Warning: Drug use
Inspired by The Umbrella Academy on Netflix; especially Klaus.
4.9k: fluff (relative), some angst, written during sad bitch hours
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The street is becoming hauntingly familiar to Harry.
He knows the curves of the bushes from how they terrify him when it's dark. The trees tower over him and cast a grey hue in his path. The wind breathes down his neck. Then he sees the first pillar, and the bars made of iron, and the second marble pillar. He touches the gateway and feels a surplus of emotion overtake him.
The voices return tenfold. They're screaming, pale-faced and devoid of any life as they cried his name. "Harry, Harry, Harry!"
"Harry, are you okay–?"
"Why have you brought me here? You said you wanted to go to the park," Harry glares at Y/N as he quickly removes his hands from the gate. The vein in his neck beats against his fingers as he breathes sharply. "What have you done to me?"
"I've done nothing Harry. You did this to yourself."
"Get out of my way," Harry mutters, warning her, "go away. Leave me alone, leave me. I'm never going back, not for you, not for anyone. Leave me! Alone!"
When she doesn't show any sign of moving, Harry walks through her, muttering reassurance to himself as he stumbles onto the street. He looks around, deciding on a way to go as he hastens himself, stumbling over his own feet as he brushes his hands over his ears, begging the voices to stop.
"Harry, you're going the wrong way," Y/N warns him as he darts into a nearby alleyway hoping to get rid of them. Yet they follow and rattle his mind intensely.
"Go away, get out!" He pleads, sobbing as he hits himself with balled fists, "get out!"
Harry feels his pockets and shakes the billowing drum in his head as he opens the small plastic pouch and pushes a finger through. "Get out, get out, get out," he chants before touching his finger to his tongue.
Slowly, but surely, all of Harry's pain seemed to dissolve around him. The voices were drowned beneath the rivers of nectar grappling over his knees and sinking him in bittersweet bliss.
The world swirls around him as muted white noise, and Y/N's nowhere to be seen.
"The Pink Side"
or
The one where Harry discovers he can speak to the dead after losing his wife but he thinks his powers are more of a curse than a gift; Y/N, a ghost, disagrees.
-:-:-:-
"I'll see you on the pink side Floyd!" Harry salutes the sickly man lying in the bunk above his, facing the wall.
Harry moves onward to the next bunk curtsying before his crowd, deeply honored by their roar of applause for his performance.
"Robert, William, gentlemen." Harry greets the pair perched at the edge of their beds in an exaggerated posh accent as he brandishes a pillow and a magazine. "As promised," he says placing each item in their hands.
Harry paces across the room to the door. He clutches its frame and lunges before propelling himself forward. His eyes fix on his coat: a patch-worked stone-earthy suede petticoat he picked up from a bodega near where they always find him; it's his favorite coat for the feathers that lined the cuffs of his sleeves, the collar and the ends of his coat. He figures there's enough to help him get to where he needs to be.
