1.

James sat on a park bench, feeling the sun on his face and hands, and watched Cheryl chase Harry around the playground. The little girl dashed after her father, giggling hysterically and shrieking with joy, and Harry ran ahead of her, keeping his strides in check so that he never got too far ahead. He kept glancing over his shoulder, laughing himself, and he didn't seem to notice the appraising looks from the other parents in the park. No one seemed to exist for him except Cheryl.

As James watched, Harry stopped running and let Cheryl tackle him, knocking him to the ground. The little girl clambered all over him, yelling "I got you, Daddy, I got you!" and sticking her hands into Harry's jacket to tickle him. Harry laughed and tried half-heartedly to defend himself until they both collapsed in helpless giggles.

James felt pinpricks of tears in the corners of his eyes. Before she got sick, he and Mary had been trying to have a baby of their own. Maybe, in a different world, in a different time, that could have been him, playing with a child of his own while Mary watched and laughed.

He sighed deeply, fighting the tears. He had been crying too much lately, letting his emotions run away with him. For some reason, the sheer reality of the real world, after the dark and nightmarish landscape of Silent Hill, affected him more deeply than he could have imagined possible. Seeing the sun again, eating, sleeping without fear, being warm… they all seemed like incredible gifts. And Harry. Harry was the greatest gift of all.

Harry understood. Harry had been there, he knew about Silent Hill and he knew that James wasn't crazy, a point of view that James himself sometimes doubted. Was it possible to share delusions? He didn't think so, which meant that Harry was telling the truth when he said he had been to that place too. And yet he was so unbelievably normal, so… undamaged. He could work and take care of his daughter and now he was taking care of James too, and James just couldn't understand how he did it all. He was invulnerable, like a kind, patient hero, and James knew that he couldn't intrude on his hospitality forever, but the thought of leaving filled his gut with a horrible, writhing despair. He'd been sleeping on Harry's couch for a week now, and Harry hadn't mentioned wanting him to leave, but James knew that Harry would get tired of him eventually and he wanted to delay that moment for as long as possible. Forever, if he could.

The couch, that was another thing. James didn't mind sleeping there, but he remembered waking up that first morning in Harry's bed, with his arms wrapped around Harry. He remembered someone brushing his hair away from his face, and he remembered holding onto Harry and asking him to stay. It made James sick with embarrassment when he thought about it, not because of what he'd done but because of how much he wanted to do it again. Something about holding Harry had felt right, like it was meant to be, and he didn't think he could take it if Harry didn't feel the same way. And why would he, for Christ's sake? The man had a daughter, James had had a wife, were they really both so lonely that they'd share a bed with another guy just to feel some companionship, some warmth? And why did this whole fucked up situation feel so disloyal to Mary's memory?

Someone thrust something into James's hands.

He started, aware that he had gotten lost in his memories again and that the world had swum away while he thought. He didn't like when that happened, it was a little too much like the descending fog of Silent Hill. He looked down and saw that he was holding a juice box.

"It's lunchtime, James," Cheryl announced. She had climbed up onto the bench and was sitting next to him. James goggled at her for a minute, struck yet again at her perfect, innocent trust, and then looked around for Harry.

Harry was standing a few feet away, a blanket tucked under one arm and a cooler in his hand. He was watching James and Cheryl with a small smile on his face, and James was suddenly, uncomfortably aware of how handsome he looked. Harry wasn't particularly tall, and he was too thin, but he radiated kindness and warmth, and his face shone whenever he looked at Cheryl. James had noticed the way that all the mothers in the park stared at him whenever they came here with Cheryl, and he knew they were examining his sleek, dark hair, jutting cheekbones and graceful, lithe movements. Next to him, James felt like an awkward, hulking monstrosity, a hideously broken vestige that didn't belong on the landscape of this happy little family. He wondered, not for the first time, where Cheryl's mother was and why Harry didn't have a woman in his life.

"Don't you know how to open it?" Cheryl plucked his juice box out of his hands and expertly stabbed the straw into the opening, then handed it back. "It's hard sometimes. I like the boxes better than the silver bags, they're easier to open."

"Cheryl," Harry chided gently. "I'm sure James knows how to open a juice box."

"But, Daddy, he wasn't…"

"No, I didn't," James interrupted, not wanting the day disturbed with arguing. "Thank you, Cheryl."

She beamed up at him. "You're welcome!"

James caught Harry's eye. Harry smiled and shook his head. The motion made the sun glint off his dark hair and James suddenly found himself wondering what Harry's hair smelled like, and how it would feel to run his hand through it.

2.

They left the park after eating lunch, and James was absurdly touched when Cheryl took his hand as they crossed the street. She didn't let go when they were across, simply held on and continued chattering, directing her comments first to Harry and then to James. In the truck, on the way home, she leaned up against James and fell asleep.

Harry glanced over at both of them and smiled. "She likes you," he told James.

James wasn't quite sure how to respond. Why would anyone, anywhere, like him, let alone this sweet, innocent child?

Seeming to read his thoughts, Harry continued, "She doesn't think about things the way we do. She sees people the way they really are, sometimes better than they see themselves."

James grunted. "You make her sound like a prophet."

Harry laughed quietly. "No, not a prophet. Just someone who hasn't learned how to judge yet and wants the best for everyone she cares about." He paused for a minute, then added, "That includes you."

James laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. "She doesn't know me very well."

"She knows you well enough," Harry told him.

Cheryl shifted in her sleep, and a small frown creased her features. "Don't fight…" she muttered.

"We're not fighting, sweetie," Harry said. "Go back to sleep."

"Daddy…?"

"Yes?"

"Why is James always so sad?"

Neither Harry nor James had an answer for that. Their eyes met from across the truck, and James was surprised to see the pain in Harry's.

Cheryl shifted again and drifted back into the deeper realms of sleep.

3.

Later that evening, after dinner (James was consistently surprised at how well Harry cooked; he himself could manage ramen and hotdogs and that was about it) and after Cheryl was in bed, Harry had sighed and pulled a bottle of wine out of the fridge. James was completely shocked—he'd had no idea Harry ever touched alcohol.

Misinterpreting James's expression, Harry explained, "I love her with all my heart, but sometimes Cheryl just wears me out. Do you want a glass too?"

Normally James preferred beer (and over the last three years, hard liquor, drunk to excess), but Harry's wine was delicious, light and crisp and refreshing. Harry told him it was a German Riesling, and expressed the opinion that Californian wines were vulgar fruit-bombs and that if you wanted good wine you had to buy from Europe. James had laughed, surprised and amused at Harry's passion on the subject. Harry had laughed with him, and for just a moment James felt like they were part of the sweet, normal world, a world where Silent Hill never existed.

Now Harry was doing the dishes while James sat at the kitchen table, slightly tipsy and more than a little embarrassed at his complete ineptitude in the kitchen. He couldn't cook, he didn't know how to wash the dishes, he could barely boil water. Christ, he was so fucking helpless it was a miracle he hadn't starved to death after Mary died.

"Where's Cheryl's mom?" he asked abruptly, the wine having loosened his tongue.

Harry's spine stiffened a little, and his hands stopped moving for just a minute. Then he kept washing and said, "She's adopted."

"Really?" James furrowed his brow and took another slug of wine. "I thought they didn't adopt kids out to single men. Especially little girls."

This time Harry's spine really stiffened, and he hunched his shoulders over the sink. "I had a wife when I adopted her," he said quietly. "She died when Cheryl was just a baby."

"Oh, Christ, oh shit, I'm so sorry," James stammered. He could feel himself turning red and knew it wasn't just the alcohol. "God, I always put my foot in my mouth, I'm so…"

"No, no, it's okay," Harry reassured him, as if he was the one who had just said something stupid. "It was an honest question." He put a dish in the drying rack, and then asked hesitantly, "What happened to… Mary, I think her name was?"

James sighed, and felt the tears well up behind his eyes, the same way they always did when he thought about her. "She… she was my wife," he told Harry, staring deep into the empty depths of his wine glass. "About three years ago, she died. Lung cancer."

Harry sucked in his breath. "I'm so sorry. My dad died of lung cancer; it's a terrible way to go."

James nodded, fuzzily aware that he had never spoken to anyone about this as openly as he was speaking now. "It… it took a long time. She was sick… for so long. Towards the end… it was like she… she wasn't even my wife anymore…" and now he was openly sobbing, his face buried in his hands and his shoulders shaking. It felt like he was trying to weep his soul out into his hands, his rotten, damaged soul and maybe he'd be better off without it. Then he wouldn't have to feel this wrenching, aching loneliness all the time…

Suddenly he was aware of a hand on his back. It was Harry, awkwardly patting him and saying, "Hey, man, shhhh, shhhh, it's okay," and he put his head down on the table and wept into his arms. After all this time, why did it still hurt so bad? Harry stood next to him and stroked his back, letting him cry.

James cried for what felt like a long time, but eventually his tears dried up and he got control of himself again. Then he realized how anyone looking in on them would think that he and Harry were a couple in this position, and he sat up, letting Harry's hand slide off his back. Harry let him, and was that a flash of regret James saw cross his face? Could it be that Harry liked being close to him? James pushed that thought away; no one wanted to be close to James Sunderland anymore.

Harry went back to the sink. Once his back was to James and his hands were in the dishwater again, he said, "I'm so sorry for your loss. If I hadn't had Cheryl when my wife died… well, she made it easier. I had to be okay, to work through it, because she needed me. I'm so sorry you had to go through it alone."

James sniffed and gave a watery laugh. "Thanks. I'm sorry about your wife too."

They stayed in awkward but companionable silence until Harry pulled the plug in the sink and the water started swirling down the drain. Then he turned around and noticed that the wine bottle was empty. "Do you want some more?"

James smiled sadly. "Haven't I already cried enough for one night?"

"Cheryl told me once that no one cries unless they really need to," Harry said seriously. "I think she's right about that."

James picked up his wine glass and tilted it towards him. "In that case, bottoms up."

Harry turned back towards the sink and opened the highest shelf in the kitchen. He fumbled around in it for a minute, and then cursed under his breath. "The bottle's too far back," he told James. "A little help?"

Being tall was something James could help with. He got up, swaying a little drunkenly on his feet, and walked over to the shelf. He reached over Harry and grasped the cool, round bottle in one hand.

Suddenly, he was aware of how close he was to the other man. His chest was lightly touching Harry's back, and his arm followed the line of Harry's upwards until their hands were right next to each other in the shelf. He noticed how much broader his shoulders were than Harry's, and how badly he suddenly wanted to fold Harry in his arms and just hold him. The back of Harry's head was right near James's face, and James caught a whiff of Harry's hair. It smelled like hair gel, freshly mown grass, and sunshine, even though they'd been back from the park for hours.

James took a deep, shuddering breath, completely frozen and unsure what to do, and then Harry took a step backwards so that his back bumped up against James's chest.

Hardly aware of what he was doing, James curled an arm around Harry's waist. Harry brought his hand down from the shelf and rested both of them on James's forearm. His face still pointing away from James's, he leaned back into the other man's chest and sighed quietly.

James let go of the wine bottle. He brought his other arm down and hooked it in a V across Harry's chest, holding on to his shoulder. Harry moved his left hand up and put it over James's, then turned his face towards the other man and rested his forehead on James's jaw.

James held on to Harry for dear life, wishing he never had to let go. This was the closest they'd been since that first night, and the closest he'd been to another person since Mary's death. It was amazing, he thought, how he had managed to convince himself that he didn't need this, that he could live without this closeness, only to be reminded so quickly and so painfully that his life was emptier without it. So much emptier…

Harry shifted in his arms, turning around a little and looking up so that he could meet James's eyes. "You… uh… you don't have to sleep on the couch tonight," he said, and immediately turned bright red.

James's eyes widened with surprise, which Harry misread. "I mean, unless you want to," he backpedaled, getting more flustered and turning more red with each word.

"No," James assured him, feeling slightly strange that he was the one reassuring Harry instead of the other way around. "No, I'll… uh… I'll sleep in the bed tonight." Now he could feel himself turning red too, and a small, warm ball of happiness growing in his stomach. So that's what happiness felt like; he had almost forgotten.

"Uh… I need to write for a while first," Harry told him, breaking eye contact and looking down in embarrassment.

"Sure," James said, and let him go. The two men drew apart, and the kitchen seemed suddenly colder and smaller than it had been just moments before.

4.

James lay on the couch, a book in his hands. Harry had given it to him a few hours before, admitting that it was one of his books, written under a pseudonym. James usually wasn't much of a reader, but he was enjoying this book immensely. Harry's story was interesting, his characters were likable, and James could see Harry's personality behind each one of them. The warm ball of happiness and excitement still glowed and purred in his stomach, and maybe that made him feel more charitable towards an activity he normally didn't enjoy too. Besides, and he hesitated to admit this, reading one of Harry's books made him feel closer to the author, and he liked the implied intimacy.

Harry sat across the room, tapping away at an old computer and muttering to himself. Actually, James realized, he hadn't heard the tap of computer keys for quite a while now. He'd been too caught up in the book to realize it.

Smiling to himself (who would have thought it, James Sunderland, losing track of time while reading?), he put the book down and sat up to look over at Harry. The warm ball suddenly extinguished and died.

Harry was asleep at the computer desk, his head in his arms. The computer monitor cast a ghostly light over him, turning his hair gray and blanching his skin to a pale white.

James silently cursed himself. Harry had just been humoring him in the kitchen, he was way too nice a guy to openly reject him, and now he was getting out of his offer by choosing to sleep at the computer desk. James couldn't blame him, really, couldn't even summon the energy to be mad at him; Harry was too great a guy to be soiled by closeness to someone like him. He was a fool to think that Harry had meant it when he offered to share his bed.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid!" James muttered between clenched teeth. He made a fist and slammed it onto his thigh.

The smacking sound startled Harry awake, and he looked up through sleepy eyes. "James?" he asked, his voice thick with sleep.

James nodded curtly at him, still too mad at himself to speak.

"Why're you on the couch?" Harry asked dozily. "Don't you want to come to bed?"

The warm ball came back to life. "Do you mean it?" James asked him.

"Said I did… course I meant it…" Harry mumbled, and then he was asleep again. He never seemed to realize that he wasn't in bed himself.

Did Harry really mean it? James wondered, but he got up off the couch and walked over to the computer desk. He saved Harry's file (but not before reading a few sentences) and shut down the computer. Then he gently stroked the side of Harry's face. "Come on, Harry. Wake up, it's time for bed."

Harry moved his head into the warmth of James's hand, but he showed no sign of waking up. James thought for a moment, then reached down and carefully picked Harry up.

The smaller man was lighter than James expected. Harry woke up a little at the sensation of being lifted, and threw an arm around James's neck before falling back to sleep. His head lolled on James's shoulder, and James marveled at how perfectly it fit in the spot between his shoulder and his neck.

Using the light from his reading lamp to guide him, James carried Harry to the bedroom and carefully laid him on the bed. Harry was as loose and boneless as a ragdoll; the day at the park must have really exhausted him.

James quietly stripped down to his boxers (Harry had been kind enough to take him shopping on one of his first days here, since he arrived with only the clothes on his back), and then stood looking down at Harry, thinking. He carefully moved one of Harry's arms so it was out at a right angle from his body. Then he slipped into bed next to him, burrowing up against the other man and tucking himself into Harry's side.

The motion woke up Harry, at least a little bit, and he smiled sleepily at James, then wrapped his arm around James's shoulders. He leaned in, brushed James's forehead with his lips, and was sleeping again.

James smiled in the darkness, feeling the heat of Harry's kiss against his skin. He cuddled as close to Harry as he could get, touched his lips to the other man's neck, and then dropped off to sleep himself, feeling that, for the first time in years, he could sleep without fearing what waited for him in his dreams.

5.

James woke up to the feeling of someone touching his hair.

He didn't move at first, pretending to still be asleep. He was afraid that if Harry knew he was awake, he would stop stroking his hair, and James didn't want it to end quite yet. Harry's touch was so light, so gentle, it reminded James of the times that butterflies had landed on his skin. As soon as he thought that, the hand on his head stopped.

"James?"

Dammit! James reluctantly opened his eyes to find Harry smiling at him. "How did you know I was awake?"

"You smiled."

They were still entwined; it seemed like they'd slept the whole night in each other's arms. Harry was still on his back with one arm around James, but James had moved during the night so that he was more on his stomach, half on top on Harry, with one leg between the other man's legs. Suddenly embarrassed by his morning erection, which was pressing noticeably into Harry's leg, James sprang backwards to the other side of the bed.

"Uh… this is okay, right?" James asked, trying to cover his mortification.

Harry frowned at him, looking confused and a little hurt. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"You… you fell asleep last night… I thought…" James stammered, searching for words to describe what had happened, gesturing his hands frantically.

"James," Harry said sternly, propping himself up on one elbow. "I fall asleep at my computer all the time. It's a bad habit I picked up in college. It doesn't mean anything."

"So…" Hope fluttered in James's chest, an emotion so alien to him that he hardly recognized it for what it was. "So you don't mind that I'm here? You didn't change your mind?"

Harry sighed and sat up, dangling his feet over the side of the bed, his back to James. "Do you want me to?"

"What?" Of all possible responses, this was not the one James had been expecting.

Harry hunched his shoulders forward, and James realized that he could count each one of the other man's vertebrae. "I don't play games, James. When I say something I mean it." He looked over his shoulder and caught James's eyes. "Do you want me to hurt you? Do you want me to push you away? Because if that will make you happy, I'll do it."

James shook his head, more sad and confused than ever. "No. No, that's not what I want at all."

"Then what do you want?"

"I want… I want…" James struggled to articulate what he was feeling. "I don't know what I want!" he finally cried. "This is all so fucked up, so weird, and I don't know what exactly I want, but I don't want to be lonely anymore!" He hung his head, staring at his heads that twisted and twined in his lap. "Being here… with you and Cheryl… it's the first time I haven't been lonely in a long time," he admitted, practically choking on his words.

He felt a hand on his chin, and then Harry turned his head so they were meeting each other's gaze. Harry leaned across the bed, propping himself up on his knees and one hand, and his blue eyes burned into James's green ones. James had never felt so scrutinized, or (and he hated to admit it) so aroused before in his life.

"Then stop. Pushing us. Away!" Harry told him, enunciating every syllable.

The moment stretched. Time seemed to stop, elongate. James swore he could see every fleck of dust in the air, every hair on Harry's sleep-mussed head, every separate line of color in Harry's irises. Then, not knowing what he was doing until he was doing it, James leaned forward and kissed Harry on the lips.

Time snapped forward again. Harry froze for just a split second, which James recognized now as uncertainty and not rejection, and then he moved forward into James's kiss and into his embrace. They tumbled sideways onto the bed, and James was holding Harry, and then Harry was holding James, and then it didn't matter because they were holding each other, kissing and laughing in the early morning sunlight.