WHO: Harlow and John WHERE: The Chapel at Sing Sing WHEN: late night, May 29, 2019
STATUS: In progress
It was hard for John to be around Harlow, for the very same reasons he wanted to. He was drawn to him, he thought that much was obvious and he hated to be obvious. But he was, drawn to the spark and the brilliance, the rage and the passion. Harlow did everything with fucking jet fuel, burning brighter and moving faster. John never knew why he himself was cold, why he was empty and blank and uninspired within himself, but he did know that finding those people who were like Harlow - although there was really no one just like Harlow - or art that inspired him, or music that moved him filled up the holes. He didn't create, though. He didn't have it in him to make art like that, only to consume. And he consumed people that same way.
Harlow had, thus far, always been able to withstand it. John had never gotten, maybe would never get, Harlow out of his head. It might have made him angry, if it hadn't fascinated him so much.
So here he was, taking the steps up into the chapel at Sing Sing fucking prison, his El Camino parked just outside. He strode down the center aisle, wrinkling his nose at the smell of incense that still clung to the place even after all this time. His legs were long and thin and ate up the distance, until he took the three steps to the pulpit and stood there looking down on Harlow dryly.
"I might have known you'd set yourself up right next to Jesus," he said. It didn't escape his notice that Harlow still liked to nest, with futon mattresses and blankets piled, and it also didn't escape his notice that Harlow was currently rolling a blunt out of one of the Letters of Paul to the Corinthians.