hungover to sort everything out. “And why are you mad at me?” PJ asked with a tired smile that made his face hurt, wincing. “You know,” mumbled Harry, with his usual eloquence. The kick that he levelled at PJ’s shin was truly pathetic, more of a nudge than an act of force. “And no one told me, not until after.” “Sorry, we were a bit preoccupied with being held in a cell to tell you,” PJ muttered, stretching his aching body, and not meaning to be a jerk about it, but it had been a really annoyed night/day. “I’ll make sure to owl you from the detention center next time, yeah?” “Yeah,” said Harry with complete sincerity, taking refuge in his grumpiness to keep from feeling the sting at PJ’s words that normally would have made him crumple a little bit. He was quiet for a minute, feeling like he was repeating the same scene that he did with Callum, with slightly different dialogue. “Why were you fighting?” “At the bar or in the cell?” PJ asked with a humourless laugh. “Either way, why do you think? I’m a total tit, and I have Snow White and alcohol and Callum in one place.” “You’re not a total tit, you’re a partial tit, and there’s gotta be more to the stupid story and Callum said he didn’t want to talk about it either.” The pout was audible in Harry’s tone. It wasn’t dissimilar to the sulky, hurt look he’d get when the other boys talked about parties he hadn’t gone to or private jokes he wasn’t in on. Harry wasn’t mad enough to stay mad, but he was mad enough to whinge. PJ sighed and ran his hand through Harry’s hair. “That’s the whole story, Hazza. I’m sorry if I upset you.” “Tell me it’s going to be okay.” Harry had seen Callum and PJ fight pretty much every day for the last few years, but physical fights were so rare and, to Harry, felt more permanent and terrifying. He knew that PJ and Callum got along in their weird way underneath all that animosity, but the apocalyptic feeling of his hangover combined with the panic of the last twelve hours made him need reassurance, even more so than usual. The arguments had become endurable at this point; he hardly even noticed them sometimes. Him and Reagan would go into their own little world until they needed to intervene. This seemed — or felt, illogically, with no proof but Harry’s intense anxiety — different. He wanted to be mad at PJ for starting the fight, but didn’t quite have enough resolve to hold onto the feeling. PJ removed the ice pack from his face, throwing it onto the floor, before wrapping both arms around Harry, doing his best to smile through the pain at the boy. “Everything gonna be really bleedin’ peachy, Harry. Promise. I’ll make a few public apologies, and everything’s goin’ to be just fine.” “I don’t care about the public stuff. I meant, you know.” Harry made a vague gesture that seemed to indicate either “around here” or “tornado”. “Do you honestly think I’m a dick enough to bring problems back into our safe haven?” PJ asked with a quirked brow. “You know I won’t bring that shite back here and make it harder for you guys,” he said, giving Harry a squeeze. “Just don’t let Callum anywhere near my room for a few days, and everything will be just fine.” “Sorry. Yeah, okay.” Harry reached up behind him to move PJ’s hand from his shoulder to his hair, to jumpstart the petting process. “Was just... Y’know, like I get. Worried.” PJ leaned slightly over to his nightstand where he had previously set up a line of coke, snorting it, before returning to Harry, petting him. “Want to know the funniest part?” “Yeah.” “Callum threw the the first punch,” PJ laughed, which wasn’t a good idea thanks to the bruising from the brawl at the pub. “Both times.” Harry laughed a little. “He said that he learned punching is very different from fistbumping.” “It was kind of like watching a toddler pound on a bodybuilder,” he laughed. “So of course I had to step in and keep him from getting fuckin’ killed. Little shit was so coked up.” “Shit.” Harry had been told a pretty different story from Gray. “Too much coke, go for broke.” It was, indeed, a common saying in the Elixir house. Sometimes it was literal. Reagan had a slight shopping problem sometimes after a bit too much Snow White. He wanted to thank PJ for stepping in but felt clumsy about it, so he tried to convey the feeling through a neck nuzzle. “Aren’t you glad you weren’t there now?” PJ asked, trying to lighten up the situation. “And don’t tell anyone what I told you, got it? Helen and I already discussed it on the way home. Jail works well with my image, not so much your shithead little friend.” Well, it almost sounded fond. “Makes sense. I won’t tell. I never tell. That’s Finlay.” Finlay told because he thought he was doing the right thing, like the sweetheart he was. Harry was easy to manipulate but he never told the higher ups something one of the boys did, not anything sensitive anyway. Harry was too much of a controversy magnet himself not to know one when he heard it. “You’re the baddest of the bad.” “That’s what Babydoll’s been telling me all morning,” he smiled, nudging the dog at the end of his bed with his foot. “She’s a lousy communicator though. Let’s ignore my shit of a night. Tell me about yours.” Time was confusing. At some point Harry had sort of lost track where nights and days were, since his sleep schedule was so messed up. It took him a second to figure out when last night was. It felt like it’d been two days since he’d been dropped off at the house in the midst of a panic, not 9 or 10 hours. “Out with Cazza and Cynth and them. Went to some underground club thing where you had to have a password and the door wasn’t marked? It was cool, though. Then back to hers for a bit, then Gray told me what happened and I came home.” He bit his thumb idly, worrying over his earlier suspicion that maybe Caroline had only invited him out because she was asked to. He always felt surprised that her cool friends were okay putting up with some teenaged pop star who brought a lot of hassle with him wherever he went. “Sorry we cut your night out short,” PJ apologized, though really, he had never been a fan of the way others used to Harry to go out. e had voiced this in the beginning, but it always fell on deaf ears, so he stopped. “I don’t think I’m going out for a while. Partially because Helen warned me against it, partially because I think I may just punch people out of spite if I did.” “Probably not the best plan ever,” agreed Harry, “Maybe only punch the people who deserve it. Like kitten haters.” “Who the fucking fuck doesn’t like kittens?” PJ asked, lightly pinching Harry’s side. “That’s just crazy talk.” Harry flailed slightly at the pinch, releasing a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a whine, but he didn’t move away. “No one. People deserving of punches,” he said once he’d recovered. PJ held up a fist, jokingly in warning to Harry. “And how do you feel about kittens, young Hazza?” “Prrrrr,” said Harry, nuzzling his face against the first in an admittedly truly cat like fashion. PJ’s fist opened up, ruffling up Harry’s hair, before leaning over and picking Mr. Fluffy up from his spot, placing him on top of his chest, next to Harry. “Fluff’s got a soft spot for kittens. I refuse to get one, but he can just enjoy you instead.” And, indeed, Mr. Fluffy started nuzzling up to Harry’s hair. Harry grinned into PJ’s shirt. “Reagan and I should have another pet store adventure. We could end up with fifty-eight kittens instead. Or turtles. I like turtles. Not big ones, though, little ones.” “No,” PJ said firmly. He loved animals, but he also knew that aside from him, no one took Goddamn care of the animals they bought, and fell on his lap. Two was more than enough with their schedules. “I forbid it. No more animals in this house.” He then looked down at Harry, and sighed. “But if you really want a baby turtle, maybe we can set up a small terrarium in here. One.” “Cool,” said Harry, pleased. It was highly likely Harry would have forgotten about his desire for a small turtle five minutes after he had professed it, but the idea still seemed brilliant. “Name him Albus Dumbledore.” The medications and the drugs hazed up his mind some, and it actually took PJ a hot second to remember what it was that they were talking about. “I think I’m fucked up right now. Lapses. Turtles. Got it. Okay.” Harry burst out laughing, leaning back into the pillow for a minute. “Bet I could tell you anything right now and you’d basically believe it.” “Bet you not,” PJ was barely able to make out, though the reality was that... PJ wasn’t really sure what the reality was. And it was fine. “I’m smart. And shit.” “Yup. Super smart. Knows stuff, about things.” Harry settled himself again on PJ’s chest. It was warm in the cool room and he slid his hand underneath PJ’s shirt to palm the heated skin more easily. He knew, vaguely, that it was handsy behaviour even from him, who was a limpet at the best of times, but he was tired and that’s what he needed and Harry took what he needed. He burrowed closer, curling his fingers over PJ’s ribs. In a more sober state, PJ would have just thrown Harry a look, but his skin was feeling tingly, so was his mind, and it felt nice, so PJ just closed his eyes in contentment instead. “Lots of fuckin’ things. Like.. things. I know those. And others.” "Mm." Having met no resistance, Harry eased his other hand under the fabric as well, rutching up the shirt a bit as he sought more body heat. He slung one of his long legs over one of PJ's — for comfort, he told himself, unconvincingly — until he was entwined with the older boy, all his gangly octopus limbs holding on. “So, um,” he began, hesitantly, pausing to formulate his question. “So, do you think that, um, Cazza and them took me out tonight because Michael asked them to? I mean, because of that?” His stomach rolled a little, uncomfortable at the thought. For an international pop sensation, Harry was a champion at second guessing himself. PJ adjusted his legs to entwine with Harry’s to get more comfortable. Eyes still closed, he thought over Harry’s words and tried to debate the correct response in his hazed mind. PJ hated when people used Harry, and though he openly told Harry this on several occasions, he wasn’t sure if this should be one of those times. He opened his eyes, looking straight into Harry’s. “I think everyone wants a piece of you, and you know it drives me crazy that some people abuse that, but I think that Cazza and them enjoy you, little man. Michael doesn’t make me like you, and Michael makes me pretend to like a lot of things. Just don’t go doing shit you don’t want to do. Understand?” "Yeah, alright," said Harry, nodding a little and keeping his wide eyes fixed on PJ. People were always telling him not to do things that he didn't want to do, like it was a problem he had, but Harry didn't quite understand what they meant. He always wanted to do what other people wanted him to do. That was what he wanted. It made him happy to make them happy. So when Cynthia passed him a pill or Phillip wanted to go to some club Harry went with it, always. He wanted to. PJ stared at Harry, not sure what he said has sunk in, though it usually never did, he felt. “You don’t understand,” PJ sighed, moving one hand into Harry’s hair. “Not really.” “Don’t understand what?” Harry tilted into PJ’s hand, because no amount of confusion or wariness could disrupt the pleasure of that feeling. PJ let out another sigh, continuing to look at Harry, liking the feel of Harry’s hair between his fingers, temporarily put off by it. “Putting yourself first where it fuckin’ matters,” he said, tired, knowing that this conversation was too long of one for him to properly have in his current state. “Find out who really cares about you, instead of those who just like what you represent. None of us really get it yet, I don’t think. Everyone wants us.” “Not everyone,” said Harry, because of course he fixated on the bad reviews, the punk kids who made fun of him, the papers that called him names. “Those that don’t want us, need us,” PJ said with a small laugh. “Makes them look tougher or edgier. We’re in the public eye, Hazza, everyone has an opinion, even if they are shitty ones. Some people want to be around us to make them look cooler, some because they actually like us, some because they look edgier by comparison. We’re tools. I’m a tool, you’re a tool. S’why we gotta stick together, you know? Reagan trusts everything, I trust nothing. We all need to kind of... just stick together. Or something.” The thing was, Harry liked people. He liked people so much, he would meet someone and think, fuck, I really just want to be your friend. And he would do anything for it, really, just to hang around with them in their kitchens and listen to them talk. He didn’t understanding using, or being used. He got that he helped people get things, sometimes, but it just didn’t occur to him that that could be a whole base for a friendship. He always wanted to get people things. But the sticking together, that he understood. No one else really grasped what it was like, all the screaming and the mobs and the people who want things from you — that Harry understood, from the fans, he felt like he gave all of himself every single day and it still wasn’t enough, he didn’t have enough to meet their rabid need for more and he felt so guilty, sometimes, if he hadn’t smiled bright enough or signed everyone’s papers or taken a picture with everyone who wanted one — and at the end of the day, they had to have each others’ backs. At the end of the day, it was each other they’d be next to on the tour bus day in and day out, escaping the rush of hands that pressed at the windows, the voices like a riot. “I’m not a tool, I’m a very nice boy,” Harry joked weakly, feeling a little unsettled. PJ laughed and kissed the top of Harry’s head. “You are. A very nice boy, that is.” “You don’t like them that much, sometimes, do you?” said Harry, a question he only allowed himself to ask because he figured PJ wouldn’t remember this in a few hours. But he’d notice, sometimes, a sort of tension on PJ’s face sometimes when Harry came home from Cazza and Cynthia’s or wherever else that crowd went, or after Phillip dropped him off after some fashion show or another. Harry knew PJ didn’t like a lot of people, sort of, he mostly just wanted to be left to his own devices, but he was still curious. “I don’t, no,” PJ answered, tensing up some, hand removing itself from Harry’s hair. He used that hand to reach over to his nightstand and grab one of his pain killers, popping it in and swallowing, suddenly all too aware of his puffed up face and other injuries. “That doesn’t matter much, though, now does it?” Harry shrugged one shoulder, unsure. Part of him wanted to say “if you don’t want me to hang out with them, I won’t” but then he remembered the invitations, the inclusion, and he didn’t know if he could say no. He wanted to say it, though. Easy, simple. I'll do whatever you want. Be happy with me, please. “I guess. Dunno. Why don’t you?” “I just question their intentions,” PJ said warily, his head tilting back, head feeling heavy. “Don’t like people who use my friends.” “Why do you think they’re using me?” asked Harry in a fairly small voice, slightly hurt. It tapped into that fear he had, that he wasn’t cool enough for them, that they were just humouring him because he was a laugh. He had never thought they were humouring him because he got them something. All he ever really got them was breakfast in the morning and a whole lot of hassle from photographers, he figured. “Because you’re Harry fuckin’ Harbourne and too good for them,” PJ replied, some heat behind the words as he stared up at the ceiling. “Get them in places they could never get into otherwise. Get their names known, their faces. Can tell stories about their times out with a pop star. Superstar. You don’t need them, they need you, but you go with them anyway. S’like, why? To be one of them for a few nights a week? You don’t need them. Namedropping “Harry Harbourne” everywhere. You’re not just a fuckin’ public image, you know? You’re a fuckin’ person. A good fuckin’ person. And a lot of people don’t even fuckin’ care, and who know if they’re those kinds of people? Who fuckin’ knows?” Harry was quiet for a long moment, running the pads of his fingers over the thin skin of PJ’s torso contemplatively. “They... They make me feel like I’m not, you know. Harry Harbourne.” Harry made his name sound like it was, an international symbol and not a person, as recognizable and meaningless as saying the Chudley Cannons. “More like I’m, you know, Harry Harbourne who’s eighteen and lives in London and hangs out in Camden. You know?” And they made him feel cool, that was the unspoken part, they made him feel like someone who didn’t sing ‘baby’ for a living, made him feel like he was living a cool, interesting life. Not that being an international popstar wasn’t interesting — although there was way more waiting around in green rooms and waking up at six in the morning for merch review meetings — but it was a different kind. Harry hadn’t particularly liked Regular Harry Harbourne before Elixir, but now his idea of Regular Harry was different. Cooler. Someone people liked. “Like, I don’t get recognized in the places they take me. And they take the piss a lot. I dunno. I’m not good at explaining.” PJ remained silent, continuing to stare at the ceiling, before taking a heavy breath and looking back over at Harry. “You asked me a question. I answered. You can do what you want with whoever you want. So just forget I said anything, yeah?” “Sorry,” said Harry quietly. “I just... wanted to explain? I wanted you to like each other. I mean, I get that you don’t, I just. Wanted it. Sorry.” “Don’t apologize,” PJ said, tired but honestly. “You don’t have to explain anything. Just do what makes you happy, I guess.” “And you’re not, um. Mad at me, right?” asked Harry, perfectly aware he was being ridiculous, as usual. There was a point during his last overzealous stalker where he was apologizing for taking up space, not just for bumping into people like normal, and at one point had genuinely asked Reagan if he was mad at him after Harry had tripped over his drink and spilled about a thimbleful. “Just come over here,” he said, hugging Harry closer to him. “You goddamn well know I’m not mad at you, little man.” “I’m like two inches shorter than you,” protested Harry, the smile audible in his voice. He curled in tighter, looping his leg through PJ’s other one. “Yes, but medium-sized man doesn’t sound as good,” he said, the tension beginning to slowly ease away. “Or I could just call you Harry, I suppose. If that’s what you want.” “Call me whatever you want,” said Harry, “PBJ.” He ducked his head in advance of anticipated hitting, on the edge of laughter. PJ groaned at the nickname, making a mental note to strangle Reagan later for starting it when they were still in school. “I don’t even like peanut butter.” “And here we had the assistants import it all the way from America,” said Harry, mock-mournful. “Just shush,” PJ muttered, his pain medications causing his eyelids to feel heavier with every passing minute. “I’m going to nap. You can stay, or you can go have fun with my abuser or one of the other two.” “I’ll stay for a bit, if that’s okay?” It wasn’t really a question. Everyone knew Harry didn’t do boundaries well. It would take a flat denial to get him to leave someone alone, and Harry's desolate look of rejection was rarely worth it. Without waiting for an answer, Harry tucked himself closer to PJ and slid his face into the crook of the other boy’s elbow, hiding the dim light from the door. Everything was okay, he reminded himself. Everything was okay, and everyone was fine, and no one hated him, and nothing was wrong. He took a few deep breaths, waiting to drop off to sleep. |