I woke up the next morning to find Harley gone. The only lingering traces that he had ever been in bed was his smell, and a little note explaining he was going guitar shopping with one of those coming-and-going weirdoes. I think it was … Fox?
I sighed, and breathed in that scent deeply into my lungs. I had missed him often over the course of the past few days; Harley being the one busy with the band's gig at the bar and the smaller instrumental gig at our reception … Luckily I had finished the plans for the commitment ceremony, not only single-handedly signing on the best catering service in the city and getting a penthouse conference room at the Hilton, but also managed to sway the hotel management to rent me the Honeymoon Suite for significantly less than it was valued for.
Busy week it already had been, and with the ceremony two days away it wasn't going to slow down any time soon. Harley and I would meet at the local tuxedo place with some other guys to get suits fitted for the occasion, among other things. The flowers, the second instrumental act wasn't exactly set in stone, the catering service wanted to know what color suit they should wear. I'd be damned if I didn't have a full itinerary for the day.
Very clumsily I got up and scratched my side liberally. Tottering rather groggily towards the bathroom at the other end of the hallway, I smelled the coffeepot doing its magic. Harley does so many things for me, I have no idea where I'd be without him. Grumbling something about the fact that the shower isn't closer to the bed, I reached the bathroom door.
Now, mind you, I am a morning person in absolutely no meaning of the word. And yet when I thought I heard the ever-so-slight noise of something breaking the relative silence, I froze in my tracks, almost entirely wide-awake. Maybe it was an inherent fear of a person being in the house without my knowledge, or maybe the petty annoyance that I might have left the TV on. But as I listened more intently, I heard the very distinct sound of
… Of someone crying.
For a second I did what would be known as one of my patented "confused-as-Hell" stances, turning around for the bedroom. I had no idea what was going on here, but whatever it was, I wanted my pants on for it. I know, I know. There might have been some creep in my bedroom, ready to stab my eyeballs out. At least, that's what I've gathered from Harley's late-night horror movies, not to mention some of the bloodier episodes of Buffy.
Regardless, now with the pants of the night before, I stalked almost-silently around the apartment, trying to ascertain where the sobbing was coming from. Prowling from the kitchen, denying myself my coffee, I finally pieced together that the sound wasn't even coming from inside the house. In fact, it was coming from the other side of the apartment door.
I tried looking through the spyhole, but all I could see were two legs jutting away from a central crux located up against the door. Judging by the way the door was moving back and forth slightly, and the fact the sobbing had died down to near silence, I figured they were going through dry raking sobs. Very gently I opened up the door a crack, and managed to see none other than the fabric of a black leather jacket.
Only one person that I know of would be sobbing like that in front of Harley's door with a leather jacket and nail polish that black. He wasn't even really responding to whatever was going on around him, I wasn't exactly sure if he was drunk or incredibly upset or both. In any case, I decided I should do something, say something.
"… Cy?" I asked as gently as I could. His body went slightly more rigid, and I opened up the door further. He got up and turned around, excruciatingly slowly, and I saw exactly how upset he was.
Cyanide's eyes were always angry or at least somewhat mulled over when I was around him. I guess it was something to cover up what tenderness he had left inside; something to show the world that he was jaded like the rest of him when in fact he was not entirely. This time, however, his eyes were red and puffy, and tears were still running freely down his cheeks despite the fact he no longer had the energy to sob.
"Hey, Mik." He must have been out of it. His voice was warbling with some show of strain, and I could smell a whiff of Jack Daniel's on his breath.
Without even having to ask, I extended a hand. He clambered up to his feet, with a little tilt-and-gain here and there. I couldn't even really understand what was there, what was off … there was indeed something far different from his usual apathetic demeanor. Beside the crying, of course. Even beside the smell of booze, despite the fact that he was a social drinker.
He stumbled through the door, and shuffled somewhat half-heartedly towards the kitchen. I guess he was trying to form some sort of apologetic expression. Through the haze of the alcohol running through his system, as soon as he started losing concentration on his walking as he tried to formulate this complex facial expression, he was thrown off-balance.
Apparently that tip of the balance was all that was required for his stomach to empty its contents on the linoleum floor of the kitchen.
A mopping up and facial cleanup later, I found myself with a significantly less horrid-looking Cyanide about an hour or so later. It was odd of me to not try to start any conversation yet, but there was something about it that seemed like it wasn't to be talked about on a full-blown hangover.
I managed to pull a few strings here and there, getting the quartet booked for the ceremony, the tuxedo figures pulled up for myself, and I left a message on Skid's answering machine to send my apologies and a bouquet of roses to Harley's at the tuxedo place. I was sorry to have cancelled on him, after all – and I was going to bring him to brunch afterwards, so I gave Skids full permission to commence Operation: Sidetrack Harley to make sure he didn't suspect I was bailing out on him to watch basketball.
With all of my scheduling accomplished for the day over the phone, and after taking a shower, I walked back into the kitchen. Cyanide was drinking from a cup of coffee, and apparently somewhat more sober, judging by his better-coordinated movements.
Now came the talking part …
"Cyanide, what were you doing on my front door drunk?"
Did I ever say I learned the art of being subtle?
I sighed, and breathed in that scent deeply into my lungs. I had missed him often over the course of the past few days; Harley being the one busy with the band's gig at the bar and the smaller instrumental gig at our reception … Luckily I had finished the plans for the commitment ceremony, not only single-handedly signing on the best catering service in the city and getting a penthouse conference room at the Hilton, but also managed to sway the hotel management to rent me the Honeymoon Suite for significantly less than it was valued for.
Busy week it already had been, and with the ceremony two days away it wasn't going to slow down any time soon. Harley and I would meet at the local tuxedo place with some other guys to get suits fitted for the occasion, among other things. The flowers, the second instrumental act wasn't exactly set in stone, the catering service wanted to know what color suit they should wear. I'd be damned if I didn't have a full itinerary for the day.
Very clumsily I got up and scratched my side liberally. Tottering rather groggily towards the bathroom at the other end of the hallway, I smelled the coffeepot doing its magic. Harley does so many things for me, I have no idea where I'd be without him. Grumbling something about the fact that the shower isn't closer to the bed, I reached the bathroom door.
Now, mind you, I am a morning person in absolutely no meaning of the word. And yet when I thought I heard the ever-so-slight noise of something breaking the relative silence, I froze in my tracks, almost entirely wide-awake. Maybe it was an inherent fear of a person being in the house without my knowledge, or maybe the petty annoyance that I might have left the TV on. But as I listened more intently, I heard the very distinct sound of
… Of someone crying.
For a second I did what would be known as one of my patented "confused-as-Hell" stances, turning around for the bedroom. I had no idea what was going on here, but whatever it was, I wanted my pants on for it. I know, I know. There might have been some creep in my bedroom, ready to stab my eyeballs out. At least, that's what I've gathered from Harley's late-night horror movies, not to mention some of the bloodier episodes of Buffy.
Regardless, now with the pants of the night before, I stalked almost-silently around the apartment, trying to ascertain where the sobbing was coming from. Prowling from the kitchen, denying myself my coffee, I finally pieced together that the sound wasn't even coming from inside the house. In fact, it was coming from the other side of the apartment door.
I tried looking through the spyhole, but all I could see were two legs jutting away from a central crux located up against the door. Judging by the way the door was moving back and forth slightly, and the fact the sobbing had died down to near silence, I figured they were going through dry raking sobs. Very gently I opened up the door a crack, and managed to see none other than the fabric of a black leather jacket.
Only one person that I know of would be sobbing like that in front of Harley's door with a leather jacket and nail polish that black. He wasn't even really responding to whatever was going on around him, I wasn't exactly sure if he was drunk or incredibly upset or both. In any case, I decided I should do something, say something.
"… Cy?" I asked as gently as I could. His body went slightly more rigid, and I opened up the door further. He got up and turned around, excruciatingly slowly, and I saw exactly how upset he was.
Cyanide's eyes were always angry or at least somewhat mulled over when I was around him. I guess it was something to cover up what tenderness he had left inside; something to show the world that he was jaded like the rest of him when in fact he was not entirely. This time, however, his eyes were red and puffy, and tears were still running freely down his cheeks despite the fact he no longer had the energy to sob.
"Hey, Mik." He must have been out of it. His voice was warbling with some show of strain, and I could smell a whiff of Jack Daniel's on his breath.
Without even having to ask, I extended a hand. He clambered up to his feet, with a little tilt-and-gain here and there. I couldn't even really understand what was there, what was off … there was indeed something far different from his usual apathetic demeanor. Beside the crying, of course. Even beside the smell of booze, despite the fact that he was a social drinker.
He stumbled through the door, and shuffled somewhat half-heartedly towards the kitchen. I guess he was trying to form some sort of apologetic expression. Through the haze of the alcohol running through his system, as soon as he started losing concentration on his walking as he tried to formulate this complex facial expression, he was thrown off-balance.
Apparently that tip of the balance was all that was required for his stomach to empty its contents on the linoleum floor of the kitchen.
A mopping up and facial cleanup later, I found myself with a significantly less horrid-looking Cyanide about an hour or so later. It was odd of me to not try to start any conversation yet, but there was something about it that seemed like it wasn't to be talked about on a full-blown hangover.
I managed to pull a few strings here and there, getting the quartet booked for the ceremony, the tuxedo figures pulled up for myself, and I left a message on Skid's answering machine to send my apologies and a bouquet of roses to Harley's at the tuxedo place. I was sorry to have cancelled on him, after all – and I was going to bring him to brunch afterwards, so I gave Skids full permission to commence Operation: Sidetrack Harley to make sure he didn't suspect I was bailing out on him to watch basketball.
With all of my scheduling accomplished for the day over the phone, and after taking a shower, I walked back into the kitchen. Cyanide was drinking from a cup of coffee, and apparently somewhat more sober, judging by his better-coordinated movements.
Now came the talking part …
"Cyanide, what were you doing on my front door drunk?"
Did I ever say I learned the art of being subtle?