Happy Little Pill || Harris and Papa K
Harris knew as soon the words left his lips that they were the wrong ones and Agent Klein wouldn’t get it. Luna wasn’t just a friend, or a girl he knew, or a housemate. And maybe it wasn’t normal or healthy to be as dependent as they were but that’s all Harris knew. It just happened that Luna was still alive, where Ellie, Cohen, and Blythe were not. His eyes closed briefly at the gentle dismissal to let Luna work her own problems out before blinking them open again too afraid to drop his guard for long. “She’s my best friend, who just overdosed, and now is trying to quit years worth of drug addiction cold turkey. And you want me to write that off as not my concern? I can’t do that.” Sleep wasn’t a magic cure all for either of them, but sitting and talking and having one goddamn person in the house they could be blunt and honest with? That helped. “She won’t talk to you. Or Casey. I tried. I know I’m not an expert on any of this, but I can listen and at least she’s willing to talk with me. I honestly don’t know how you got through it alone, I really don’t. You’re a long stronger than we are, but you know how things are a lot different at 3pm then they are at 3am and that - I can’t just shut that door on her. She doesn’t get an NA mentor here.” He shifted uncomfortably, adjusting Justin’s sweater around him, because even if he tried to downplay his side effects, his body had a way of saying differently. But so what? Nothing had really knocked him on his ass yet, so he was managing. He could take some headaches and upset stomach, he wasn’t exactly stranger to either of those. And it wasn’t like Harrison ran around poking holes in the metaphoric dam for fucking kicks. This life sucked. And quite honestly, the agency was statistically quite lucky, most people off the street would not have lasted as long. And there it was. The one argument everyone always defaulted to. He was smart so why wasn’t he making the smart choices. Because smarts cancelled out wants, and desires, and fears, and insecurities? “Why do I need scientific data to back me up? I take those pills, I close my eyes, I see people die. Sometimes it’s Ellie, sometimes it’s Blythe, sometimes it hasn’t happened yet and I see it anyway, Luna, Justin, you, me. Sometimes it’s a lot of people. You think I’m making it up, ask your son what its like to share a bedroom with me. Ask him how many times I wake up either crying or screaming. It was bad after Ellie died, and it got worse after being kidnapped, and now - now my brain has pretty much anything it could want to torment me with. Earthquakes, drug overdoses, gunshots, accidents. My subconscious has a field day.”
It was a thing that wasn’t talked about. Harris had moved to the couch in an effort to save his relationship and it’d worked until he drank too much. Justin had been the only one that ever had to shoulder that experience, it’d nearly broken them, and Agent Klein wanted to know why he wasn’t being smart? Because he was selfish. His eyes were burning, but he refused to cry this early into what was apparently going to be a very long conversation. “Yeah, it is.” ‘Cause being a zombie came with dulled emotions and mental processes and that kept Harris calm, focused, and functional. It wasn’t worth it. And Harris was furious with himself for ever having had the bright idea to hand all this shit over to Agent K because he was very much not ready for this. And was that going to be his next argument? That Harrison couldn’t make a decision like this because his lack of sleep impaired his judgement? It’s not like Harrison was driving, or operating, or doing anything that even remotely affected anybody else’s wellbeing while being under house arrest. Harris desperately hoped that wasn’t his big card. His knee was a fucking joke. Even if it healed at this point, it’d never be what it was and he knew that. They all did. And that relied on a very big if he injured it again and between his boyfriend and his bodyguard, that was not very likely. The question was probably supposed to be obvious and rhetorical, but Harris looked up anyway. “You can make light of it all you want. I wish it was that simple. That they were just bad dreams and I could shake them off if I tried hard enough. But they’re not. My sister really is dead. Cohen. Blythe. Everyone I gave a shit about before this break. And there is an organization we can’t get a leg up on that wants me and everyone I love now dead. That’s my reality. I can’t wake up from that. And I’m sorry if the past few weeks hasn’t been enough to make me strong enough to face that with poise and dignity. But for my own sake and everyone else’s? Yeah, I’ll skip the dance so I can make it through another goddamn day.”
His hands rose for a moment to press into his eyes and hold back the sobs that wanted to break through. He didn’t do this. These were the things they had all a silent but mutual understanding to never bring up. Because it took everything that was in neat nice locked little boxes and set them ablaze while spreading them far and wide. Everything hurt and Harris was so very done. They weren’t going to see eye to eye on this but who was he fucking kidding? What a sad little boy he must be to be sitting here trying to reason out his own mental inadequacies to retain some shred of affection or approval from a guy that was basically a stranger and that his boyfriend still pretty much hated. But Harris had to give him that point. He was purposefully manipulating himself to gain pretty much the same results from sleep deprivation as he had with a bottle of whiskey. He just hadn’t made the connection before now. But the dulling sensations, the ability to grit and get through, he’d drink not to get drunk, but to make his head manageable. Same end, different means. But this was worse. Was this how Luna felt? Giving up alcohol had confused him because he didn’t know what else to turn to, but this? This fucking scared him. This felt like losing something big and he wanted no part of it. If Agent Klein didn’t want to compromise, then, fine. Harris was out. As far as he knew this was a voluntary rehab, and there was really nothing the man could do to Harris besides turn his back and talk shit about him about Justin. And he wasn’t sure that Justin would put more stock in that than keeping his boyfriend. What part of dull, calm, and suppress wasn’t clear? Harris had no desire to be at 100% and fully functioning. He wouldn’t be able to handle it. He’d never been able to handle it and that was before bodies started dropping. Ironic though, that the label he was so quick to slap on Harris, he was pulling right back off again. Kicked out of that bonding moment rather quickly then, was he? Luckily, this part he knew. He knew how to keep his face passive, how to not show just how hurt he was, and how to keep his voice calm when panic and rage were at war for control. Wait, addicted to self-destruction? Harrison had seen a lot in the psychology department, but that was a first. “Shame there’s not a support group for that then, isn’t it?” he shot back, barely managing to refrain from either smirking or laughing. He thought insomnia was a goddamn vice? Why would Harrison chose this? His eyes followed the movement to the shaking bottle but the extra heavy dose of guilt was the last straw. His head shook, but he fumbled to his feet, struggling to get the stupid coin out of his pocket before tossing it back on the desk next to Agent Klein. If he wasn’t an alcoholic anymore, he wouldn’t need that, now would he? “This isn’t about a perfect life. This isn’t about being a good boyfriend, or a good son, or a good friend. I’m not any of those things. But I’m surviving the best I know how and that’s all I can do. Sorry it’s not good enough for you.” He needed out of the room, now. His mind was whirling, faster than he could pick out a single thought or plan, but he just - out. Walk towards the door. The rest would fall into place. He just needed to get out.
Dairen should have tried to phrase it a different way, should’ve tried to explain himself better. But now he was getting frustrated and he didn’t see why Harrison couldn’t understand what he was doing to himself. “You can’t save her from herself, Harrison. And I know you want to be there for her, but you have to take care of yourself too. If this was only about her, if she was the only one struggling here, I wouldn’t be arguing with you. But you can’t make yourself suffer to try and help her. All that does is put guilt on her shoulders when she realizes what it’s doing to you, and makes you both worse off. So then you talk to her during the day. Be there for her then. If she comes and wakes you up in the middle of the night, be there for her then. But you can’t be there twenty-four seven, it’s going to kill you.” Dairen shook his head, frustrated with the way Harrison tried to make the conversation about anyone but himself. It was about Luna, or Justin or Casey or now him apparently. “I didn’t do it alone. No one can. I had my sponsor to tell me everything I didn’t want to hear, and to be my support when I needed it because my family wasn’t.” The difference was that Harris had that support separate from him, so he didn’t need to be that person as well. He was grateful, partly because he knew it was jarring to see someone that was telling you everything you didn’t want to hear, being the same person patting your shoulder and saying it’s okay. He was also grateful because he didn’t know how to be that person.
“I know you’re not making it up, what I’m saying is that avoiding sleep isn’t going to help you in the long run. It might make it easier for a night, but you can’t just pretend like you don’t need to sleep. You can’t avoid reality by just choosing not to sleep. I get it, that your subconscious is basically hell with all demons included trapped inside your head. And don’t tell me that I can’t understand either, because I lived through a war, on the front lines. You’re not the only person in the world that’s had flashback nightmares that made the real events seem like a walk in the park. But you can’t avoid it. You can’t pretend that it doesn’t exist, and you can’t just stop sleeping to try and escape it. It will get easier to sleep, to not dream, once you get past it, but waiting until your body is so worn out that you pass out is only going to prolong it. Do you realize, what can happen long term if you keep doing to this to yourself? Harrison, you’re going through withdrawals, and not giving your body time to recover. You might think that mentally you can’t handle the nightmares, but I can guarantee you that physically, there is no way for your body to handle what you’re doing to it right now. You’ll run yourself into an early grave and it will have nothing to do with TC.” But this was what it was going to be apparently; Harrison saying that it was worth it, for a few nights without dreams, no matter what it did to him physically. He didn’t care that he was running his body into the ground, literally if he wasn’t careful, and apparently didn’t care who around him was worried. Saying that it was for everyone else’s sake as well. How was any of this good for those around him? Did he honestly think that what he was doing to himself wasn’t hurting other people? “That was the point of getting sober, remember? That it wasn’t about just making it through one more day. It was about making it to a future, one that you could see yourself living in, and not just getting to the end of the line and being surprised that you’re still alive.”
Dairen gritted his teeth together at the snapped words. This conversation was coming to an end, and soon because if it didn’t, words that followed would be regretted later. As soon as words turned to sarcastic quips meant just to hurt and give no credible logic, the actual discussion was over. Dairen shook his head, trying to hold onto that, to the logic and reasoning even if his words didn’t quite make it there. “It’s every support group. It’s AA. It’s NA. It’s every support group for every addiction until you run out of self-destruct buttons.” He froze when he saw what Harrison was pulling out of his pocket and tossing onto the desk. Maybe he had pushed too far. He knew he had, really. But he hadn’t expected Harrison to cave. Maybe it was too long trying to be a father to Justin, and seeing that his son was more than willing to do anything possible to prove him wrong. The person that he was used to be a father to, could out stubborn him any day. Harrison couldn’t. And it took hearing the clink of metal against the wooden desk to remind him of that. So his tone was still firm, but quieter when he spoke again. “It’s not about me, Harrison, or what I think is good enough. You’re not surviving. You’re existing, one day to the next and you’re barely managing to do that. And you shouldn’t accept that as being good enough for you.” He stayed where he was, not moving or saying anything else to stop the boy from leaving. If he wanted to leave, hell it was probably for the best. He likely needed time to calm down and think. Maybe after he was gone, Dairen would text Justin, make sure someone knew that Harrison wasn’t alright, in case the argument drove him back to old habits.
