sdmn one sh~i~ts

Borrowed Warmth /wroetozerk

words: 6112
warnings: non graphic violence, blood, unhealthy coping mechanisms ⚠️

"Hey, it's Harry."

There's a beat of silence, and then Josh's voice crackles through the static.

"Hey," he mirrors. "Is everything alright? Where's your phone?"

Harry bites the inside of his cheek, eyes glued to the droplets of blood staining his shoes.

"Yeah, everything's fine." He lies, tasting sharp iron on his tongue. He knows it's obvious, knows Josh is fully aware, can nearly feel his worried frown through the phone even though he has yet to utter a word in response. "Can you come pick me up, maybe?" Harry asks, before that can happen. He doesn't know what to do with Josh's feelings most of the time.

He hears the elder open his mouth and close it.

A sigh.

Harry doesn't know what to do with his own feelings most of the time, either.

"Text me your location and I'll be there as soon as possible."

Harry does that as soon as the call disconnects. His hand shakes a little when he returns the phone to the young cashier that lent it to him a few minutes ago. With a murmured "thanks" and a quick bow of his head, Harry is out of her sight and outside the corner shop, leaning against the metal fence that keeps cars from parking by the front door. In retrospect, it might have not been the brightest idea to ask her for help — he's bruised, beaten up, out of breath, disheveled. He looks like trouble. Harry silently apologizes and thanks her again for helping him even though he must have scared her to death.

The sky is tinted deep plum already, only a few stars visible in the polluted smog of the city. Harry tries to calm himself down and concentrates on the buzzing on the front sign of the shop. It would be soothing if the light, even coming from his back, wasn't annoyingly glaring. He curses at the way it pierces his skull, as if having been hit in the face several times had nothing to do with it.

His fingers fiddle, looking for some sort of comfort — for a moment, Harry wishes he hadn't quit smoking just so he'd have a cigarette or his old lighter to fidget with.

He can't dwell on the thought too much, though, because Josh comes up skidding on his bike then looking like he's seen several ghosts.

"Hey," he calls out, out of breath — just how fast had he rushed? "What's-?" Then, he sees Harry's face, his hands, and his own face pales even further. "Shit, Harry, are you okay?"

Harry's stomach twists. "Yeah, I- I got mugged," he mutters. Unable to look Josh in the eye, his stare is focused on his chest, on the lapels of his black jean jacket, on the bejewelled XIX necklace shyly peeking from his shirt.

"Shit," Josh repeats. "Shit, we gotta- We have to- Do you remember what they look like? We need to go to the police station to report it."

Harry's stomach is now in a painful knot; he only wants to go home.

He asks Josh just as much. And there must be something telling in his voice, because the man doesn't push the matter further and pulls his bike up with one hand.

"Come on, then," he says.

Unhelpfully, Harry stares at the pale blue paint of the frame. "Where's your car?"

"At the shop," he answers, swinging one leg over the seat and pressing himself towards the handlebars. "One of the lights was fucked up."

"So you biked all the way here?" Harry is not sure how he manages to make his voice work, his lungs seem too big for his chest; Josh doesn't live nearby, not by a long shot.