On The Horizon || L.S.

August

Sunday, the 28th through Wednesday, the 31st, 2022

Harry doesn't arrive in Manchester until half-past nine on Sunday morning, barely over 24 hours since he disembarked the Horizon.

Well, that's not true. It's early as hell on the east coast of America, so it's actually more like 20 hours since he left the boat, but he's so exhausted that he may as well not have slept in three days. He doesn't regret it, though it made it harder to remember how the train system works and squint at his phone to order an Uber. Colours and shapes have started to blend. Due to his sleep deprivation, he frequently forgets his thoughts halfway through.

By the time his ride pulls up in front of him for the final fifteen minutes of travel, Harry's truly dead on his feet. He stumbles into the back, nods an acknowledgement to the driver, and holds his head in his palms the entire trip, fading in and out of consciousness. It takes a lot of effort to force his jello legs to scramble out of the car afterwards and lug his baggage up the two flights to his flat. Plus, once he's accomplished that, he's stuck trying to figure out where he left his keys when he left over two weeks ago. An embarrassingly long time later, Harry almost collapses when he finds his keys in what is possibly the most obvious place he could have left them: the front pocket of his carry-on.

Sighing, he heaves open his door and is met with a familiar yet cold sight. His flat is so much larger than a cruise stateroom, but where's all the colour gone off to? The walls are barren, the furniture is basic, the appliances are white, the decorations are nonexistent, and good God, really, has the vibe always been this sterile? Had he inadvertently brought the hospital home with him from work?

He has the urge to decorate with dolphins.

For as dull as it is, he's been far from tidy. There's a mess of random papers on his dining table. His bed isn't made. Spoiled food sits in the fridge, stinking up the place. Boxes by the door - empty, the ones that his new luggage had been shipped in (he may have waited until the last minute to purchase them). Harry glances down at his suitcases, filled to the brim with dirty laundry and memories, and suddenly he's overwhelmed by all the work that needs to be done. So, he does what any sane person with two days off and insufficient sleep would do.

He cleans. Excessively. Aggressively.

Fire blazing in his eyes, Harry tears open his luggage and fits as much dirty laundry into the washing machine as possible. He rushes over to the table, organising papers and shoving them where they need to go, mostly the recycling. He tosses most of what's in the fridge and writes down what groceries he needs on a slip of paper against the refrigerator door. He deconstructs the boxes, takes the trash and recycling out immediately, and then comes back and sprays everything with an air mist to make it less stuffy.

The fucking mist is called 'Ocean Breeze' because of fucking course it fucking is.

The wash alarm goes off, so he hurries to transfer the load into the dryer before starting a new one because he needs it. While in the mood, he decides that all the surfaces could use a wash. That's added to the to-do list, as well as dusting everything he can think of. By the time he hits the end of his tasks, duster in hand, he's landed at the framed photo of himself, Anne, Gemma, and Robin that hangs near the balcony.

It's not a picture that Harry looks at often. Most of the time, when he's at home, he's either in the kitchen or his bedroom. Wake up, cook, go on his computer, eat, etcetera. Sitting in the living room or going out on the balcony are activities more suitable for when one has company, which Harry does not tend to do. He slows down while cleaning the picture's glass and nearly places his hand on it, but - Don't fucking touch it. You just cleaned everything, you dipshit.