Amazing, isn't it Phee? The Fenrir/Harry I promised you way back in April had finally been posted. I told you I would finish it, even if it has taken me over a month of stalling!
In any case, I was hoping for something as fluffy and humorous and wonderful as the Godric/Harry threeshot you wrote for me, but my angst plunnies said 'nuh uh, Ariaeris.' So instead of fluff, we get an alcoholic Harry filled with disillusionment and a large heaping of self-hatred and a concerned, unable to do anything and hating himself because of it Fenrir.
I'm sorry. My fluff generator is broken; it seems like the only things I can churn out these days are angst (The Falcon Cannot hear, which has the added bonus of being metaphysical, and Stand and Walk, which is looking more and more depressing with each passing day. Not to mention Losing at Chess, which has kinda gone off the deep end, which might force me to push the reset button in some way) and sex.
All the fluff is going into A Moment of Mercy; if I'm lucky though, AMoM might finally kick into high gear soon and start taking on a darker edge, and then I will be able to focus my fluff on Harry Potter once more. Hopefully. Maybe.
In any case,
Enjoy~
Oh, and Phee, don't kill me for stealing your heading thing below; it's just one more way of showing my love for you!
Author: Ariaeris
Title: Alexithymia
Rating: M for Marvelous
Genre: Romance, I suppose. Angst. Angst. Angst. :(
Summary: Harry is too lost in dreams and painful memories to see their last moments pass them by and Fenrir is not sure if he is ready to see his most beloved weakness abandon him.
Pairing(s): Fenrir/Harry
Warnings: Um, werewolves? Oh, and did I mention the angst?
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't care, don't sue. I don't even own this disclaimer!
Alexithymia
Chapter 1: An Endless Cycle of Revelations
Drinking makes such fools of people, and people are such fools to begin with, that it's compounding a felony.
- Robert Benchley
Tired, in pain, and hung over, the only thing that registered in Harry's groggy mind was that whoever was carrying him was not being very considerate of his damaged state.
Shifting, he pressed his nose into his carrier's shoulder, nuzzling the hard muscles he found there – it was probably him then.
"Stop moving," the man ordered and Harry stilled on instinct. There was a long stretch of silence broken only by the sound of heavy footfalls before Fenrir sighed gustily and shifted Harry so that he was carrying him bridal style instead of over his shoulder.
"Why didn't you carry me like this in the first place?" Harry moaned, clutching his aching ribs. If they were bruised, Fenrir would so be sleeping on the couch for the next few weeks.
"Why should I offer you any comfort?" Fenrir growled harshly, and Harry winced at his tone and his suddenly too tight grip. "Not when you…after you promised to stop."
"'M sorry," Harry muttered, a shameful blush darkening his cheeks. He had promised, but he had not been strong enough to resist the temptation that plagued his every waking thought.
"Don't apologize; just say no the next time someone offers you a drink," Fenrir said softly. The oddness of the werewolf treating him gently caught Harry's attention, and he was surprised to see the other's dark amber eyes looking down at him with an uncertain gleam.
Another painful, embarrassing blush; Fenrir had always treated him as his own person, had never coddled him. He had given him the freedom he had always craved, the freedom consistently denied to him throughout his life, and this was how he repaid him? By being a drunkard, a man too addicted to the liquid comfort that drowned out his painful past?
Its presence was too alluring though. It was a reprieve, a few short moments that gifted him with peace before he had to go out and face the cold, unforgiving world once more. Though he knew it did not eliminate his problems, merely push them back and stall them for a later date, he was too weak to resist such a comfort.
And that was what made his situation all the more painful. So many others had faced more demons than he had, had experienced more painful pasts and unfortunate circumstances than him, and yet he was the one who resorted to alcohol. All those who had fought beside him, had taken part in the war, had lost a loved one…
It made him weak, so weak that even the acknowledgement of his weakness could not break him of his habit.
Harry whimpered and pressed closer to Fenrir, trying to block out the self-critical thoughts rushing through his mind. Why did he have to be the weak one? Why couldn't he be like Fenrir, someone strong enough to face both their painful past and their uncertain future unwaveringly? Or like Hermione, who more than anyone else had reason to regret and be disgusted with herself and yet still did all she could to make the world a better place?
No, he had fallen to his suffering while others rose above it, and he was unintentionally taking those who loved him down with him.
The pitying glances, the worried looks, and he could practically trace the stress lines he was carving into Fenrir's face. Already, his werewolf's thick grey hair that he adored so much was sprinkled with strands of silver, less the fault of natural aging and more the fault of his never-ending worry.
If he was a truly good person like everyone claimed he was, he would just end his own life and cease being such a burden on his loved ones. Instead though, he was selfish and cruel; more than anything else, he treasured his existence and would not give it up for the world.
Even if it meant that he was slowly killing those who cared for him.
Then again, that's what he did; he was the Boy-Who-Lived. He lived. No matter what, he lived, even if some days he thought he would be better off not.
Harry's inner musings were cut off as Fenrir suddenly stopped, and he noted with some surprise that they had already reached their apartment. The werewolf carefully nudged the door open with his hip, clutching Harry in a rare show of tenderness; the show merely caused his heart to clench in pain and his lips to twist bitterly.
Fenrir was strong; much stronger than him.
The older man did not waste time traveling to their bedroom, settling Harry on their bed. The brunette's head pulsed painfully as he was lowered, and Fenrir growled apologetically. Yet another rare occurrence; why was Fenrir even treating him like this? He had betrayed him, gone back on his word to never drink again, and Fenrir was treating him like he had done nothing.
Harry watched quietly as Fenrir rummaged around the large room for a set of pajamas, stripping himself at the same time. The werewolf was grumbling something under his breath, and Harry could almost picture the brighter days long since past where he would tease Fenrir about being curmudgeonly. Fenrir would always reply that he was a tease and…
His epiphany struck him like a lightning bolt, much like it had many times over. Fenrir had been treating differently, but only because Harry was forcing him too. This addiction of his was constantly altering their relationship; one day they would be lovers and the next Fenrir would be his caretaker as he recovered from yet another hangover or worse.
He had thought that Fenrir had been treating him normally, but what they had now was so far from normal that…
Strong, calloused hands that he once loved touching him and worshipping his body lifted him slightly off the bed, and Harry flinched away from them with a mournful keen. Those hands; he felt like a child in the embrace of a parent. They cradled him, helped him into a pair of pajama bottoms, and he felt so fucking weak. Like a puppet, like an infant, they moved him, and for the briefest of moments, the notion that he could just give up and live the rest of his life as a marionette crossed his mind.
Their bed was soft underneath him as he was settled back on it, instinctively curling up in a ball. A dip, and Fenrir settled behind him, a once-comforting weight that he now abhorred vehemently. He did not have to wait for Fenrir to tap his shoulder, automatically accepting the potions that he took two times a day, seven days a week, for (God, what a frightful notion) the rest of his life; one to encourage sobriety, and two to help fix the damage he willfully inflicted upon himself every day.
It was a routine, he realized for the umpteenth time. Get up, despair, drink, and slowly kill himself. Was that what he wanted for an existence? Could he really just give up on life, on those who loved him?
Was he really so weak that this was what he wanted out of reality, to forever deny the bright future that hovered just out of reach for him and his mate thanks to his addiction?
As strong arms shakily wrapped around his waist and the room's lights were dimmed, Harry knew the answer to every question, for he had asked the same question to himself every night after Fenrir had dragged him from whatever shitty bar he found himself at: yes.
The room fell dark and Harry begged whatever higher power might exist to grant him mercy, consciously choosing to ignore the possibility of helping himself.
This short story is shaping up to be particularly painful for me. :(
Ever since I read my first Harry Potter story, I've tried to get into Harry's head as much as possible. I've attempted to examine his character from every angle and, though my Harrys are wildly off canon most of the time, I feel like he is my most treasured character. I think it is a natural phenomenon for authors to favor some characters over others, especially the ones they write all the time or from the main point of view (Sympathetic POV and all that), and is sometimes painful to examine your favorites so critically.
Between Losing at Chess and this new fic, I feel like I am unfairly heaping on the angst on Harry. I've focused so much on the fluff and the angst that happens to Harry that writing the angst that Harry willfully causes is hard. It's almost like disillusionment in a way; I've never realized how foolishly I saw Harry until I started writing him as imperfectly as possible (The Falcon Cannot Hear was the first fic I wrote with the implication in mind).
On an unrelated note, I just found out that this website only allows you to have fifteen files on your account at a time. Not fair, Fanfiction~
In any case, I hope you, well, I can't really say enjoyed it, but at least I hoped it piqued your interest.
…Go read Phee's Godric/Harry. It is a much better birthday gift than mine.
/Hides face in shame/
Ariaeris~