They had settled in a cooler, mountainous area up further north, on the border of Alaska and Canada. Due to the firearms on board, they were unable to actually enter Canada but Flynn did not mind that fact. The grassy plains and snow-capped mountains of Alaska were cool, brisk, yet beautiful. They stayed a week at most, Sullivan already complaining about the chilly nights before they headed south again. In that time, Flynn kept to himself and did not further clash with Sullivan out of respect for Nate, although that did not hide the fact he was capable of holding an intense grudge as they never spoke to each other directly since. But Flynn also noticed subtle changes with his own body.
His own stubborn insistence on exercise and improving his stamina was already faring well on his build, the beginnings of toned muscles filling out his bony, sickly physique most effected by his near-mortal injury and comatose condition. He still became short of breath without apparent trigger, his lung was still repairing itself and still under significant stress. His broken ribs were still healing, agonizing at times that he was still unable to lay on his stomach in bed. He was sleeping much better, it was Drake's own personal decision to sleep close to Flynn to comfort him in his previously daily nightmares. They tapered off to maybe one a week, the last being five days before and finding himself looking better rested than he had before the experience of Borneo. He was slipping out for nightly walks and returning promptly before either of his companions noticed or woke. It done to cool his head when he found himself oddly frustrated or quick to anger, but he found it had added benefits to soothe his restlessness. Nearly all his wounds were closed up, the only exception of aging scabs was the former crater in his chest. It was less of a hole and more of a slight scabby, sensitive indent. Bandages were no longer necessary, much to his relief. It was like the closing of a gruesome chapter. He had taken to smiling more, usually only when Drake glanced in his direction. It was forced, but if it put the younger man at ease, it served its purpose. He taken to grooming himself to make it appear he had some semblance of normality now, even though he still felt very much out of place and lost as a tag-along. A shave was the only reason why he could stand to look at a mirror, otherwise he had become disgusted at the sight of what he had become. Looking better, sure. But still irrevocably marred.
He even taken to accompanying Nathan and Sullivan out during the day, usually nothing too strenuous as young Drake was still fiercely overprotective of Harry's slow progress. That day was the end of the week in Alaska, one last night before they set off again for slightly warmer climates. They were strolling the sidewalks of one of the more picturesque villages in the north, some buildings dating back as far as the original Gold Rush. Nathan was chatting with Victor, thick as thieves and regaling stories, while Harry himself lagged a few paces behind as he often did. He never minded that, he liked to take things at his own stride. It was late evening, they had just finished dinner, a local fish and chips place that Flynn found himself rather enjoying. It reminded him of home, but not in the uncomfortable sense that haunted him. It was a rare moment he was glad he never pulled that trigger. He was content. Shambhala, Borneo, all of it felt like a lifetime away for once instead of the day before. Stuffing his scarred hands into the pockets of his newest leather jacket, Flynn felt he could wander among crowds like the scant number of tourists milling the town and the locals going about their business, not so exposed and naked under their stare. He felt like one of them, just for once. Watching the gulls circle the idly in the sky overhead was a soft blessing in and of itself.
Harry Flynn had actually been entertaining his possible future life alongside Nathan Drake and Victor Sullivan, a faint musing smirk at his lips, when it happened. There was a thunder-crack bang that echoed through the town-square, utterly unpredicted and startling everyone in the general vicinity, eyes whipping to the source. It had been a tourist in gaudy bright winter wear despite the mild weather, sporting a prop antique rifle that fired blanks, a paying experience in front of a vendor as well as photos of the individual for an extra ten dollars. Everyone else had simply continued their business. But Harry Flynn was suddenly miles away, having crashed to his knees on the cobblestone and both hands clasping over his ears like a vice. It was his first flashback in about a week, the first one to experience while waking this vivid.
The Cintamani Stone bore witness to vast amounts of blood and violence that day, perhaps more than it had in entire centuries since being lost to the ages. Harry Flynn woke up abruptly on the floor, or had become conscious again, he had no idea how he gotten there for a couple dazed seconds. The taste of thick copper was flooding his mouth, his jaw a wicked throbbing blur of pain. There was something hard and small in his mouth, he spit it out and heard it click onto the stone floor. A tooth. He was trying to sit up, struggling to get his body to obey basic commands but he felt so much agony, his chest on fire. He did not need to know how many ribs were broken. Delirious, he just lay back down on the floor, panting hard through the haze of pain.
"You're still alive," came a guttural growl, Zoran's accented words forcing him to roll his head and stare up at the gargantuan behemoth looming over him. His shadow fell over Flynn, eclipsing the torch light. On his back on the floor, the man seemed more like a monument than a human being. But his eyes were alive with cruelty, almost twinkling with malice, dark shadows on his features making them almost glow. "If there is one thing you can do, Mr. Flynn, it is take a beating."
Flynn wanted to beg, to plead for his life. His right arm he could barely move, a fight to have it rise and block his face in defense of another strike. As weak as he was, he doubted it would have much impact on protection anyway. His head was aching, face a blur of pain. He could feel hot blood on his cold skin. He tried to choke out a word, anything at all, but blood and saliva pooled in his throat and he only could gurgle.
"You have been a thorn in my side since the start. Perhaps I chose the wrong thief or perhaps neither of you are to be trusted. I wonder how the great Nathan Drake will react to seeing his former friend's corpse before the very thing he sought."
Flynn shook his head, still trying to force a word, emerging only as a cough to clear his throat. He tried to scream that he was not friends with Drake, that his death would mean nothing but maybe a victory. But the Serbian warlord did not care, not when his goal was so close. Staring down the pistol was the most terrifying thing, seeing the safety click off with pure intent, more intent than when he had it shoved down his throat. No, Zoran was only toying with him then. Now, he was finishing it.
The pressure on the trigger above him determined his decision to partially roll, intending to actually clear the bullet and it to slam into the stone at his back hopefully, luckily maybe, harmlessly. It was an intended killing blow, a precise aim for his heart. He was already tucking his hip and rolling when the gunshot slammed into his chest and winded him.
For a split second, Harry Flynn could hardly believe it happened at all, it felt like he simply been punched in the sternum. The pain did not lessen, it intensified, a bloom of scalding heat at his breast and spreading. He could not breathe. The oxygen had been blown out of his diaphragm, hitching and straining at the effort to rake in one gasp. Holy shit, Flynn could only think in a mindless drone, his hand flopping bonelessly over the hole in his jacket. That son of a bitch just shot me. He actually fuckin' did it.
Flynn thought Zoran's ugly sneering face would be the last he could see, he hoped that his vision would grey out almost immediately and he would be dead. But the pain never wanted to stop, it never wanted to even lessen out of mercy. Lungs whistling for air with one coughing heave, Flynn's legs began to respond again, only able to writhe aimless on the stone. A weak whimper left him, watching as Lazarevic paced around him, dreading and praying in strange dualism for a second bullet.
"Still alive?" Zoran almost chuckled. Almost. Flynn had never seen him do that, not even smile once other than gazing upon the Stone. "This seems to be your only talent, to live to spite me. And your friends will be here soon enough."
Kill me, Flynn wanted to beg, he had been through too much suffering, too much anguish and agony. He did not want Zoran to get bored. He got sadistic when bored, even more so than he typically was. But he could only cough, splutter, stare and plead with his eyes. To his shock and horror, Zoran plucked a grenade from his belt, one of four hanging like deadly ripe fruit. The pin looped around his index finger, a quick jerk tugging it free and triggering the explosive. All he would have to do was drop it and let the device detonate. He, instead, crouched beside Flynn on the ground, boots not yet touching the expanding puddle of blood underneath him. Harry flinched, his wrist snared and yanked out before the grenade was stuffed into his palm. "Make yourself useful," Zoran snarled, already standing and honed in on his goal. The thief was no longer amusing to him, having reached the limit in use. "Kill them when they come."
Harry Flynn felt disembodied hands on his shoulders, on his back, two distinct sets that gently shook his entire body as if to lure him into consciousness. When his clutching hands fell away from his ears to defend himself, he become aware of voices, two at first, familiar yet distant. It sounded as if he were miles away instead of kneeling before them. Flynn forced his eyes to open, at first too afraid to dare in the terror that could await him.
Aquamarine eyes consumed his vision, large with sympathetic concern and pure empathy. His face was in calloused hands that were not his own, supporting his chin and forcing eye-contact. Nathan was crouched in front of him, both hands cradling the older man's jaw and his forehead touching Flynn's. Harry realized he was gripping fistfuls of Nathan's shirt, having already torn it from a struggle he was not aware of. He had to focus on Drake's whispered, hushed words to absorb them, to decipher them in his confused mind.
"Come on, Flynn, where are you? I'm right here. You're okay. Buddy, come on, show me a sign you're in there. Show me you're okay."
"N-Nate?" Flynn could only choke out, still feeling as if his lungs were being crushed in a vice. His breath raked in and out harshly, almost hyperventilating. He felt deeply confused, horribly lost, having just been back at Shambhala only a moment before.
"There he is," Sullivan murmured, gently squeezing Flynn's shoulder, the other at Nathan's and reciprocating the gesture there too. "You're alright, kid. You're coming out of it. You were just having a flashback, it's common. He's okay, Nate. It's not a real gun, Flynn. You're okay."
I knew it wasn't a fuckin' gun. I knew that, I'm not stupid. Flynn felt shameful hot tears in his eyes, already mortified and deeply humiliated. He could feel his face burning, a self-loathing flush colouring his complexion. He forced himself to release Nathan's shirt, his anxiety making him glance up and down the street to confirm what he was most ashamed of. Everyone that noticed his breakdown in the immediate area had stopped their business to stare unabashedly and one person actually filming the incident on their cell phone. Oh my God. This is worse. This is so much worse than the whole camp knowing about the abuse. None of them had phones to film shit. None of them stared like this, the men wouldn't even look at me.
Victor had must have been attuned to his feelings because he glanced up and down the town-square, his voice raising for his disgruntled words to be heard by all eavesdroppers nearby. "Any of you people have any fucking manners?" Sullivan barked, his neck the colour of his flamboyantly red shirt. He jabbed a finger at the cellphone bearer, taking a few bold steps in his direction. "You. Yeah, you. Put it away or it's going up your ass. Final warning."
The defensive outburst was enough to snap back social conventions, most politely averting their eyes and continuing their business, the nosey few still tossing curious glances. The one with the phone got the message, quickly sauntering off but not without a taunting laugh. All the while, Nathan never budged, his grip having fell to Flynn's shuddering shoulders. He kept whispering soothing, calming words, not faltering until he gotten an actual response from Harry. "You're okay now, pal. You're gonna be okay. Do you need help getting up?"
"Nate, just help me…" Flynn hissed, too humiliated to even speak aloud. His own arms wrapped around himself, a self-soothing cradle he often resorted to. He wanted to try and get up, to get everyone's eyes off him, but his knees were aching and legs were wobbling and threatening to give. "Just get me out of here…"
"You got it, buddy," Drake soothed again, his grip training under Harry's arms and slowly guiding him to his shaky feet. Flynn swayed but both men were determined not to let him collapse again, Sully's firm hand out and grasping his elbow to steady him. "You'll be okay, come on, let's go back to the room. You're a little banged up."
Banged up? Flynn did not remember anything past the gunshot. His knees were sore and raw, burning under his jeans. Beyond that, he felt completely fine. Physically at least. Mentally is a whole 'nother play-field. He allowed his feet to move, trudging along to where he was being led. It was another rare moment he was grateful for Sullivan's assistance. Dammit. At this rate, I'll end up liking this sad old man.
Harry Flynn was deeply, eternally grateful for the pair, even though he scorned their presence a week or so before. He allowed himself to be guided back to the hotel, a small apartment building converted to a cheaper place to rent per night. It was a step up from Cancun. There was two twin beds in the bedroom section, a separate living room walk-in with a couch, and a bathroom that boasted both a tub and shower in separate corners. There was more than enough sleeping space to accommodate everybody, but he found himself seated on Nathan's claimed bed regardless of their plans.
Victor had disappeared briefly, mentioning he would be back in minutes, allowing the younger man to fix Flynn up, much more easily trusted. The denim of Harry's jeans were patched with blood at the knees, indicating he scraped them in his fall. It was when Flynn cast a glance to the mirror did he see the damage he could not seem to feel.
Auburn tangles of hair hung in wild clumps, not the combed order he groomed himself before they left. His face was a shell-shocked mask, green eyes ringed red from the testament to tears and crying he did not necessarily remember doing. Angry pink scratches and red linear welts striped his face, traces of blood standing out on some marks. What the fuck? What happened to me? Perplexed, he inspected his hands, finding fingertips and nails stained in telltale red smudges. A few strands of his coppery hair clung to one fist. Jesus. I did it to myself. I was pulling out my hair and scratching at my face and I don't fuckin' remember any of it.
Nathan had been in the bathroom to gather up some supplies he previously stored, a small first-aid kit under one arm, a face-cloth in his grasp. He was about to set up his mother-hen routine when he caught Flynn's mortified gaze at the sight in the mirror. His boyish face pinched with sympathy, wincing gently. He busied himself setting out the supplies in an orderly row on the bed as he spoke. "I'm so sorry, pal. I had no idea what was going on. One moment we were talking and you weren't behind us. You were maybe thirty feet behind us, on the ground on the sidewalk. People were crowding you, we thought you fainted. Sully had to shove everyone back that was getting too close, you know? It wouldn't have been bad if people were trying to help… But they were just staring. Gawking."
That's because they'd never seen a mental breakdown in person before. At least not a complete stranger's. Flynn was afraid to know the answer, but the question came out before he was even fully prepared to hear it. "What was I doing?"
That was a harder topic for the young American, back to chewing on his bottom lip as he sorted through gauze and readying disinfectant. He spoke more reluctantly, choosing his words carefully. "Nothing at first. You were just gone, your hands on your ears, kneeling there. I'm… not sure how it happened or why, maybe someone touched you. You started screaming. Before I could get your hands away, you were… just attacking yourself, buddy. Pulling your hair, clawing your face. You only stopped when I grabbed you and got close."
The creeping mortification just seemed to keep coming, wanting to rub his face but not quite daring to touch the new scratches without Nathan's permission. Flynn was always governing himself in public with grace, even comfort previously with careless flirting and smug sly humor. The thought, the very image, of him losing his marbles in the middle of a crowded street and made a mockery of was more humiliating than most events he faced so far.
The embarrassment was most likely obvious and readable on his features, as Nathan hesitantly smiled and patted his sore knee as he often done. "Hey," he cooed softly, gently rolling up the cuff of Harry's left jean leg until it bunched at his thigh and exposed the injury. The scrape was bloody but shallow, running down his shins. "Don't worry about it. So you had a freak out, it's a small town in the middle of nowhere. None of these people know you or even have a clue of what you been through. You don't have to explain or apologize. We'll take off tomorrow and we'll never have to deal with that situation again, right? Maybe somewhere quieter, okay? No loud noises or crowds, just us for a while. Hell, maybe we can give camping a try?"
Flynn could not suppress a half-snort of a laugh, shaking his head. "No fuckin' camping. I have had enough of camping for a lifetime, mate. Three months of it in a jungle, in a tent, on the ground, no running water and no bathrooms. No. I like a bed. I like plumbing. And I like not finding snakes or spiders in my sheets."
That brought a more authentic grin to Nathan's lips, spritzing alcohol onto the scrape. Flynn hardly reacted. Compared to the kind of pain he was enduring for months on end, it was nothing at all. "Alright, no camping. Maybe just a cozy little place instead."
Nothing else was said when the process was repeated with the other knee, equally scraped and bloody. How did I cut them that bad? Did I throw myself on the ground? Nathan worked meticulously but also with a careful tenderness, before moving up the small scratches on Flynn's face. Harry could not suppress a faint flush.
"What, you're embarrassed?" Drake quipped with a sly grin, damp gauze sweeping over one of the shallow marks. Flynn winced, a sharp intake of breath whistling through grit teeth. Okay, that one stung a bit.
"I'm just a man, mate," Flynn jabbed back, a smirk curling one side of his mouth. "Lose your mind in front of strangers like that, see how you feel. Not exactly like a bad trip. More like a waking nightmare."
The humor faded from Drake's youthful face, those puppy eyes back and staring right through him, past any façade he might have in place. He dabbed at another shallow graze along his forehead, eliciting another growl of discomfort. "Shit, man. I feel like an asshole. After the bang, we just kept walking, we thought you were behind us. Sully noticed first. If he didn't, hell, we might have kept walking. I don't know, that just freaks me out thinking about it. I'm sorry, man. Next time, I'm keeping an eye on you."
Flynn could not help but feel the pull of guilt, like an undertow current while treading water. He sagged in his spot on the bed, head dropping. None of it was hardly Nathan's fault. If anything, he felt it was his own for being foolish. Of course, the scenario played through his rather imaginative mind, horrified by the implications. Harry could not fathom having a mental breakdown among strangers, let alone trying to get his bearings surrounded by unfamiliar faces. Had he reacted with hostility and aggression to instinctively protect himself, would someone else get hurt? They might end up arresting me. End up in another prison. This time, out of my fuckin' mind. "I knew it wasn't a real gun…" Flynn could only mumble, the shame never having left. "Stupid… It was stupid. I should have known better."
"Hey," Nathan interjected, perhaps more sternly than intended. Flynn was surprised to feel Nathan's rough yet warm fingers snare his jaw in his grasp, lifting his head and forcing eye-contact. He had been grabbed like that before, once by Zoran himself, but Drake was worlds different. He communicated a gentle kindness even through his digits. Flynn almost leaned into the touch, craving a kind of affection and love he had never managed to possess for long. "You are far from stupid. It caught you by surprise. You were shot, Flynn."
"So were you," Harry almost whispered, voice wavering. Fuck, again?! Keep it together, Flynn. Your emotions have been running your life since you fuckin' got back from Shambhala, get it together. No amount of internal verbal berating could keep his eyes from burning, glassy again as he squeezed his eyelids shut to stop those sympathetic clear eyes looking right through his own. Reading him like a book. "You were shot, too, Nate… And it wasn't fuckin' Lazarevic or an accident. It was me. I shot you. On purpose. I aimed low, I couldn't bear to kill you, I had the fuckin' shot, Nate. But I couldn't do it. I hoped… somehow, you'd get away. And you did. I'm so fuckin' happy you did, I… I don't know what would have happened if you died. Maybe we'd all be dead… Zoran would have won."
"So why are you thinking about this now?" Nathan softly spoke, Flynn feeling his warm breath against his eyelashes. "It turned out for the better, buddy. I'm fine. I mean, yeah, it hurt like hell and I thought I was dead but none of that shit matters anymore, okay? You aimed low on purpose, Lazarevic aimed to kill. You went through much more than I did. It's not your fault, pal. What happened out there was not your fault. It might have been a fake gun but it sounded real enough. Sometimes, our brains play tricks on us."
Flynn was not even sure why he was arguing. He grit his jaw tight, hard enough that he thought his teeth might shatter, trying to forbid the soft sobs already working their way up his throat. That did not stop the tears from beading in his eyelashes and running down his face. Nathan's touch never faltered, one hand immediately going to sweep away the damp trails. "I thought I was getting better…" Harry hissed, frustrated, deeply so. Waiting on a mental recovery was the most frustrating aspect of his life up until that point, he could muscle, charm, flirt or weasel his way out and into everything but this. "I thought I was going to be okay. He's dead and rotting and he's still fuckin' haunting me. It's like I was back there, Nate. I was so scared. I saw it all over again, at the Cintamani Stone… I couldn't move, couldn't breathe. I couldn't speak. I could taste my own blood. And he's just… standing over me. Watching. Waiting for me to die. He wanted me to. But he fuckin' missed. And he wouldn't put me out of my damn misery. Not unless it meant killing you too, so he just shoved a grenade in my hand."
"Jesus, Flynn…" Nathan almost gasped, the horror a tangible thing that almost made him shiver. Harry knew he was shaking, an uncontrollable tremble like a fever. "Hey. You were there months ago, months. That was just a flashback. You weren't there, Flynn. You're alive. You're getting so much better. You could sleep a solid eight hours at night now, you're not as jumpy as you were before… You are getting better, Harry."
An agitated whine almost rose up in Flynn's throat, that stubborn desire to argue, bicker, to get his rage out in a verbal maelstrom overwhelming. But his whimper fell flat when he felt chapped petals press against his own lips, warm breath over his mouth. Flynn's eyes snapped open, still glazed with tears, astonished to find exactly what he suspected. Nathan Drake made the move and boldly kissed him, lingering only a second or two before hesitantly breaking. It was surprisingly chaste, almost shy. The inexplicable surge of desire swelled, Flynn debated returning it perhaps with more hunger, even lust. The rattle of the keys outside the door killed the decision, alerting them of Victor Sullivan's return. Nathan giving a bashful little smirk and wink before straightening and resuming his gentle sweeps of disinfectant as if nothing at all had occurred. Oh, I see. Our little secret. Guess Sully doesn't know Nate goes both ways. Or Nate doesn't know Sully already has a clue.
The door cracked open at first, before it was bunted open by Victor with both hands notably full. With a sniff, Harry hastily dried his face with both hands, wincing at the small sting when fingertips found the fresh welts. Nathan was returning the unused supplies to the first aid kit, shoving it under the bed for now. Laziness sometimes prevailed over organization.
"There, you're looking more like yourself again," Sully stated plainly, not without a smirk at his findings. "I think we have all had a hell of a night and could use a drink."
Oh, fuck yes. I haven't had a drink since meeting Nate at the bar with Chloe. A lifetime ago. Flynn's head perked up at the mention of alcohol, the first real pleased grin he had in a while manipulating his expression from morose weariness. Sullivan was clutching the neck of a large bottle, dark tropical-flavored rum he must have purchased from in-town. The other hand clutched a small steel bucket of presumably ice, rattling with each step. Nathan chuckled at his partner's intentions, giving his head a shake as he sat at Harry's side, mattress dipping from additional weight.
"Rum, Sully? How hard do you plan on partying? You're flying tomorrow." Nathan almost scolded, waggling a stern finger. "What happened to staying off the hard liquors?"
"When shit-shows like that happen," Sullivan sighed, the weariness in his tone settling with the evening chill. Harry could see it, the aging a sharp contrast to Nathan's youth. He wondered just how hard things were getting on the older American, none of them were getting any younger. "I'm sure Flynn will second that."
"For once, we agree on something," Harry almost chirped, his attitude having made a drastic change. At first entering the room, he was humiliated, upset, beyond exasperated. Nathan himself certainly had a hand in that shift. Flynn already felt lighter, airy. The promise of liquor on top of that was a cherry on the cake. "Come on, Vic, get some glasses and pour'em out." On purpose, he still refused to use the name 'Sully'. As much as he felt he owed the man, he did not feel they had to go that far. Not yet, anyway.
"Watch it," Sully warned, but clearly unable to hold much of a grudge. Flynn's turn in mood was welcomed by both men, he noticed. The elder went to a cupboard at the ready kitchenette, gathering three glasses and laying them out orderly in a row on the counter. Each got a handful of ice and a hefty helping of rum before Sullivan returned to the beds side by side.
Nathan accepted his glass gingerly, but Harry did not match his coyness. Flynn almost snatched it, very eager for his first taste in hard liquor in many long months. The beer in Cancun hardly left him buzzed even after finishing it. Sitting across from them, Sullivan raised his own glass in a toasting gesture and Harry and Nathan mirrored. That was a moment Flynn took his first sip, savoring the sweet burn and relishing every minute of it. Ah. There we go. That's what this whole shitty situation has been missing. I could have seriously used this.
With the rum flowing, the night went much more rancorously, the laughter high and the jokes flying. Even with his face still stinging from the panicked self-mutilation, Flynn was grinning and laughing like old times again. But eventually, one drink proved too much for Nathan, already dozing sitting up. Flynn offered his bed on the couch and that was more than enough for the youngest among them. He retired for the night with a yawn and nearly shambling into the corner of the wall instead of the doorway.
That left Flynn alone with Sullivan. This normally would have made him take the cue to leave or feign weariness himself, but he felt actually alright for the first time in a while. Flynn was on his third refill, Sully on his second. Conversation had quieted down out of habit, although Nathan could sleep through nuclear fallout. There was a bit of a gap after the shenanigans of Montreal and Budapest, a lull of silence and Flynn regarded his glass of rum in silence, reclined back against the headrest. Sullivan's face was a bit rosy, but otherwise he appeared not all that inebriated.
"Flynn," Sullivan started, and the British thief knew the tone changed. Things were about to get serious. "Are you okay? I know you're fine now, you've smiled the most the past two hours than you have since you came out of your near-death experience. But, earlier tonight, that episode. How are you … handling it?"
Oh boy. Here it comes. I knew it was going to happen. Glad they both didn't double-team me. Oh, that sounded dirty. Flynn almost was going to grin, the lewd image coming off mostly funny. But he knew that was the liquor making him stupid. "Listen, Victor that shit is so far from where I want to be right now. I don't want to think about it. It was a bad trip. That's all."
"That's bullshit and you know it."
Flynn shrugged. Normally, this topic made him angry, a raw sore spot that everyone in his general vicinity seemed intent on prodding. But the rum made him calm, liquor always settled him down and drained his temper instead of stoking it. It was a bizarre paradox considering how alcohol often made people act belligerent. Victor, you really don't want to know. No amount of Navy training as prepped you for this, contrary to your belief. "Well, what do you want from me right now? A confession? Need the rest of the bottle for that, mate."
"Sometimes, that's what it takes for some people," Sullivan insisted, reaching over to top off Harry's glass with the bottle. Flynn almost grinned, almost. He did not want to appear too happy about being plied with booze. "That's how most guys done it when I was young, anyway. Not sure what you kids do these days."
"Kid?" Flynn snorted, but not without a bit of a smirk. He could hardly taste the burn anymore as he drank. "I'm thirty-fuckin'-nine years old."
"You're a kid to me, bucko," Sully jabbed back, returning the grin. "Stop dodging the question. Nate isn't exactly secretive about your progress, you are doing better but that did not change the fact you never really come to terms with what happened."
Come to terms? The hell does that even fuckin' mean? No, I understand and accept that Lazarevic mutilated me and kept me as a secret sex slave. No problems 'coming to terms' with that one. "Victor, stop playing shrink," Flynn simply sighed, rubbing his sore, scratched face. "And shit got bad, yeah? I know that. Hell, I can't look in the mirror without seeing what happened. But guess what? Lazarebitch is dead. Problem solved."
The eldest of their group simply shook his head, exhaling heavily through his nostrils before taking another sip. "Now I know even you don't believe that."
No. No I don't. The man is very much alive in my head. Flynn grit his teeth, suppressing a shiver that raced up his spine. Part of him hoped it was the ice in his drink paired with the chilly climate of Alaska. "I'm nowhere near drunk enough," Flynn mumbled, immediately bringing his glass to his lips. He drank heavily, gulping down hard liquor until he drained the cup despite a protesting sound from Sullivan. "Relax," Flynn sighed, almost breathless as his head spun. The buzz was pleasant and deeply missed. "Another one, cap'n."
"Uh, hell no?" Sully corrected, closing the bottle firmly. "You just downed that. Let it settle first. Pace yourself."
"What are you, my dad?" Flynn irritably snapped, his judgement not stable. He was drunk, not enough to slur words quite yet but well on the way. He wanted more, but he was not going to pitch a tantrum for it. "C'mon. Just a bit?"
"Alright, tell you what," Sullivan murmured, his tone sounding more of a proposition. "Half a glass more, if you explain what happened back there in the town-square. Nothing more, nothing less." The bottle of rum waggled teasingly, almost tauntingly, sloshing that already more or less made Harry's decision for him. He offered his glass out silently, but when Sullivan did not make the move to pour, it was decided that he had to indulge first. Flynn's brow furrowed, a frown conveying his ill feelings on the matter but he supposed no harm would come of it.
"Fuck it. Why not?" Flynn breathed at last, more thirsty and eager for another sip with each passing hesitant minute. Pretend it's not Sullivan, alright? Pretend its Nate. "There was just a split second it did sound like a real gun, alright? And for a moment, I wasn't there. I was… back in Shambhala. Right at the Cintamani Stone. I woke up on the floor, after Lazarevic ambushed me and disarmed me and no doubt beat the ever-loving shit out of me. I could taste blood, I was staring up at his madman that beat me, carved me up, raped me, tortured me, over the span of months and he was fuckin' done. He was finished with me. All that pain and suffering and backbreaking effort for that sonnavabitch and he was ready to execute me for Nate and the others to find. I tried to move out of the way, but it was too little too late. He fuckin' shot me. It was like I was living it all over again. I could feel it all, the fuckin' pain of it, the terror, all the while he's just pacing around me. He loved watching that. Watching me bleed and suffer and hope for death. Then he shoved the grenade in my hand, told me to kill Nate and the girls when they came. And then I came out of it. That's all I remember, Vic. Now hit me. You promised."
Victor Sullivan was certainly better at masking his emotions than his protégé, but even Harry could spot the little flinches here and there like at mentioning his sexual abuse. Wordlessly at first, he twisted the cap free and refilled Harry's glass, to the top unlike previously indicated at the halfway mark. That brought a grateful nod from Flynn, immediately bringing his drink to his lips to quench his thirst. Hey. Therapy isn't too bad when you're drunk. But something tells me it probably doesn't work too well for my liver.
"Fuck, kid," Sully sighed at last. He rarely used the big 'f' bomb, curses like 'goddamn' and occasionally colourful words for private parts were more his flavour. Flynn noticed by habit, Sully used them much less when Nathan was present. He hates swearing in front of his boy even now, when he's a damn adult. "I might not know a whole lot about recovery from trauma but I do hear that talking things out is best. When you're ready, of course."
"Of course," Flynn agreed, already draining half the glass of rum. He was well and drunk now, head spinning enough that he was certain walking would be a chore to do confidently. "That was hardly the traumatic flashback, by the way. That was just the one that came to the sound. Guessing they call that a 'trigger' in mental-speak, right?"
"Hardly traumatic?" Sully asked, tone incredulous and disbelieving. "If you ask me, kid, that is the definition of the word 'traumatic'."
Flynn giggled. Being months after his first hard drink, he could hardly conduct himself as he should. He was much more talkative, having been threatened with painful and agonizing death by his abuser if he so much as uttered a word about the nature of those private meetings. For weeks after Zoran's death, that threat still felt like it had teeth. It was a secret he intended to carry to the grave, but secrets are so damn heavy. To carry all that weight on his own nearly caused him to take his life. He hid himself from the woman he claimed to love and lost her in the process of trying to protect her. What else did he have left to lose? Dignity? It was almost a laughable concept now. There was no such thing as dignity when being victimized that level. "Traumatic is what he would make me do before he found what he was looking for. Those are what my nightmares are reserved for."
"Don't mind if I pry, but such as?"
Oh, I mind, Sully-boy. You're not going to bother buying me dinner first? Thought older guys like yourself had manners. Flynn had been absently staring down at the melting ice cubes, barely slivers floating in the booze. He swirled the glass gently, debating on discussing one of the more horrific parts of his past. "Zoran is just the latest but very ambitious abuser on my list of abusers…" Flynn murmured, not even sure he wanted to admit some of these dark secrets. Some of these, not even Nathan knew. "My mum was the first. She wanted to destroy me before I was even fuckin' born. What chance is that?" Another long drink drained his glass, but he no longer had the desire to get smashed. Any more and he think he might end up chucking it all up over the bed. He still could not bring himself to look at his sit-in psychiatrist. "She was a drug-addled whore that used while pregnant and I was born so addicted, they had me detox as a fuckin' newborn. As if that weren't bad enough, she couldn't stand me. I'm surprised I lived at all through that. What kind of fuckin' mum hates their only kid? But no matter what I did, she would never show love to me. That leaves a mark, y'know? She used to beat the ever-lovin' shit out of me. She brought clients home to fuck, sometimes right in front of me, all hours. Even in the middle of the night, I wasn't safe in my own fuckin' bed. Some of those sick fucks would sneak in my room. So yeah, I've been turned out young. I've been around the sexual deviant block before even fuckin' puberty. I dunno if mum profited off it. I guess it would make it worse, knowing my mum pimped me out.
"I ran away at seven, spent the night on the street. That night was fuckin' bad, even by my messed up standards. I tried to take shelter in an alley, it was pouring rain, who would have guessed in bloody London. Some street punks had the same idea. Six of them, none of them adults themselves but maybe ten years older than myself. Some of them recognized me, the whoreson. I dunno what it is when young men get in packs… and they find someone weaker. Before I can dart out of there, they grabbed me and my clothes were ripped off me… They all took turns. Seven years old and I was gang-raped for the first and only time in my life, so far, fingers crossed. They tossed some pocket change on me and left, laughing. I wanted to die that night. I did wish they killed me at the time. I swallowed what little pride I had at the time and went home. And that's when I found my mother murdered. Someone had beaten her to death on the floor of our kitchen. There was blood everywhere. All this time, I don't remember my mum's face or what she looked like. I remember she had light blonde hair, but then it was just… soaked with blood. There were footprints in it, a lot of them. I … I don't know how I reacted all that much. I just remember the kitchen and the mess. But that night I became an orphan. And I decided then I had to get the fuck out of London. It took years, learning the ropes, pretty tough mostly on my own. I didn't have anybody, I had to depend on myself mostly but I met some good friends along the way. I learned not everyone is cruel or has bad intentions. I had to become my own parent, up until I made it to Cancun.
"I was fine there a while. Sun, sand, women, it was a real riot. I was caught stealing from this older bloke, Jerry that took me in for a while. He taught me a lot of shit I had no hope in hell learning on my own. He taught me to pick locks, to fire a gun and actually hit what I was aiming for. I spent … how long… five, six years with him? He was a good man. But there were things I wasn't ready to talk about. He wanted to know more about me, perfectly understandable, yeah? But I panicked. I left Cancun one night without even so much as a note. He did not need to … be burdened with a broken, fucked-up kid like me. He deserved better than me. I wish I stayed, I do. But no point lingering on past mistakes you can't fix.
"And you know what? For a while, I was fine. I was perfectly fine on my own. I might have become a little over-confident with myself, bigger and bolder jobs. But I was doing just fine. Until I was 25, I accepted the drink from a total stranger. That was my big fuckin' mistake. If Jerry had the sense to teach me about predators, he would have said never accept a drink from a stranger. It was on damn Bourbon Street in Orleans, I wasn't thinking. I wondered why I felt so dizzy after one drink. Then I woke up in some hotel room, one man on top of me, the other holding my arms down, one guy pinning my legs. I don't know why, I couldn't even lift my head, I was so out of it. But I still knew what happened. I couldn't move, but I remember it all. It was three men, that night. They… must have had an operation going, a new target every night, because I was robbed penniless in the process. They took everything, all I had left were my clothes… and my mum's ring. I don't know why they ever bothered. I mean… why me?
"I think that's the worst fuckin' part about all of this bullshit in my sad excuse for a life. Why the hell is it me? I fought my ass off to get my life together. I never had a chance from the start, but I'd be damned if I didn't try. That's not Harry Flynn, to give up like that and settle for a pathetic life. I wanted to make a name for myself. I understand some sick fucks abusing a kid. I know there are sick, twisted degenerates out there, believe me, I've been introduced early. But how the hell did those assholes in that bar know? How the hell did Zoran fuckin' know? That I'm … damaged? I tried my whole fuckin' life to hide that. But they could always smell it out on me. That I'm easy to take advantage of. I was afraid people I cared for would smell it on me like they can. Like, Chloe… or Jerry. I doubt he'd even recognize what I am now. Far cry from the kid he took in."
Flynn had no idea what else to say. He poured out his whole past to Sullivan, the one man he never really come to bond with. He rolled the empty glass between his palms, finding himself… lighter? He never confessed his past to that magnitude to anyone before.
"How come you never tried to look for this Jerry guy while in Cancun? We were just there, Flynn," Sullivan finally asked, but Flynn could tell by his voice that the subject was something he had vastly underestimated. He was stunned, but Harry could not bear to look at him.
Flynn only smirked gently, a rueful and sad smile. He did miss Jerry. "Because what would he see, Victor? A mess. I couldn't drop that level of grief on him. He's got a bad heart. That would only upset him. He'd… only regret what happened. I don't want him to blame himself. It's so far from his fault, nowhere even close."
Slowly, Sully rearranged himself to stand and stretch, the hour was late and the liquor taken its toll. Flynn did not move just yet, but he did flinch when Sullivan's firm hand settled on his shoulder. "For what it's worth," Victor began, choosing words carefully. "You're not damaged. You fought hard, kid. Fought harder than most men my age, in much shorter span of time. That makes you stronger than most, that's saying something. Listen, I don't know why this keeps happening to me, taking in delinquent boys… First the Drakes, then you…"
"Drakes? Plural?" Harry's eyebrow rose faintly. "You're slurring your words."
"No. Nate had an older brother, long time back…" Sullivan sighed, his tone melancholy. He could tell it was a tough subject. "Nate was barely in his twenties when Samuel died. A job went wrong, they were to break out of a prison in Panama, but Samuel was killed in the escape. Nathan never recovered. He never talks about Sam because if he does, he can't take the pain. It's too hard on him. It's been maybe… shit, eight years now? Still too raw. Flynn, consider this conversation part of patient confidentiality, but I'd ask you not to bring Sam up. Not until he's ready."
I could understand too well on that. I never had a brother. The loss would be… indescribable. Flynn felt his heart ache for poor Nathan, the cheery and goofy kid that always brought a smile to his face. He never had so much as a clue that Nathan was not the only child. They never talked families. "Yeah… Well, looks like you're down one kid then. Got room for another?"
Sullivan chuckled deep in his chest, giving Flynn's shoulder a soft pat. "I guess you want the position. Flynn, if Jerry could see the man you become today, he'd be nothing but proud of you. Hell, I thought you were just a pain in my ass but I'm proud of you and how far you've come. You're doing just fine, kid. You been through hell and back but you're here and you are going to be stronger for it. You might not see it yet, but I do. You're doing just fine. And I'm proud of you. Now I'm gonna hit the head and pass out. You should do the same."
Flynn grunted in response, nonchalant and putting the glass down on the nightstand. He was glad Sully never looked him in the eye during that last part. He would have been embarrassed if Sullivan saw him shed tears, palming them away the moment he heard the bathroom door click shut. It meant a lot to hear those words.