apartment

His eyes are so bright she thinks he's happy. He smiles more often and takes cat naps at noon. The swell of his lips have gone down and the red in his eyes have died. He looks new.

This doesn't last long, though.

On day three of Harry and Rory, Rory finds Harry crying against the side of the restaurant he works at. She finds him with a lit cigarette hiding behind his cold, blue fingers. No coat or sweater or even an explanation.

On day five, Harry tells her he hates her. Tells her it's her fault that he forgot the anniversary of Penelope's death. He goes to visit his dead ex-girlfriend's grave at one in the morning, and then goes back to Rory with dry eyes. He couldn't cry at the cemetery because he didn't have any more tears to give to the girl that took the happiness from behind his eyes. He kisses an apology into the side of Rory's neck in bed that night and Rory frowns because of his tears. He has no tears for Pen the night he visits her grave but he finds some for the girl he wishes he would treat better.

Day ten is the end.

Day ten is when Harry realizes he's a dick.

Because he killed Pen and can't even show that he's sorry. He feels like shit for not being able to cry over her death. He gets mad at himself, but he also brings Rory down with him.

He calls her at midnight after it's stopped raining. When the ground is wet, welcoming, and reflective. And it looks so pretty that he wants to talk to someone about it. He wants to tell Rory how nice it looks but deep down he knows he shouldn't. He's been avoiding her calls for days now and it'd be weird to call her up. So instead, he grabs a beer and decides to tell the glass bottle how beautiful the lights are.

See, the city is shining. It's on fire and it's so pretty. (Rory would like this. She loves this shit.)

Meanwhile Rory is down on ground level leaving her last class. It's midnight when the call comes through, and her heart skips a beat because she missed his voice.

She answers the phone and is greeted by giggling. It's nothing new, hearing someone's stifled laughter. What's new is that it's Harry. She hears cars and his laughter and she pictures him on his bed with the window open and lips stained with wine or beer. Because Harry doesn't giggle when he's sober.

"You're in a good mood," she smiles. It's genuine, this feeling. She thought he hated her and here he is laughing.

"I feel like I'm floating. Like my veins are singing. Does that make sense?"

"Yes." She says. "What did you take, Harry? Did you go out for a drink? Take pills? You didn't...use any needles, right?"

"No needles, doll," he reassures her softly. Doll. The nickname makes her uneasy. "I get sad when I take medication."

Rory pauses. "Oh." She bites her bottom lip and takes a few deep breaths. This isn't her Harry. "How many drinks have you had?"

"Laugh with me," he walks around the question like a child. Frustration takes root somewhere in her chest because it sounds like he knows something she doesn't. His tone is patronizing and it makes her heart hurt a little.

She hails down a cab and bites down on her lip before deciding to answer. The car makes a stop right in front of her. "Tell me something funny. Tell me what you're laughing at."

"You."

Her hand pauses on the door knob and suddenly the cold air around her isn't enough. Are her lungs even working anymore? He's breathing on the other end, something she struggles with doing right now and the cab driver is glaring at her from behind the partition. His address is on the top of her tongue. All she has to do is get in the car and say it and she'll be there in no time. But her legs don't move and her mouth stays shut.

The driver is saying something like: "Get in or get out. Watch your feet so I don't roll them over," and Harry's breathing so calmly before he's giggling all over again.

Something that sounds like, 'I won't let you in, so get out. Watch your feet so you don't fall for me.'

Rory releases her hand and shakes her head. "Your window," her dry throat spits out when the car speeds off into the night. There's no one else in this part of the city. Just empty streets and broken lamp lights. "Your window isn't open, is it? You're not in your bedroom?"

"No, baby," he hums. "No, I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she assures him. It's a lie though. "Just get into bed and I'll meet you there, yeah?"

"I like it up here."

There's no doubt in her mind that he's on the top of some building. Maybe his own. That his legs are dangling over the edge and he's looking down playfully at the city she thinks is pretty. "I don't like you up there."

"I almost forgot her name today," he mumbles quietly over the receiver. "Penelope. Kept thinking-"

He's interrupted by her screaming. It's shrill and loud and it shakes her body and soul awake. It's a scream of frustration. There's that name again. That name he's still too scared of forgetting, and fuck, why can't he let her go already?

After a moment, it's quiet again and she doesn't care if Harry is still there. Of course this is about Penelope. Even after death she's making him depressed. She imagines there was a time when he wore pastel colors instead of black and gray.

When her breathing is even and her head is still swimming with his nonsense and stupidity and obsession with depression and the past, his voice comes back.

It's even and soft. "I like listening to you yell, baby. It's a lovely sound."

"You think misery is beautiful?" She spits.

"Of course," he says over the line. "What is it that we learn in school? Like signs don't attract? You know, two negatives, two positives?" He hums a little and then his voice returns, now soft and gentle. "Why did you think we'd work out?"

It's becoming harder to swallow. "You think I'm like you," she laughs. He won't destroy her like his ex-girlfriend did to him. She won't allow that to happen. "Harry, I'm not like you. I'm not sadistic. I don't smile when I cry and I don't smile when you cry. I don't deprive myself of sleep and I don't have nightmares about people who never-" she cuts it short, thinking of how much weaker he is than her. She doesn't want to trigger him to do anything in the heat of the moment.

A cab passes by and she thinks of hauling it over, but then decides against it.

"Finish it," he encourages, voice weak and retired.

"No."

"You don't have nightmares of people who what? Finish it so I know you're not the coward I think you are right now."

"Harry," her throat is dry, cracking as his name tears its way through her system.

He laughs again. This time it's bitter and condescending. "Are you crying? I did that a while ago, too."

"I'm not crying for you," she seethes. The lie is raw on her tongue.

"But you're crying because of me. Because you hate that it's me you're falling for."

She tightens her hold on her phone. "I want you to be honest with me."

"Always."

"You've always known she didn't love you, right? Why are you always trying to prove something?" She learned once that episodes like this are always triggered by something. A memory, a phrase, an object. She should hang up, she knows that, but the want to pull him back to her is too strong to give up. "What made you think of her?"

"I'm holding her fucking post-its, Houdini." Then he breathes out in preparation. "You're not shit, Rory."

And fuck him. "You weren't good enough to save her."

They're tearing each other down like it's casual. They're breaking and becoming the basic parts of themselves and it's so beautiful and nasty and raw.

They're their own enemies.

"I hate you," he whispers. "I hate you so much, do you know that? Rory, you make me hate the fact that we met."

"You don't hate me."

"I do," his voice is steady. "I do hate you. You frustrate me."

She's a coward but he doesn't need to know that. "I don't have nightmares of people who never loved me," she finishes her previous thought, not giving him the break she was going to give him in the first place.

"You're a fucking liar."

She swallows again, thickly.

"You dream of me. I hear you say my name."

"I have nightmares about the Joker, too, Harry. You're nothing special."

"Go fuck yourself." He hangs up.

She hangs her head and takes the moment to breathe. She feels awfully heavy. There's this pressure in her head that forces her eyes closed and when she takes a step forward, she falls to the ground.

This story is coming to an end more quickly than I imagined. I barely have readers for this, but this will always be my favorite one other than another one that was like this but I never got the chance to publish. Thank you to the three or four readers that have supported this story for so long. I'll try my best to update more often, please have a nice day/night.