harry harbourne will be your pet pop star (harisha) wrote in dissentwo, @ 2013-07-08 18:56:00 |
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Entry tags: | !logs, char: harry harbourne, char: pj primpernelle, group: elixir, place: ldn (london), player: jess, player: kelly, ship: callum/harry, ship: harry/pj, time: 1977 01 (january) |
LOG: Let's get these kids some pamphlets or sommat.
FORMAT: Log
WHO: Harry Harbourne and PJ Primpernelle
WHEN: January 1977
WHERE: Chez Elixir, London.
WHAT: Harry Harbourne's adventures in poorly handled subspace, featuring PJ Primpernelle and a cameo from Chelsea Baddock. Written prior to Mary stuff, so let's just imagine that trauma edited in.
Harry woke up alone. Harry hadn’t woken up alone in months, maybe nine or ten of them, not once. Harry always found a warm body to octopus himself around at the end of the night, platonically or otherwise, and he slept like a limpet. But he woke up, at three pm according to the weird antique clock he’d bought because Sarah had liked it, in his bedroom alone with absolutely no idea how he had gotten there. It smelled like sex but he didn’t remember taking anyone home, though he had flashes of dancing hips flush, lights flashing, against a skinny girl with a mohawk. Her name had reminded him of America, but he didn’t know why, or how, or what it was. The world slowly came into focus, and with it came his hangover and a crushing, awful, inexplicable fear, bubbling in Harry’s stomach and spreading to the tips of his limbs. It swept over him fast like a wave dragging him under. He’d felt like that before, a little, when he was left alone sometimes — a week ago on the tour bus, when the other lads went to get snacks at a pit stop; last Tuesday after a show he’d bombed — but it had never been this bad. He was drowning in it, shaking, curling into himself to try to keep the panic from coming. Tears came before he had a chance to register the prickling at his eyes, dripping silently down his cheeks. He felt so bad, so overwhelmingly awful like something was imploding within him, or like there was a black hole sucking him up from the inside. Harry knew had to get out, he had to see someone, he had to get out of this bed or something terrible would happen, he knew it. Something more terrible than was already happening. Oh god, he wanted to die a little, he hated himself with a fierce and unrelenting pang. Everyone was tired of him, he was awful, he was so useless and annoying, no wonder no one was there, no one could stand him. Harry buried his head in the sheets, curling into the smallest possible ball he could manage. Muffled in the cloth, Harry cried hard for ten minutes until he had to catch his breath, shaking. This was so bad; he had to get out of his room. Harry wiped his face, sniffling and taking as deep breaths as he could manage. He had to find someone to keep him out of his head, to pull him back from drowning the awful crushing spiral of his thoughts. With great effort Harry made his way out of bed, aching all over. He pulled on the first things he saw — a t-shirt he thought was Reagan’s, sweatpants he didn’t recognize — and stumbled out of the room as fast as he could manage it, blinking at the light filled hallway. He stumbled down the stairs, nearly tripping twice since he was distracted wiping his face again on the hem of the shirt to try to hide the evidence of tears. Still, his watery red-rimmed eyes weren’t exactly subtle. The entrance hall was empty, and the lounge, and the kitchen. Panic mounted again as Harry moved through the house, poking his head into rooms as he passed them. Each one was vacant, quiet, and he bit his cuticles nervously in the way that made Cynthia exasperated with him, hard so they’d bleed and scab over. When he reached the living room he nearly fell over in relief at the sight of PJ sprawled on the couch, in sweatpants and wet hair, scribbling at something. He almost wanted to cry again at the solace of it. He wanted a cuddle but felt weirdly hesitant about it, something about his mood, he felt strange even for a hangover. “Mornin’,” he said, instead, attempting a smile. Harry was the worst actor in the world. It was not at all convincing. PJ, on the other hand, had had quite a productive morning. He had woken up at around ten, took Babydoll out for a run, grabbed the boys some breakfast on the way back (and left it in the kitchen for when the rest of them woke up), and took a shower. When he walked into one of the living rooms at around noon, he noticed a familiar small body curled up on the couch. Confused, he walked over to Callum’s room, which was locked. Not really caring much to look much further into the situation, he headed back to the living room to clear out the area. He noticed cut lines left on the coffee table and liquor bottle that were new to the mess. It may have been chaos in the house, but PJ would argue it was an organized chaos since e knew what belonged and what didn’t usually. He frowned, knelt down next to Callum’s sister, making sure the girl was still alive for one. She was, just trashed and out for a while. He noticed a little dry blood beneath her nose and on her dress, but those things happened. He picked her up and carried her to his room, letting her sleep off the rest of it in his bed. It was hard to relax in a living room when your bandmate’s druggie sister took up half the couch, passed out. Leaving a cup of water near the bed, he grabbed a rolled joint and some parchment and a quill, and he headed back to his spot on the couch. A joint and a half later, and two letters already written (one to mum, one to his dad), he worked on his letter to his little sister when Harry woke up and entered the room. He looked up and noticed the distress on the boys face and frowned, putting his quill and parchment down, moving his legs to make room for him on the couch as he took another hit from the joint. “You look miserable,” PJ said honestly, patting the spot next to him. “Come.” “‘m fine,” said Harry, the lie obvious, but he shuffled over to PJ anyway, tucking his lanky legs up to his chest. He folded his arms over his knees and rested his forehead on them, trying valiantly to keep his shit together. It was hard to do when you had a black hole in your chest, he thought, feeling stupid and melodramatic but awful all the same. “Am I going to have to beat it out of you?” PJ asked with a sigh, but still managed a small smile for the boy. He offered Harry the joint, other hand resting on the couch back behind Harry, fingers resting on the back of his neck, thumb rubbing small circle. “I’m a roll today. What’s going on in that head of yours?” Harry lifted his head for the joint, filling his lungs and holding it for longer than seemed necessary, finally exhaling in a cloud of smoke. He leaned a little against PJ, taking another hit before passing the joint back and pressing his face into his knees again. “Shit,” he said, finally, raising one shoulder in a half shrug. He shut his eyes tightly. He felt so, so awful, and didn’t know how to stop it. “Bad shit.” “Is it because you fucked Chels?” PJ asked bluntly, continuing the rub the back of Harry’s neck. “Because Callum doesn’t need to know that. You’ll be fine.” “What?” asked Harry, confused, raising his head again to peer bewilderedly at PJ. There was that familiar jolt of shame at the memory, but he knew he hadn’t, he hadn’t even gotten drunk with her since that time with the fountain. “No I haven’t, not since summer.” PJ’s brows furrowed at Harry’s words, having heard the noises and voices coming from Harry’s room last night. “Really?” He asked, more confused than anything, but just shrugged. “Oh, sorry. I just assumed I heard you two, and found her on the couch this morning. She’s sleepin’ it off in my room now. Who were you with?” Harry’s brow furrowed. “I... Not sure. Don’t remember. No one here in the morning.” He rubbed his face, wincing. This was not the first time this had happened. “Honestly, I don’t remember much from last night. Out with Cyn and them, at this club, there were shots... There was a girl there I was dancing with, but, I dunno.” He winced again, his face going awful and guilty. “Stay here, I’ll be right back, okay?” PJ assured Harry before getting off the couch as he finished off the last of his joint as tossing the roach in a cup of... something that he passed on the way to the kitchen. He grabbed the bag with Harry’s breakfast sandwich, opening up the freezer and grabbing some pack of frozen vegetables that had been in there since they first moved in, before heading back to Harry on the couch. He sat back down, handing both items to Harry. “Sandwich is for sustenance, frozen peas are for your cheek.” By the look on Harry’s face, you’d think PJ was responsible for ending world hunger and also the newest Cleansweep model. “Thanks,” he said earnestly, accepting both offerings. He held the peas to his cheek, holding them in place with one hand and unwrapping the sandwich. His stomach growled encouragingly, and then had a swift reversal of fortunes when the smell hit his senses. He’d take it slow. At this point, Harry was pretty okay at his hangovers. Nothing like having them for a week straight on a tourbus to make you a pro. At one point, he and Reagan had invented a game called ‘hurl and holler’ that had arisen purely because they’d been sick repeatedly out the open windows of the moving vehicle at the same time. He took a tentative bite, trying to will his stomach to settle. PJ picked up his orange juice that he had set on the floor earlier, taking a few gulps before putting it down on the floor in front of Harry in case he got thirsty. “So, later today I was thinking of go–” PJ’s sentence was cut off by the sound of someone approaching the living room. Chelsea had washed her face and tied her hair up, balled up dress in hand as she wore one of PJ’s shirts that were far too big on her and his shorts that were hilariously too long. She walked by the two, not even sparing a glance at Harry as she gave PJ a quick peck on the cheek, muttering a thank you before sitting down on the opposite side of the room to put on the heels she had already grabbed from Harry’s room moments ago. “If you see Callum, tell him he’s a wanker and a twat and to go fuck himself,” she said, voice raspy and tired, still avoiding any eye contact with Harry. “And thanks for the water and whatever.” Harry was too bleary and dazed to notice the brush off, and he grinned at Chelsea, tired but as affectionate as any other day. The smile didn’t quite reach his eyes but the fondness there was unmistakable. There was absolutely no hint of anything else in his face. He was as transparent and guileless as ever. “Hey, Chels,” he rasped, unbothered by her murderous expression. Harry knew lots of Baddocks. It took a lot of bitchface to thwart him being cheerful at them. “Y’alright? When did you get here?” He offered the contents of his hand towards her. “Want some breakie sandwich?” Chelsea’s face went from angry, to hurt, to angry, back to hurt, to furious in a matter of seconds. Harry may have missed it all, but PJ just sat and watched the two, keeping his mouth shut, sitting back. Once Chelsea finished buckling up her heels, she stood up and glared down at Harry, slipping him off. “Fuck off, Harbourne.” Grabbing her bunched up dress, she stormed out of the room as PJ stood up, ready to ream her out if she returned for her comment, only sitting back down once he heard the front door slam shut. Harry stared after her, too shocked to say anything. It took a moment before the words landed and his face crumpled, openly at first and then turning inward. “What... What did I do?” he asked, mystified, his voice shaking a little. PJ wasn’t about to make the situation any worse by voicing what few suspicions he had, deciding to just curl an arm around Harry’s shoulder comfortingly. “She’s a Baddock, and probably just still fucked up from last night. Don’t take it personally if she acts like a cunt. Not everyone masters hangovers quite as well as you.” “Did I — Did you see me last night? Did I do something?” Harry was still looking towards the doorway Chelsea left through, eyebrows drawn together in alarm. Try as he might he couldn’t remember anything from the past eighteen hours. He had no idea whether he’d seen Chelsea, or when his crowd had left the club or if he’d gone home with the girl whose name he couldn’t remember. He felt panicky again, sort of claustrophobic in his life. His wave of self-loathing could only grow with the added excitement of having no idea what awful shit he could have done, how annoying he could have been. Oh, god, he hoped he hadn’t been papped. He really didn’t want to have to deal with that right now. “Went out with Reagan last night, sorry,” he answered, browns drawn together in worry. “Look, I told you, everything’s probably fine. Don’t worry about it. Whatever is stuck up her arse, I’m sure she’ll pull it out as much as any Baddock can, and everything will be fine. Relax, okay?” Harry nodded, but his face didn’t change. He leaned into PJ heavily, putting his hands over his eyes and pressing the heels of his palms into his eyesockets. “Fuck, why am I such a fuckup,” he muttered, half to himself. How many times had he blacked out in the last month? He couldn’t even count the number of times Gray had had to carry him out of the club and into management’s enchanted car, too inebriated even for side-along apparition. A few times he’d even lost his shoes. If it weren’t for his security team he’d probably be waking up in alleyways. A wave of shame overtook him again, bitter and guilty. With all the gentleness he would conjure, PJ slapped the side of Harry’s head, making sure to not fuck with his hangover. “Don’t say that, yeah?” PJ said firmly, looking down at his friend. “You’re not a fuckup. You just have a little too much fun like everybody else. Do you have any idea how many girls have probably told Callum to go fuck himself? Even me? Fucking up doesn’t make you a fuckup, little man.” “I don’t remember anything,” admitted Harry miserably. He felt acutely sure that he had done something, something to deserve Chelsea’s reaction and probably a hundred other things too. “Like, anything.” He was pretty sure he’d been with someone last night; his room smelled like it and there were scratches he didn’t recognize. He thought it was probably a girl, since he didn’t have that particular soreness, but it wasn’t much to go on and he wasn’t sure if he really even wanted to know. What if it had been Chelsea? He really had meant to stop doing that. He had gotten wasted and cried about it to PJ and promised himself he’d stop, and he had, hadn’t he? It could’ve been any number of other people; maybe that girl whose name he couldn’t remember. God. He could probably ask Gray what happened. Gray wouldn’t have let Chelsea out with him, at least, he knew that much. He rubbed his face again, harder, like he wanted to scrub out the last twenty-four hours. “Well, what’s happened, happened,” PJ said, squeezing Harry’s shoulder. He wasn’t about to offer his suspicions, because what good would it do, really? Harry was already beating himself up over it all. “Everything is fine now, so let’s just have a quieter night in today, sound good? Maybe invite Danny over or something, I don’t know.” Harry nodded, curling himself into PJ until he was half on the older boy’s lap. He was glad the big window walls of the living room had a dimming charm. He dropped his hands to clutch at the fabric of PJ’s shirt, pressing his face into his neck. “Could we watch telly or something? Muggles have stuff like Notting Hill, yeah?” Harry didn’t want to exist, he really wanted to stop existing, but the next best thing was to hide himself here until he didn’t have to think about it. He definitely knew he didn’t want to leave the house, where paparazzi were constantly circling beyond the bounds of their wards waiting for one of them to appear. “Have you never watched The Good Life?” PJ asked, his eyes wide. For the past year, PJ had caught as many episodes of the show as possible when their schedule permitted it. In fact, he had been planning to watch the new episode right after finishing up his letters to his parents. He checked the clock and noticed they still had five minutes before it started. “Harry. Harry, you have not lived until you’ve watched it. Tom and Barbara are probably my favourite couple on this planet, and I am including my parents in this. Margo and Jerry have me in stitches. Harry, we are watching The Good Life.” “I haven’t seen you this excited about something since Mr Fluffy,” said Harry, the beginning of a smile audible in his tone. “We’ve gotta watch, definitely.” He settled in, curling into the heat of PJ's long body. |