#bodyback

Concepts within concepts within concepts...

The phrase "Harry's son" originally appeared in the first draft of the chapter 2 bathroom scene. In that draft, Harrison told his mother, "Harry's son? I'm nobody's son," THOUGH I eventually revised it so this became internal narrative instead after a critique I agreed with.

The meaning of the name Harrison is quite literally "son of Harry" and I was intrigued by what Harrison thinks of that, considering his strained relationship with his dad. While his father's name is not literally Harry, I was interested by what it meant for him to be named, in a sense, after his own sonhood.

During my chapter 2 revision, I removed the “Harry's son" dialogue, however there was something deeply vulnerable about Harrison admitting he felt disconnected from sonhood to me, and I wanted to emphasize that more in the draft. That's how I settled on naming the final chapter!

Theme informs plot

Thematically this chapter explores sonhood and naturally, fatherhood. The relationship between father and son wasn't a theme I'd explored previously in BB, but the chapter title of course warranted that exploration.

It was therefore most natural to start with a flashback between Harrison and his father (who is no longer in his life), and I LOVED seeing how this single theme alone informed the rest of the plot. We get to see how sonhood informs how Harrison interacts with himself, particularly in his relationship with intimacy (in adolescence and now also in his 20s RIPPP JEREMIAH).

The writing process

I lowkey struggledddd with this chapter, which is strange because it turned out pretty much exactly the way I wanted it to! Endings are always weird for me, no matter how clear of an idea I have for them. I had to edit and tweak MANY scenes in order for them to feel whole, and I didn't think I liked this chapter until I gave it a long, long rest.

The plot

CW: abuse, drug use, bullying, assault, homophobia, trauma

Harry's son starts in flashback, but the timeline is technically shortly after the end of No Christ!

Scene A:

In a teenage flashback, Harrison recalls his last memory of his father.

Scene B:

In the fictive present, Harrison lies next to a sleeping Jeremiah. Angry at himself, he plans on leaving but on his way out steals Jeremiah's magic mushrooms (which he takes lol bruh).

Scene Ca:

Tripping, Harrison ends up at a house party in need of release. He meets a man he instantly clicks with but who rejects him upon recognizing Harrison's frenzied state. Offended, Harrison and the man argue and the experience is oddly paternalistic.

Scene Cb:

Startled by what the man has said, Harrison recalls an early relationship he had with a boy named Valentine. Breaking out of the flashback, the man asks Harrison about shame to which he runs away (lol so real).

Scene D:

Frantically looking for a way out of the party, Harrison ends up in a bathroom where he runs into a man he quickly realizes is his own reflection.

Scene E:

On the lawn outside, Jeremiah wakes a dazed Harrison up. Biyu who is with him convinces him to leave and he eventually does (aka Haremiah breakup!!).

Scene F:

Sober and alone the next day, Harrison, with nowhere else to go, heads to a church.

Excerpts:

The full first scene! Also his childhood home being a bungalow makes no sense but like <3 I love that word <3 CW: implications of physical abuse.

The last memory Harrison has of his father is blurry, a moment shaken like a snow globe. He could’ve been nine. He could’ve been fifteen. But he’s sitting on the curb of his childhood home—a mid-century bungalow on the corner lot. His nose is bleeding. He’s not sure why. If he walked into a wall. If he asked for orange juice the wrong way. Sun glazes the neighbourhood and he’s there, legs outstretched on the resealed driveway, holding a palm to his upper lip. His dad mows the sparse grass behind him, but it’s been so long that he can’t see his face, or maybe it’s too vague to process as he weaves between the lawn’s birch trees. A neighbour blasts the radio up the road—Mariah, maybe Oasis. His father waves at a passing woman. Her hair is redder than Suz’s, her crow’s feet sharper, like knives. She delivers the neighbourhood’s papers. Sandra? Kristen? She lives three houses up, gives out full-sized Kit-Kats on Halloween. Nice weather, she might say—all he remembers is her smile. Every single tooth visible and narrow like rosary beads. Blood drips into his mouth. He’s not sure where to find tissues. He should get up now. Wash his hands. Run north. Find his mother.

His father turns off the mower and leans on the handle. Want to come inside for lemonade? he might ask, fingering his shirt collar, the line from his wedding band long tanned over. Whether the woman says yes or no doesn’t matter. The moment she rounds the sidewalk, she spots Harrison and is so startled she clutches her chest and breathless, asks, “Is that a ghost?”

Harrison analyzes Jeremiah in the dark:

Harrison listens to Jeremiah’s heartbeat. In the moon’s silken light, he traces his chest, fingers absorbing each thud, thud, thud. Asleep, his breaths are lighter than usual and it dawns on Harrison that he’s aware of this difference—how he inhales when awake, how he inhales when he laughs, how he inhales on Mondays before an early shift at Greta, how he inhales when he’s winning at Scrabble, how he inhales when he’s losing at Scrabble, how he inhales when he’s on a karaoke stage, how he inhales the moment he walks off, how he inhales before saying grace, how he inhales when kissed.

Harrison considers his own vulnerability (CW: descriptions of a dead animal):

When he was younger, he and Suzanna watched a nature documentary about hyenas. A group of cubs feasted on the head of a giraffe, left its body hollow. He’s not sure why he thinks of it now. Perhaps the look in his eye. Something dead, or perhaps startled. He leans forward, grips his jaw until he’s wincing. Jeremiah just touched him here, kiss satiny, elegant. He hadn’t commented on the bruise around Harrison’s throat except to blow on it like a mother might blow on a busted knee and say, almost inaudibly, “I’m so sorry this happened to you.” Harrison hadn’t considered that anything had happened to him. He happens to other people. He’s not that oblivious. But still. He wasn’t sure what motivated Jeremiah to kiss his eyelids, tell him he was angelic, a beautiful boy. He couldn’t tell if he deserved that grace. Why he’d ended up next to a man so willing to soothe his faults he forgot to guard his own. Harrison held him like he was an hourglass losing and gaining sand simultaneously.

Jeremiah tries to comfort Harrison because he's actually a really nice person:

Harrison cried when Jeremiah kissed the gash on his forehead, told him he was safe here. What had he done to warrant protection? Jeremiah kissed his stomach and said he was warm, worthy. Jeremiah twirled one of his curls and said he had a good heart—strong, covered with daisies. That was what, a few hours ago? How fast can goodness wear off in a man? In the dim mirror, Harrison should see that person Jeremiah described—worthy like a knight to valour, romantic as a damask rose. But he’s just someone’s son, a copy-and-pasted scattering of his mother’s nose, his father’s eyes.

Harrison thinks about identity and a future with Lonan:

The last time he knew who he was, he’d been wrestling with Lonan in a tent, his smile so wide it hurt. He’d been so sure of everything back then—he would drive Lonan from Oregon back to Boston, or Brooklyn, or wherever he wanted to go. They’d rent a brownstone in Sunset Park, spend half of move-in day making out in a scarred bathroom. Screen Lang’s Die Nibelungen on a projector in the kitchen. Adopt a cat. Buy each other the same socks year after year for Christmas. But Lonan’s not here, disappeared in some inaccessible plane. And if that is true, then Harrison must also be gone.

Harrison robs Jeremiah (the last line is on the BB dust jacket! - CW: drug mention):

He stoops to Jeremiah’s jacket at the foot of the bed—terra cotta suede. He pockets a loose nickel and a strip of gum, then yanks out his wallet from the breast pocket. He tells himself he’s going through it only for that baggie of Tylenol Jeremiah had pulled out at the restaurant. Even when his fingers brush up against twenties, fifties, he’s committed only to the painkillers. But the instant he touches something else—a different baggie bulging with mushrooms, there’s no doubt he’s going to break that promise. What other choice does he have? He’s just a man after all, and who sins better?

In Harrison's head, this is the Haremiah breakup:

In the dark motel room, Harrison looks up at Jeremiah. He’s a good guy. A good friend. Looks even younger when asleep and even less aware. “I love you,” Harrison whispers to the still air. He doesn’t even mean it. “I love you.” One day, he hopes he’s nothing but a story Jeremiah tells. Someone to laugh at over mimosas, to curse while knee-to-knee with an improved lover. Jeremiah, this world doesn’t know what it has. Jeremiah, hold yourself dearly. Jeremiah, I’m not coming back. Jeremiah, forgive me when you’re older.

Harrison again thinks about Jesus... fondly lol:

The house’s walls whorl like a spinning top. Suzanna bought him one of those when he was a kid, wooden, painted rainbow. He should call her. Find a phone in someone’s throat. Beg to go to voicemail, to be picked up, to be kicked out of her place where he can rot on the side of the road. He passes a room with two couches stacked on top of each other, or perhaps those are just people, mewing against bare skin like cats. His jaw is slack, hungry for something—Jesus? Or any other man?

Harrison seeks vengeance against his father and also thinks about Lonan again:

He needs to find his father right now. He couldn’t have gone far—perhaps he’s still in that suburban fever dream, mowing the lawn. Harrison could find out. Once, he was so motivated to drive a man back east with much less than eight hours of sleep and he could do the same for himself now. He needs to crouch in a musty closet. Pray to a god he doesn’t believe in. Kill his father with his bare hands.

Harrison bumps into "the man" and needs to chill! Also the "one man show" dialogue is parroted from Perry in chapter 3:

Maybe they kiss on their way to the kitchen. Maybe Harrison bites the man’s jewelry off with his teeth, chews, swallows. He’s starving. Why does it matter? The air is florid and gelatinous—like walking through a vat of women’s body wash. On the kitchen counter, Harrison finds a cyan punch bowl. He loads up another glass as the man watches him, downs one, then another. Under a bar light, the man is easier to see—brown-skinned, hazel-eyed, the stud on his upper lip shaped like a star. He could be beautiful. He could be the kind of man Harrison would’ve drooled over as a teenager. Older. Harder. Wiser. “You’re like a one man show,” Harrison says, then yanks him closer by the elbow. Maybe he’s hiding God in his mouth.

Harrison being embarrassing in narrative:

Harrison swipes at his lips, breathless. “What are you doing?” His eyes feel like the centre of an optical illusion, eternal even if you know exactly where the end is. “How old are you?” asks the man. His stare is resinous. Unyielding. Harrison pushes forward, but the man is too strong. He feels like a child when he tries again to no avail, his body thin, useless, and even younger when the best thing he can think to say is, “Guess.” “Look,” the man says, already turning his back. “Does someone know you’re here? A friend or something?”

14-year-old Harrison flashback when his father disappears for a couple days ft. Valentine!! (CW: self-harm mention):

It was June, the air so humid it was like walking through a spider’s web. The most Harrison could do to entertain himself was read the same copy of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer his father kept on the dining room table. He’d tried solving the 1000-piece puzzle of Big Ben that Suz had bought his father years before but gave up before he even finished the frame. By Tuesday, he was so bored he considered slitting his own palms to at least keep himself busy for a few hours while staunching the bleeding. He went on a walk instead. A five-dollar bill he’d pocketed a year before from his dad’s wallet crinkled in his pocket. It doesn’t matter where he was trying to go or what he meant to find—if he meant to find anything. Who he ran into was Valentine, a scrawny, towheaded boy who’d had a growth spurt that year and frequently smelled of bleach. They were in the same grade. Hadn’t ever said hello to each other. Valentine stood at the intersection near the high school, probably on his way to the convenience store for a packet of Cry Babies. He wore a red fleece vest—too hot for the weather. His chin was pocked with acne scars. One moment, Harrison was staring, shielding his eyes from the sun, and the next, he and Valentine were crouched against a dumpster, their mouths hot and wet like a winter glove chucked into the dryer and taken out too early.

Things take a saddddd turn w/ Valentine (mini ramble here to say I'd never thought much of Harrison's EARLY experiences w/ his sexuality/the joys and difficulties he encountered in his explorations and this section of the chapter almost killed me lol THIS MAN NEEDS LOVE):

It didn’t seem possible, then, how Harrison had invited Valentine back to his house, both aware his father had been gone that day and the day before and the day before, both sweaty, doe-eyed, panting, young. How they should’ve walked past Gingerbread House in Bay Ridge on the long way home, chatted about who they were backing in the ’98 NBA Finals. How Harrison knew there was a half-eaten packet of Schneider’s hot dogs in the fridge he could doctor into something more substantial with a single frozen TV dinner. How as they approached his house, he didn’t even need to see his father’s pickup to know he was there. From twenty feet away, he heard the radio—the Sean Hannity Show. He should’ve run. Everything buzzed inside him to, and he could’ve, scooped Valentine’s hand within his own and sprinted down the sweltering sidewalk until the sun went down. They could’ve gone anywhere, hitchhiked all the way to east Indiana, or west Texas. They could’ve spent the rest of their teenage years eyelash to eyelash, sour mouthed and in love on Sunday mornings.

CW: Physical abuse - Baby Harrison contemplates faith (sooo interesting considering he was raised an atheist):

Days later, when Harrison lay on his bed with a bag of frozen peas on his eyes, he’d considered the possibility of divine intervention. A god had tipped his father off. A ghost—perhaps the ghost of his mother. It was nonsensical. He couldn’t see through that eye until the end of July.

CW: assault - Baby Harrison is jumped by Valentine's older brother:

After a half hour, he was so dizzy, he thought he was dying. He wouldn’t see his mother again, would he? He’d tallied every day she’d been gone on sticky notes—he’d already gone through an entire pad. Suz would’ve known exactly what to do if she’d seen him like this, bound to the ground like a tacked butterfly. Her jeans muddying with dust as she crouched to her son, her hands warm, gripping his face, her saying he was beautiful just the way he was, he was beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. He wanted to believe that vision into reality. But no one was coming for him.

CW: implied homophobia - Baby Harrison hopes for help in an adult who happens upon the above scene. && WHO SHAMED YOU:

He stood over Harrison, who’d started to cry. His mustache was woolly, belly round. A cigarette dangled between his fingers. There was something soft in his eyes. Harrison thought it was pity at first. Then he said, “Up now, boy. What did you expect?” and he knew it was disgust. Now, the man from the party stands in front of Harrison. For a second, he has to blink to ensure he’s not still there in that lot, staring up at a man he hopes will help him. His head’s falling off. His eyes are on fire. What had they been talking about? There’s something about shame. The man steps forward. Harrison recoils even though no one has touched him. Some partygoers have entered the kitchen now, all congregating around the punch bowl like Harrison had. The bang of music from outside follows them as they chatter and the noise is like an ice pick to the brain and Harrison wants to tell them all to leave, Harrison wants to bolt from this city, Harrison wants to be someone else’s son for a day just to see if that might fix him. “Who shamed you?” asks the man. Harrison inhales, aware he feels like a deer just about to be shot. He glances at the others here with them—their golf ball eyes, their pearl necklaces, then glances at the door. He can’t look at the man again. If wisdom is a weapon, Harrison’s a prey animal, so gullible, death a requirement of his life. The man opens his mouth again. Harrison runs.

Harrison's "excuse me while I run I really gotta get out of here" moment (FUN FACT is this first sentence is an exact mirror of the first sentence of the book!):

Harrison doesn’t need a god so much as he needs a way out. He parts glittering people with his elbows, his heart a pendulum ticking. He needs an exit sign bleeding in neon letters. He needs to cab back to Brooklyn—not to find his father, but to hide. He needs to go back to Eliza’s apartment and sit in the parking lot for hours until someone—anyone, a shadow of a man with cold hands, a phantom who sins as much as he prays—comes out. It doesn’t matter who he nudges, if one is a woman who looks vaguely like Biyu, if she curses when he shoves her out of the way, if one is a man with a shiny upper lip who says Harrison’s kind of cute and would he like to kiss him? He’s no Jacob fleeing Laban, he’s just a man trapped in a party, his vision pooling pink, orange, neon green. Who shamed you? He hates the shape of that question. His mother is disappointed in him, his father too—this is their white flag. A failure with Jeremiah, a failure at this party, a failure in sonhood. As he moves, that question bleats. Down a set of stairs. Who shamed you? Back up two. Who shamed you?

He's kinda going through it? (CW: violence) this is one of my favourite parts of the whole book!

He’s too aware when he’s high but worse when he’s not, the losing player in his own zero-sum game. He’s a loser—he is lost here, the walls around him shaped like a mouth, two mouths, three, all slick and shouting the same words—who shamed you? Who shamed you? Who shamed you? Harrison gapes, unable to escape. Someone tells him to watch where he’s going. Someone grabs him by the throat. Someone helps him up the stairs, and someone else kicks him back down. Someone reads his fortune on a daybed, tells him he’s been dead since yesterday. Someone holds his face and says he’s the most gutless person they’ve ever met. He’s going to die here. He’s already dead. He’d like to die in the starlight. He’d like to take his last breath to the pulse of Take On Me. He’s laughing. He’s crying. When he splits a joint with someone on the roof, he’s naked but so clothed he could suffocate. He’s under the earth. He’s hovering above it. He’s lost in a glut of bodies. No one is here. Someone could be. He screams for a mother. Mourns a father. Chews his nails on the landing. Begs for forgiveness with his eyes spread open.

Harrison breaking point fr:

He runs into a man. The stranger’s eyes are wide and peeled back like a sardine can, his hair so mussed it looks less like a style and more like electrocuted sunrays. He can’t be any older than him—the look in his eye is searing, mildly reckless. Perhaps he’s got a mother at home waiting on him like Harrison does. Perhaps his memories of his own father are buried within the scars that loop his hairline, easy to write off as accidents. His upper lip is shiny, the barest fuzz of a mustache growing. He looks like he’s fated to die too, something sad in his face when he blinks. Harrison reaches, and the man does too. When his fingers knock into a cold surface, it takes him a minute longer to realize he’s not staring at another man, but himself. He stumbles backward and narrowly steadies himself on the bathroom’s locked door. He squints at his reflection again, deluged in déjà vu. Bloodshot eyes, purple throat, split lip. He takes a careful step forward and then another and then another until he’s bolting right back to his face, pressing his palm to his cheek. What had Jeremiah asked him when he’d arrived at his apartment yesterday? What happened to you? And what did happen? He’s a man mid-bruise, a man mid-death, a man mid-funeral, a man mid-afterlife. Something’s fallen out of his face. His fingers tighten against the mirror. Will he claw it out of his eyeballs? He tries. He’s desperate to, in need of unravelling something. But no matter how insistently his fingernails scrape, nothing changes—he looks the same. Bloodshot eyes, purple throat, split lip. He doesn’t recognize himself. It feels like he won’t again. And why would he? In August, he abandoned a part of himself thinking he could find it again on his own, and how wrong was he? He’s not brave. How foolish to think he could be.

Saddest part of the book probably (resurrecting badly is one of my favourite phrases EVERRR):

His eyes swerve like Halley’s comet. He’s not the man he once was. No Christ, no Jacob, no Jeremiah, but something much worse. He’s sprouting something evil, his face glitching right ahead of him. Panic lurches up his throat and he reaches for himself to say he’s fine, someone’s here for him, someone loves him, nothing’s going to make him vanish here, he’s here, he’s happy, he’s going to be, he’s worthy of gentleness, he’s really not, he’s got an ugly smile, he’s nobody here, he’s losing himself, he’s better than ever, he’s dismantling no matter how hard he tries to keep himself together, he’s wearing another man’s earring because he’s over him, he’s not, he’s never going to love someone else again, he’s in chrysalis, he’s in autopsy, he’s got someone else’s nose, eyes, hair, he’s resurrecting badly, he’s turning blue and nothing can stop him, he’s Jesus when he wants to be and Lonan right now. The mirror shatters before he realizes he’s punched it. Fractals of glass starburst off his fist, splay across the counter. He’s not Lonan. He’s kinder than that. He doesn’t lift people by the chin and then twist off their heads. He drives a man across the country out of his own volition. When his mother calls him generous he understands why. He does not leave the man who sees something soft in him. He’s a good person. He’s a good person. He’s crying as his own face splits into a million pieces.

Haremiah breakup starts now...... !!!

He wakes dazed under starlight. What he knows for certain: a honeysuckle flutes behind his ear and man hovers over him. If these two things are related, he doesn’t know why—if the flower’s a gift from the man, if the man is a gift from the flower. How beautiful is that idea? Man not a duplicate of himself but birthed from a petal like a pearl from a clam. He could be a glorious by-product, couldn’t he? This question matters less than the throbbing light ahead of him. He squints at its blurred edges. Gabriel coming for him? The headlights of Suz’s car? Perhaps just a streetlamp. Or, God doesn’t have a face—this could be his arrival.

This is a direct continuation of that (JEREMIAH IS NOT HAPPY)!!! ft. the iconic drawing:

“Harrison?” He blinks. Someone’s shaking his shoulder. He’d like for them to stop—each movement is like being hulled out of his skin. “Harrison?” the voice repeats. Harrison. who is that? Harrison. He should know. Harrison. He’s heard that name called on velvet midnights. He’s heard that name aimed like a gunshot. Uttered like a prayer. Harrison. “Can you hear me? You stole my shit.”

You ever wake up high in the grass and then call your current bf who's a hair away from breaking up with u the name of ur ex bf bc you actually for a second see your ex who is literally not there:

He’s in the grass. Staring at a face now that’s getting closer, closer, attached to a neck that’s attached to a shoulder that’s attached to an arm that’s attached to a hand that’s nudging him. He could stay here forever. That face is pretty as the silverbells he and Suz used to hang on their Christmas tree. Prussian blue eyes. Oil spill hair. The last time he’d seen this face, he was amazed at how delicate it could look in dappled light. Features sculpted precariously like a China doll. Harrison used to imagine a future with that face. Harrison used to see himself reflected back in his pupils. “Lonan?” he asks, eyes lolling. His heart’s racing. He needs to tell the truth. He wants to hold him but his hands aren’t moving on command. What if he misses this shot? What if he’s a set of full fingers and this man is sand sifting right through them? Please don’t leave, he wants to say. Please don’t let me go.

(^^^ I'M HURTTTTTTTTT)

Harrison thinks about Jeremiah fondly AND THE ILY DROP (also biyu in the bg like HOLD MY POPCORN):

Harrison’s gotten used to him—how he hums Lionel Richie hits in the shower, how he softens his vowels when talking to his seven-year-old cousin on the phone, how he’s wise but still young—how he’s lost nothing from knowledge. And maybe that’s the problem. It’s impossible to keep a good thing that’s been around for too long. Harrison finds a face, his fingers clammy, clumsy. The moment he contacts skin, Jeremiah’s face clarifies as if emerging from a cloud. Soft skin, his brows waved in worry, mouth taut with what might be anger, or what might be devastation. He should be angry. He should be devastated. Harrison would be angry. Harrison is angry. Devastated too. He’s a good person. He keeps being dealt bad cards, keeps getting paper cuts on the way. It’s not fair. None of this has ever been fair. “Listen to me,” Harrison says, gripping Jeremiah’s cheek harder. His eyes flare at the blood dripping down his knuckles and the specks of glass that glitter off them like rhinestones. “Are you listening?” “JJ,” comes the voice as a car door slams. “He’s not worth it.” Jeremiah’s jaw trembles. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t suffer. “I’m here.” “You’re a good person,” Harrison says. He drags his fingers down to Jeremiah’s mouth, digs miniature ships into his bottom lip. In another life, he could’ve gone anywhere with this man. A private tour of a glass museum. Griffith Park. A supermarket cereal aisle. Bora Bora. The fabric-softened sheets of his double bed. “I love you,” he says, ignoring the second voice that again suggests they leave. He tries to get onto his elbow to get closer to him, to kiss him, to stare till his eyes tumble out like marbles, to take his chin and say I find the best parts of me in you, but the farthest he gets is a weak buck of his chin. “I love you, I love you.” “JJ. We need to go.” Jeremiah’s staring right at him. He’s never seen his eyes like this before—so focused it’s like they’ve pressurized and could crack like amber at any moment. He looks like he wants to say something. Harrison, stay with me. Harrison, you’re not your past. Harrison, you’re surviving. Instead, he shakes his head, then starts to rise.

(^^ I FIND THE BEST PARTS OF ME IN YOUUUUU STOPP)

WHAT NOT TO SAY WHEN YOU COULD'VE SALVAGED THIS YOU FOOL:

Harrison snatches his wrist so tight his hands shake. “Believe me,” he says. His chest is airy. He’s dying. He’s dead. Falling from a great height. He smooths a hand up Jeremiah’s eyebrows. Beautiful man. A living picture in his own right. Jeremiah glances at his arm wound by Harrison’s fingers, and when he looks back up, his eyes are shimmering. “Why did you go?” he asks. And why had he? He could’ve spent forever against Jeremiah’s ribs. Built a future with him over spiked lemonade and foolish nights at karaoke bars. Jeremiah’s built for movement, late nights, orange sorbet mornings, moonlit swan paddle boats, a thrilling midlife career change, dinner parties with near strangers, weekend hikes of Yosemite, bustling hostels in Amsterdam, desserts with almond liqueur and crème fraîche, sunsets in Montego Bay. “You’re bad for me,” Harrison slurs. Jeremiah’s face slackens.

last image of Jeremiah:

So he doesn’t try when Biyu stands and helps her friend do the same. He doesn’t try as he watches Jeremiah paw off his eyes, as he watches Jeremiah look at him a last time before turning away. He doesn’t try as together, they walk toward the car, mumbling things Harrison can’t hear—that he’ll never find out. He doesn’t try as Jeremiah opens the passenger side door, and before he gets in, takes one glance back at him on the grass. He doesn’t try as Jeremiah’s lip trembles, doesn’t try when he ducks into the car and slams the door shut. After all this time, it feels like the least he can do.

Harrison-Jesus parallels:

The crowd goes mild, focused forward as the processional begins. Harrison looks to Jesus crucified behind the altar. In his last moment, he gave himself to his father. Harrison will never see his father again, unlike Jesus, but both their mothers have been left to weep. And yet they’re both sons. No matter what they’ve done.

AND THE ENDING (the choir's singing Here I am Lord) ft. chapter 1 & 2 parallels (& credit also to @dallonwrites who gave me the idea for this ending months ago literallyyyyy worked out so perfectly):

This morning, he woke on the same grass he’d last seen Jeremiah on. He didn’t need anyone to tell him not to go back. The difference between him yesterday and him today is he’s a man without a place to go. No shepherd to follow. No man to hold. He understands what he is. A failure. A disaster. A sad, bitter person. He doesn’t need anyone to tell him any of this. Not Jeremiah. Not Biyu. Not Suzanna. Not Lonan. The music swells. Harrison’s eyes burn. In August, leaving Lonan was an inevitability as much as it was a new beginning. Now, he knows he’s not going anywhere. After this, he’ll go back to Suzanna who’ll greet him with a plate of papas, twirl his hair while he cries in her lap on the couch. They’ll buy tilapia on sale at the grocery store tomorrow. Adopt a betta fish, wince at the normalized hypocrisy. He won’t think about Lonan. What he’s doing in that apartment. If he remembers what it’s like to hold someone’s hands like they’re your own, what it’s like to mistake someone else’s reflection as yours. He’ll never speak to Jeremiah again out of courtesy, write him a postcard from a Grand Canyon gift shop when he and Suzanna visit like typical mothers and sons, but never send it. He can manage in his forever and ever and ever and ever amen because he’s okay. This horribly pleasant, horribly easy life will be okay. The choir asks who will bear their light. Offers themselves to God just as Jesus did. Harrison gasps. Once, he might’ve convinced himself he could be like them. Someone so committed they’d do anything for the person they love. He’d done that before—given everything in him to a man even if it almost killed him. Now he doesn’t know. Who he is. Where he went. Jesus in the tomb. Body gone. Body gone. He’s missed his chance at glory. When the choir swells, their voices clattering off the domed ceiling, he laughs. He doesn’t mean to. But there he is, virtually alone despite the passionate churchgoers around him. He’s no Christ, no Jacob, no Jeremiah. No Lonan. He’ll never be even if he wanted to. Tears flail down his face. He laughs again, though halfway, it becomes a sob. The woman from earlier glances at him funnily, but it doesn’t matter. He’s not going to heaven. He’s never going to see Jeremiah again. The choir’s heard their calling, but Harrison won’t ever have one. He laughs with his eyes straight on the crucifix. People from other pews begin to turn around, puzzled, even the priest looking up from the altar. The church silences eventually. No one claps. All eyes turn to him. He weeps with his mouth wide open.

AAAAND that's it!!! Thank you SO much if you've been following this project & AN EXTRA THANKS to everybody who sent so much love and support my way. Like no drama, I wouldn't be here if I didn't have all that support earlier this year, so if you've ever said ANYTHING NICE about BODY BACK, please know you literally saved me this year! Thank you!!!! It's really a spectacular feeling to know you have a little village behind a project, and I feel so honoured and grateful that this project resonated with so many people. <3

Random thoughts turn into...

A couple weeks ago, I was oversharing in my tags and in the process of doing so, came up with the phrase "24-karat harrison."

#I don't drink but I can positively say drunk rachel would 100% be just harrison like 24 karat harrison #actually going to get him to describe himself as 24 karat harrison in the next bb chapter fantastic this was a productive random thought

AND SO 24K HARRISON WAS BORN!

What does it mean to split yourself into two facets, one polished, one unpolished? What could you do if YOU were "24-karat" for a day? This phrase instantly shaped the entire direction of this chapter.

Also, as a poet, I cannot overlook how wonderfully "24-karat" and "Harrison" match each other. VISUAL congruency?? Syllabic harmony??? THE ASSONANCE?? He was built for this.

The plot

CW: this is the most *mature content* chapter I've written in BB so there are mentions of sex, drugs, and suicidal ideation.

"24-Karat Harrison" jumps right off the last chapter of BB where Harrison's stormed away from his mother after she drives him to Lonan's apartment (lol). He arrives at Jeremiah's place tired of who he is and in desperate need of a major change.

The chapter is split into two simple halves: scenes in Jeremiah's apartment, and scenes in a Las Vegas nightclub. How Harrison manages to get into so many shenanigans in these two locations alone astounds me! :)

Scene A:

Harrison turns up on Jeremiah's doorstep soaking wet from the rain. He's looking for a distraction :) & Jeremiah provides :)

Scene B:

A Haremiah pillow talk moment that ends abruptly when Harrison asks Jeremiah if he has Tylenol???? (romantic king /s)

In scene A, Harrison noticed Jeremiah hosted a party. Here, he asks him why he wasn't invited, and Jeremiah suggests it's because he seems too quiet to party

Scene C:

In an attempt to manufacture a more confident personality, Jeremiah helps style Harrison, complete with a fur coat and cowboy hat (horrifying).

Scene D:

Harrison retreats to the bathroom while he and Jeremiah wait for their ride to the club. He's not confident despite the new outfit and goes feral on Jeremiah's hair products, makeup, cologne etc. He finally sees 24-Karat Harrison in the mirror and is pleased.

Scene E:

At the club, Harrison and Jeremiah run into Biyu, Jeremiah's friend from Chapter 6 of Moth Work. His confidence is shot when she suggests he's quiet despite his new persona.

Scene F:

Harrison dances with Jeremiah, but is unable to shake Biyu's comments. He presses Jeremiah for validation, but Jeremiah wants to have a good night, not therapize the man he's seeing.

As Harrison continues to pester, Jeremiah reunites with his friends and is drawn into a (potential) group make out session. Harrison gets overstimulated.

Harrison flees to the club bathroom for reprieve when he again catches his reflection and doesn't recognize himself. His lack of recognition angers him--he's tired of seeing everyone in his face but himself.

A man--Perry--who is one of Jeremiah's friends, interrupts Harrison at the mirror to flirt. Harrison is agitated but drawn to him nonetheless.

Writing process & themes

I talked about how I structure chapters for BODY BACK in THIS post, but essentially, I orbit each scene around a particular theme.

I didn't really know what the theme of this chapter was until yesterday. I'd noticed I kept "repeating beats" throughout this chapter--particularly, Harrison analyzing himself in bathroom mirrors, which happens THREE times. At first, I thought I'd done something wrong because Harrison seemed to keep "backtracking" in narrative which made his psychology seem inconsistent.

By the time I got to the final reflection analyzation though, I realized THAT was the theme--bobbing between extremes when you're in the middle of an identity crisis.

What Harrison doesn't admit to himself in this chapter is that he's lost himself since he broke up with Lonan. The only Harrison he knows is the Harrison who chased Lonan across the country, put his needs above his own, etc. Now that Lonan's gone, Harrison doesn't know himself at all. This is why he reaches toward 24k Harrison, a caricature of himself painted in broad, unsubtle strokes--at the very least, he won't forget himself if he looks ridiculous.

But it doesn't work! This is because versions of who he "was" keep popping up. He can't help but feel like the vulnerable person he was when he was with Lonan.

Therefore, we really explore extremes in 24kH. Extreme pleasure VS extreme hollowness (Jeremiah kissing him in the doorway and then immediately walking away in scene A). In scene C he’s hot but he’s not. He wants to sleep with himself but he’s not desirable at all. He's alright with begging but wants to be begged. He wants to live a very specific life where he buys cowboy hats for livestock and eats ice cream with his hands but he also wants to die. He’s Jesus but he’s discarded bits of gold (THANK YOU for pointing that out @jaydewritesfiction!). He’s twinkling but he’s the dullest person in the room.

It took me a while to actually see I'd been doing that--purposefully creating contradictions in narrative--the ENTIRE chapter. Smh Rachel, good job with all those literary devices you didn't realize you were using.

This chapter took me a lot longer to write than I wanted it to (about a month), but it's also because it's SO long (7k, which is currently half the manuscript). I'm so happy with how it turned out though because its creation represents EVERYTHING I love about it: impulsivity, chasing highs, uncovering darker folds of you the longer you sit inside manufactured gold.

Music

Music was SOOO important in the conception and understanding of 24kH for me, more than usual! In fact, I've made a very specific playlist that is a track-by-track breakdown of the chapter (in order).

Here's a quick breakdown of each song & where they go in the chapter!

1. Nobody by Greyson Chance (studio version) - Backbone of the ENTIRE chapter!!!! Chapter starts with this song.

2. Hands by Greyson Chance - Haremiah make out ANTHEM <3. Also in scene A.

3. Hellboy by Greyson Chance - End of scene A where Haremiah gets... intense lol love <3

4. Fade Into You by Mazzy Star - This is on the radio while Haremiah gets DOWN. Start of scene B.

5. Aloe Vera by Greyson Chance - Haremiah sharing a joint & pillow talk song. Middle of scene B.

6. I Got So High That I Saw Jesus by Noah Cyrus - Haremiah sharing a joint & pillow talk song but it's getting sadder & more internal. End of scene B.

7. Nobody by Greyson Chance (live version) - CRITICAL song for this chapter so it appears twice!!! Live version is Harrison at the start of scene C.

8. Black Mascara by Greyson Chance - Harrison analyzing himself in the mirror ANTHEM (this song is also the backbone of this chapter). Harrison goes feral in the bathroom because he thinks he's better off when he does what he fucking wants etc.

9. I'm Too Sexy by Right Said Fred - Actually this is supposed to be the Shrek version :) so :) anyway self-explanatory. Rest of C.

10. Welcome to the DCC by Nothing But Thieves - Walking into the club anthem (scene E).

11. SexyBack by Justin Timberlake - Dancing and feeling real good about it (beginning of scene F).

12. Don't Cha by The Pussycat Dolls - SELF-EXPLANATORY don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like 24-karat Harrison (middle of scene F).

13. Sex & Other Drugs by Greyson Chance - Fleeing to the bathroom anthem (for sex & other drugs??? maybe; rest of scene F).

I also wanted to talk about the significance of the track Nobody because... it's this WHOLE chapter! I wrote this tag essay about it a couple weeks ago when I shared an excerpt where Harrison sees himself as a trophy while in the 24kH getup (excerpted later in the post):

#also there are many greyson chance easter eggs here #the trophy bit i've already mentioned is a reference to the live version of “nobody” #where he goes 'i'm not the trophy you think i am' #which is actually not in the studio version #ANYWAY the LIVE VERSION is a sad piano ballad of THAT #so anyway I love that the trophy line #was cut from the studio version but is in the sad piano version lol #don't know how to more articulately describe harrison's psychology in BB except for... that

The idea of "I'm not the trophy you think I am" really is the thematic crux of this chapter. Harrison KNOWS he's not good enough for Jeremiah. He also knows he wasn't good enough for Lonan. Everyone's looking at him like he's a saint somehow--to Lonan he was, only mattering when he was long martyred. Jeremiah sees too much good in Harrison, good that Harrison doesn't see in himself. At moments, Harrison IS confident. He IS the trophy. But then there are those sobering moments when reality hits him and he knows he just isn't (SAD). It's why he creates 24kH because HE could be good enough (and the truth is, he still isn't).

Excerpts

Jeremiah greets Harrison at the door lol:

Jeremiah might be the only man alive who’d open the door for someone as soggy as Harrison.

He’s shirtless and damp from the shower, a green toothbrush lodged against his gums. His heathered sweats drape low on his waist, bronze skin varnished with moisturizer. And Harrison likes this—a man mid nighttime routine—but what he likes more is how unstartled Jeremiah is when he grabs him by the hips and kisses him so hard, bristles jolt against his tongue. What’s he looking for in another man’s mouth—heavens, gods, a prayer? Fuck if he knows. What matters are Jeremiah’s chiclet teeth, Jeremiah’s healthy gums, the way in one gulp, they all become Harrison’s. And this is what normal is, yeah—Jeremiah a minty man ensconced by a bare tungsten bulb, Harrison his midnight lover, both of them in need of the other simply because they are here, alive, men.

Jeremiah gives Harrison whiplash lmao show him king!!!:

But in one dizzy breath, they’re separated, and the thought is gone as quickly as Jeremiah who slinks through his apartment like an unbothered shorthair, telling Harrison to lock the front door, to follow him to the bathroom.

Harrison’s ears buzz. He stares at the living room, wipes his mouth of foam, his lips tingling with menthol. Jeremiah hosted a party earlier. A game of parcheesi scattered on the coffee table, the kitchen sink teetering with mismatched cups, saucers. Cigarette butts pock a strawberry-shaped ashtray like seeds. Harrison salivates, tempted for a moment to filch around for one salvageable enough to relight. It’s only when Jeremiah calls his name that he shakes out of his stupor. But still, by the time he reaches the beaded bathroom door, he has to distract his mouth by digging his lips into the scalloped moulding.

Jeremiah crooks a brow at him in the mirror, then turns to the sink, spits. He’s gargling with mouthwash when he asks a question.

“What?” Harrison asks. His head hurts. Jeremiah would have a bottle of acetaminophen in his medicine cabinet, wouldn’t he?

Jeremiah holds up a hand as he swishes, rubbing at spats of toothpaste on the mirror with his wrist. He spits again. “You go swimming or something?”

Jeremiah is an ANGEL in the bathroom:

Jeremiah leans against the counter, haloed by one of three lightbulbs that isn’t blown out over the vanity. Harrison offered to replace them a week ago and still hasn’t done it, perhaps because the low light is more inviting, the way it cups Jeremiah like mist. Though maybe any lighting would be inviting to Harrison when he’s like this—in such high need of ravaging something.

Jeremiah wets his lips, glancing away with a mute smile before he looks right back. “Or is the rain really bad?” Harrison takes a step forward, and then another, another. Suzanna could be looking for him, calling everyone she knows in this city to help bring her son home. She won’t sleep tonight, and Harrison won’t either but for different reasons. In front of him, Jeremiah is as sunny as he is unaware, his curls plump around his ears, a man Harrison would like to undo with one look—to make beg, like gods make their believers do.

Lonan Clark behaviour:

“You’re like a wet dog,” says Jeremiah. A breath wheezes in his chest.

Harrison looks up at him. From this angle, bowed against another man’s body, he could look like a believer in supplication. Please go gently. Please spare my life. “Thank you.”

CUTE Haremiah interrupted by Harrison's terrible timing:

Now Jeremiah nuzzles into his ribs. He smells like soap and orange rinds, his tattooed skin downy under Harrison’s callused fingertips. He traces an empty fishbowl on Jeremiah’s arm with his pinkie, a half-finished anatomical heart with his thumb, a wobbly dandelion with his ring finger, the cherub guarding his elbow with his index. I love you, he could say. They’ve known each other for two weeks, hung out less than ten times, spent most of their time examining each other’s hands. But this could be love, right? Jeremiah’s made him breakfast every night he’s stayed over—peach French toast, hot muesli, black coffee. Every time they watch film noir on Jeremiah’s two-seater, they simply find each other’s hair and twirl, sometimes meet each other’s mouths and hover there, these clement weekend lovers.

“You got any painkillers?” Harrison asks.

Jeremiah jerks against his skin, his nose knocking into Harrison’s shoulder blade. He hikes onto his elbow, brows furrowed like he’s about to say something when his eyes narrow on Harrison’s finger.

“You’re wearing my ring,” he says, leaning toward Harrison’s hand for a better look.

“Am I?”

If I were Harrison I would simply just forget about Lonan because JEREMIAH???

Jeremiah should paint his room sage. The cherrywood picture frames warrant it. In the corner, a gold mirror flares like Jesus’ spoked halo. Two crinkled issues of the New York Times on the vanity, an ivory sheepskin throw collapsed in the corner. Jeremiah exists here mid-motion—the condom wrappers on the hardwood leading to the mattress like Hansel’s pebbles, sunglasses spoked in a magazine rack, a used cotton ball stained with black nail polish on the windowsill. Harrison absorbs it all on his back like rapidly flattening dough. He could be part of this room, too. Last Monday, Jeremiah suggested he move in. “You can sleep in the bathtub,” he joked, but kissed the back of Harrison’s neck. He’d smelled bright like the leather polish he’d buffed onto his bomber jacket. “Or elsewhere.”

Jeremiah as a trophy & LMFAO tYLeNoL???

Now, Harrison weakly reaches for Jeremiah’s hair, winds a curl around his finger. Jeremiah is soft like brioche and as dazzling as a mirror ball. And what’s the difference between worshipping him and Jesus if they are both men? At least Jeremiah is here, a trophy in front of him.

“Tylenol?” he whispers.

Cont'd:

Jeremiah places a hand on Harrison’s face. In his eyes, Harrison is insufficient, an edge of a man. Perhaps it’s the headache or Jeremiah’s gentle concern, but after a moment, the feeling is so unbearable that he pulls away and buries his face in the pillow. The mattress springs when Jeremiah rises, and for a moment, Harrison feels suspended in air like a crucified Jesus above the altar. He doesn’t have a face, a body, a heart. He is just dust.

Harrison wants to be a spider so he can finally be a homeowner?? ok same:

He slumps back onto the bed, analyzing the popcorn ceiling when Jeremiah climbs in next to him. He slings an arm around Harrison’s bare shoulders, and they pass the joint back and forth, its scent rich like oregano. The smoke is delicate as a dissipating spider’s web, pale and gauzy like a curtain in morning light. As Harrison smokes, he imagines what it might be like to be an arachnid—the many homes he could make.

Harrison really knows how to ruin a moment pt. 5 bajillion:

There’s a damp spot on the ceiling that’s only visible when car headlights skirt past the building. Harrison’s meant to ask about it, but what would be the point now? It’s not like he could fix it—and if Jeremiah doesn’t look at the right time, he’ll never notice. “You didn’t invite me,” Harrison says.

Jeremiah jumps. From here, he’s a mere lump under the covers, the only physical evidence of him his warm breaths on Harrison’s stomach. “What?” he asks.

Harrison twists the joint, puffs. His tongue feels bloated like his jacket. “To your party.”

A pause. When Jeremiah next speaks, his voice is muffled by the sheets. “I didn’t think that was your scene.” He rests his cheek on Harrison’s sternum, and he’s heavy like the jacket too. “You know. Crowds.”

“What made you think that?”

Jeremiah burrows out from the duvet. Harrison knows he’s trying to look at him, but he’s caught up in the ceiling again, the way that patch ebbs like a candle’s flame. “You’re…”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” Jeremiah says, crossing his legs. “Meek.”

Harrison wants to laugh—meek like a lamb, a poplar, a monotonous prairie, a man’s whispered okay, a frail river, a piano’s high C played over and over and over and over and over again—but what comes out instead is a whimper. Jeremiah cups his face again, says something about good things, compliments, the power in mildness. He smells like baby powder now, plumeria—and why is that? He’s a man forever in change even in the simplest of ways, thriving in his evolution. Harrison’s favourite colour has been the same since he was four.

He holds Jeremiah’s jaw to shut him up. His eyes are flecked with topaz today, sienna tomorrow. If Harrison could touch God tonight. If Harrison could believe in something for just a minute.

“Make me feral,” he whispers.

COWBOY HAT??

Jeremiah starts with a new jacket. He’s made it clear that Harrison can’t go clubbing soaking wet, so they rifle through his closet and land on a fur coat that was last dry-cleaned months ago. It’s knee-length, the sleeves wide catacombs, the taupe fur brindled like Eliza’s tortoise-shell ring. Lonan’s ring, technically. In front of his standing mirror, Jeremiah unearths it from the garment bag like it’s a body, holds the hanger in front of Harrison so the fabric drapes off his chest.

“You like it?” asks Jeremiah, cheek pressed to Harrison’s shoulder blade. He’s laid out a tasseled button-up for himself that glitters like hematite in the light, and he’ll dazzle in it, of course—Jeremiah is built for this, the sharpened eyeliners on the bathroom counter, the dented cans of hair mousse, the nail file on the dresser, the ridged perfume atomizer he’ll mist himself with a moment before they leave the apartment. He is sleek beauty, a marbleized man ready to be polished, adored.

And what is Harrison, then? With the fur coat cinched against his body, he could be polished, too, couldn’t he? Sure, he isn’t a gilded icon, but maybe he sees Jesus in his face right now because he has the potential to be, or because at their cores, they’re both sad men. His hair doesn’t have to look like Suzanna’s, but instead like the young bark of cinnamon. And his eyes—they’re not his father’s but his own, an unmarred pool of teal. Maybe he’s a little rough where he should be suave, but that’s hot nowadays, isn’t it? Besides, if Jeremiah sees something angelic in that mirror, then yeah, Harrison could see it too. Forget his cryptic mouth, his hair that’s too long as Suzanna pointed out, his eyes and the way they’re wounded, not like a deer’s in headlights but like a deer’s in death. Forget the scar across his forehead, the way another man’s hands used to touch it not like it was lightning but a pathway to some better place. Sure, Harrison’s no Christ, no Jacob, no God—but why should he be? He’s here under the tungsten bite of Jeremiah’s chandelier, a man in shameless excess, eyes more spangled than this country’s flag. And he could stay here, couldn’t he? He could enjoy staring at himself, not like he’s bronze but like he’s pure gold.

Cont'd (this is so sad LOL):

He straightens, adjusts the fur on his shoulder. In truth, he looks too much like his mother, stands too much like his father, stares too much like Lonan. His hands aren’t soft. He’s got split ends. At best he smells like cigarette smoke, car exhaust, chlorine. But what does Jeremiah see? Maybe someone loveable yeah, maybe someone to cry over. For a moment, Harrison worries the answer is nothing at all.

And then a nose nudges against the back of his neck, Jeremiah muttering about Madonna’s new album, buying new razors, growing his own marijuana. In minutes, they’ll be dancing until the room spirals or until they’re extensions of the other, whichever comes first. And Harrison will love it all because he loves everything about his life—this new jacket, this new man, this face that isn’t a reminder of who used to look at it, this muggy room, this mirror like a portal he could almost step through, this breakthrough because he’s gold. He’s gold.

Harrison steps away from the mirror, presses a hand against his eyeball. He’s going to need another Tylenol. An Ibuprofen for the hell of it. What if Jacob never dreamt of God, made the whole story up? What if Jacob just wanted to run away with his livestock? Harrison could use livestock.

He turns to Jeremiah. “You got a cowboy hat?” he asks.

Harrison making out with himself because that's a normal thing to do:

Funnily, Jeremiah does have a cowboy hat. It’s aptly doused in cow-print, smells like plastic and mulch. In the bathroom, Harrison adjusts its stampede strings around his chin.

He leans against the counter, pressing his thumbs to his cheeks. He pulls at his eye sockets, his skin giving like a tablecloth twisted under the heave of roasted turkey. His eyes are rimmed in scarlet—how many times has he seen Suzanna with these eyes, and do her eyes look like this now? She’s probably looking for him, calling his name out in the night like it’s a prayer she knows won’t be answered. Would he take himself to bed like this? In thirty more minutes when he guzzles a vodka soda, his answer will be absolutely.

Harrison, he mouths to himself in the mirror. The bathroom is filmy or maybe it’s him—he’s in chrysalis, bloated in his own becoming or suffocation or whatever the fuck. The thing is, he doesn’t need a god and might be a king, but he’s also a man with a pounding headache. He tries again, his mouth shifty like cornmeal, like ash: Harrison. What do kings do when they get migraines? Buy a donut? Eat a saint? His eye sockets are vacant, his cuticles spinning into one another, hair sentient from the pool. Harrison. The walls smell like Jeremiah’s hair gel, Jeremiah’s fingerprints, Jeremiah’s latest cologne. In a minute, the paint could start peeling and Harrison could pick up the chips, tack them to his jaw like they’re gold stars or little HELLO my name is stickers. HELLO my name is, HELLO my name is, HELLO my name is. Harrison. Harrison. Harrison. He kneads his cheeks like he’s sourdough, pinches his eyebrows, goes: Harrison, sticks his fist in his mouth tries again—Harrison. Jeremiah knocks on the door, says something about leaving soon, a friend waiting on them.

Harrison sinks onto his elbows, hovering closer to his reflection. If he were another man, he’d kiss himself, right? Without a thought, he does, mouth glugging against the mirror. He doesn’t need any touch but his own—not Jeremiah’s, not Lonan’s. He’s a man in love with himself, right? He’s a good dancer, never burns pancakes, isn’t afraid of spiders. What’s not to like? When he pulls back, panting, his eyes are watery and he needs a drink now, a god to abandon, a lake to drown in, a coastline to paint, a mother to cry into, a Bible to burn, a guitar string to snap, a dragon tree to kill, a father to remember, a prayer to scream, a place to close his eyes and sleep forever.

He grabs Jeremiah’s eyelash curler off the counter, crimps his lashes so hard he pinches his skin. He doesn’t care. He’s yanking open cupboards and pulling out an eyeshadow palette, smearing silver pigment onto his eyelids, under them. He’s raking a wand of black mascara through his lashes like he’s the grass buried under leaves—like this is the only way to reveal himself. And maybe this is the way, spritzing himself in Jeremiah’s vetiver or orange rinds or baby powder. Harrison. He wants to punch his nose until he bleeds. He wants to kiss himself again.

0 to 100 all the way back to 0 babe:

Harrison meets his eyes in the mirror. Is he an animal? He must be something feral, starved of something and ravaged by that hunger. He could touch himself right here. Or not. He’s barely a man, staring at his face not like it’s his, but like it’s someone else’s. And how tired he is of that. Being a shadow.

He is the MOMENT:

Before he exits the bathroom, he studies his sterling reflection. He’s not who he once was. No Christ, no Jacob, no Jeremiah. And he shouldn’t be. Because he’s twenty-four karat, twinkling, not just otherworldly, unforgiving, untouchable, not just a god or a man—but a trophy at last.

Biyu puts Harrison in his place lmaoo:

By the time they cab to the club, Harrison’s so high he can nearly taste the neon lights. As they slot through the front door with other partygoers like flocking geese, he blinks at the rush of it all—the women comparing press-on nails by the coat-check, the men wearing vinyl and leather and glitter, drenched in cologne and sweat.

“You’re late,” comes a voice which should be familiar to Harrison, but under the thump of bodies, sounds as generic as a bag of baby carrots.

“Fashionably late,” says Jeremiah, his arm slung around Harrison’s furred shoulders. He pulls him close, toward the person, the woman, smells like sea salt, iron, a new set of rings flaring in the blue spotlights. “You remember Harrison?”

As if on cue, Harrison lifts his eyes to Biyu’s, Jeremiah’s friend from the restaurant. Tonight, she wears a gold cowlneck dress, her lipstick the colour of rust. And something’s different about her hair—the sides of her bob shaved, which is more of a relief than he’d like to admit. She’d looked alarmingly like Reeve when they’d met, moved like her, sounded like her. Maybe he’s too high to see it now, but what does it matter—a win is a win.

Harrison tips his hat, already searching for the bar.

“The quiet one,” Biyu says.

His eyes snap back to her. Her pupils are large disks, and if he squints, almost look like they’re pulsating. “What?”

“You were quiet,” she repeats.

Don't Cha!! ft. this:

Harrison dances because he knows exactly how to. To thready vocals, he lulls his arms through the air, drags his palm down Jeremiah’s chest when an electro version of Like a Virgin comes on. On the lighted dance floor he’s nothing but rattling limbs, inelegant turns, raunchy dips. Shifting atop his head: the cowboy hat. In his hand: a vodka soda topped with a maraschino cherry. Through half of Don’t Cha, he holds the red cocktail sword between his teeth like it’s a rose, nudges it against Jeremiah’s lip as they kiss, break apart, kiss again.

“Do you think I’m quiet?” he asks between a spin, his head unspooling like a cylinder of thread. The clang of drums spikes up his throat—soon, he’ll need a refill on the drink. More weed. A crucifix to snap.

Jeremiah twirls under Harrison’s arm, a magnetic man in his tourmaline glister. He could follow any man in this club home tonight with his silver nails, his exposed collarbone. “Kiss me again,” he says, sweating, his fingers hard around Harrison’s shoulders—half from his grip, half from his rings.

Jeremiah is really too patient:

This is what he needs, a consideration of fruit and the man in front of him, all svelte limbs, acidic mouth, sharp eyeliner. As he ducks to In Da Club and shimmies to Waiting for Tonight, he digs a palm into Jeremiah’s cheek—he’s solid like limestone, burnished as bronze, his eyes amber portals like a patch of quicksand.

“Did you tell Biyu about me?” Harrison asks. His head pounds, the music too loud, swelling in his ears like an inflating airbag. He should go back to the bar now. They’ve got whiskey sours, gibsons, margaritas. If he flutters his eyelashes long enough at the bartender, maybe he’ll get a little more than a free drink—that’s fine too. Kelly Clarkson sings about praying, breaking, and he could do both in the hands of someone who smells like blood oranges, tastes like Bible paper, stares like Jesus the moment before he performs a miracle, couldn’t he?

“Focus on me,” Jeremiah says, guiding Harrison closer by the hips, so confident as his wooden Mary bracelet jolts with the movement because he’s here in this blinking room, dancing because he’s twenty-one just like Harrison, because he’s electric, alive, because he’s blinding like noonday sun, steady as a fountain cycling the same water over and over, because he’s unashamed in this brisk light, shocking like the zip of battery acid on a tongue. He doesn’t need to try, melds into the bleating crowd like he’s part of it, and he is. He smells like pomegranates, tastes like cherries the next time Harrison kisses him—Chapstick? Cocktail?—and tomorrow, he’ll rise early for a shift at Greta, slip on his navy uniform polo, his makeup untouched despite everything Harrison will do to him tonight because he’s faultless, not quiet, hair precariously puffed, nails buffed to a glassy sheen. He and Biyu might catch breakfast at dawn, bond over their glittery eyelids, their intrinsic closeness, wonder over poached eggs if he’s worth it—graceless Harrison in this cowboy hat and smudged makeup, his jacket cuffs soaked with vodka soda, his head lolling to the insistent voice of Justin Timberlake.

“Biyu thinks I’m quiet,” Harrison says, knocking back the rest of his drink, his neck cracking. He wants to scratch off his face, replace it with someone else’s. “You think I’m meek. So what is it? Do I need to get a tattoo or something?”

Jeremiah glances around the club, his irises starred by a spotlight. What does he see when he looks out at the crowd? Perhaps he recognizes half of these people—from the way he ordered at the bar to the way he slunk so easily onto the dance floor, Harrison assumes he’s been here before. And maybe it’s not just that he recognizes everyone else on the floor, but that they recognize him in return.

Cont'd but with a lot more mouths:

“Did you hear what I said?” Harrison asks.

Jeremiah’s eyes snap back to his, except there’s something hazy there, something tired. “What would a tattoo do for you?”

“I don’t know. Edge? I just think I could—”

And then Jeremiah’s turned away again, right into the arms of someone else—a tanned man with a dense mustache and olive eyes, the man going, “It’s been too long,” and Jeremiah going “It’s been too long,” their grins calcium white, flashing in Harrison’s face. He throws a hand up to his eyes, squints when a second later, the man pulls a woman toward Jeremiah, her hair cropped low and cotton candy pink. She kisses his cheek, says he looks ravishing, he looks like a comet on its way to ignite planet earth, and they’re all holding each other now, friends bopping to Gwen Stefani, admiring each other’s bracelets, thumbs, friends curving toward each other’s ears, kissing each other’s cheeks, each other’s mouths.

Harrison blinks because how many hands do they have now? Every second they seem to multiply—pink hair girl with four, Jeremiah with six. One’s tongue the other’s. Their fingertips fusing. The club fritzes around them like it’s confetti, the lights rippling into a Christmas bow and now there’s a redheaded man running his nose along Jeremiah’s neck, down Jeremiah’s shoulder, wrist, hand. Harrison had just done that back in his apartment, pinned chest-to-chest against him like a monarch fastened to a spreading board, and here Jeremiah is now, enmeshed in touch, in adoration because he should be adored—the men congregating around him now have their priorities straight. If they all got on their knees at Jeremiah’s feet, Harrison would understand. They aren’t exclusive, don’t even know each other’s last names, and besides, how can Jeremiah help how everyone magnetizes around him? Harrison can’t blame them. Jeremiah is illusory under the disco ball’s speckled light, his throat long, biteable, his eyes syrupy in his high. A woman takes him by the shoulder, but not just any woman—Biyu, and her eyes are pinched, analyzing, because she’s looking at Harrison, her glossy crimson nails on Jeremiah’s cheek, and she’s kissing him too now, her body joining the cluster, and it’s good, the way they all roll limbs to synth, the way they turn into each other’s faces and kiss, kiss, kiss. The music clangs, their mouths full of spit. The DJ says to hold your partners close, and they don’t have to. They are not simply together, not simply in chrysalis, but osmosed in their becoming.

Cont'd (GIANT sentence - CW: self harm)

A hand on Harrison’s elbow. He flinches and is surprised to see it’s Jeremiah who’s touched him. How did he get here so fast? Harrison expects a trail of blurry bodies to follow him, but where did everyone go? They’ve dashed from the club like embers scattering from a dulled fire, nowhere to be seen but dangerous anyway and weren’t they all just over there, under there, and are they lonely on the ceiling and how do they plan to get down and is it too loud in here and why is no one using their indoor voices and should he cover his ears and where is his mother now and how did Mary say I love you and did she ever dream of fleeing to Hollywood or speeding down the I-40 or telling Gabriel no and why does everyone worship a god who demands and calls it creation and what’s his name again—Harrison?—and when did his hands sprout from child to whatever he is now and should he dye his hair red, cut his wrists again and is it possible to be young and happy about it and is he still dancing, he’s still dancing, dancing, dancing, dancing, and someone’s complimenting his silver eyelids and would he like them to touch him gently and is it hot in here to anyone else and does he taste blood or the ocean and is this what it feels like to die in holy light and Jeremiah’s right in front of him, unkissed, still as dark water, as Lonan in the night, and now he’s holding Harrison’s face, his rings cool against his skin, and he’s kissing him too, tastes like spearmint and chocolate lip gloss, rum and Coke, rusted metal—the mouths of everyone in this room and this isn’t so bad, how their bodies net into each other, how in one breath, Harrison’s teeth clack against Jeremiah’s, and in the next, clack against another man’s and then another’s, his stubble rough, mouth sour, a chandelier earring flailing against his cheek, and then through his ear, his hands wound into cinnamon hair and he could be kissing himself and maybe he is and doesn’t he want that, the floor gelid, the music like cotton wool, their pelvises threaded, the walls caving, their mouths locked, the floor lava, the room too bright, his headache like an earthquake, two pairs of hands rattling to the beat of this bursting room one moment, then clutched together as they follow each other to a dim bathroom.

This section was inspired by @dallonwrites' lyrics in narrative post!!! also soft Felix cameo <3

The room is electric purple, smells like grapes, sweat, flexes under Harrison’s shoes like a sandcastle collapsing, like a sinkhole swallowing a house. Bodies weave across the floor, someone lighting a joint in the corner, someone reciting Sylvia Plath into a paper bag, going, the happening of this happening, going, the earth turns now.

Harrison’s head pounds—he should’ve brought a blister pack of acetaminophen because at least then he’d have something to punch, or he should’ve punched out his own eye by now, disappeared with another man who isn’t Jeremiah and didn’t he try, and where is the man with cinnamon hair now? Harrison turns to look for him, but the room ripples with his movement, shirring in staccato clacks around him like a shaken rice maraca. He’d hoped he’d write his number on a man’s wrist tonight even though he doesn’t have a cell phone—he’d hoped he’d go home with someone who shouts the lyrics to Madonna’s Everybody in twilight’s stillness, a man who’d let the DJ shake him, a man who’d let the music take him. And he could do all of that with Jeremiah—Jeremiah who probably did those things at the party Harrison wasn’t invited to, Jeremiah who knows how to pass off frozen spanakopita as homemade because he’s a good host, Jeremiah who knows how to kick people out of his apartment with kindness, Jeremiah who’s built to be kissed, to be loved. And where is he now? In the artificial light, Harrison hunts for him too—but he’s not in the unhinging bathroom stalls, not in the teal grout, the running sinks, and maybe he never existed at all, missing like Jesus in the tomb—body gone, body gone, body gone.

Cont'd BODY BACK BODY BACK BODY BACK:

Harrison rubs his eyes. His ears still ring from the clatter outside, and he stands at the bathroom’s entrance like a child who’s lost his mother in the mall. Should he sit down? A group of girls form a ring on the floor, chant about Leos, Britney, men. Someone shuffles in past him, knocks into his shoulder by accident, apologizes over and over, their hands clutched against his face—I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.

He yanks away. Don’t touch me, he wants to say, I don’t want to be touched ever again, but by the time he’s located his mouth, his eyes pulsing to a hi-hat, his nose burning on a cloud of cherry smoke, the person’s gone too. He presses his fingers to his eyes, wishes for a soft bed, a place to land, but then he’s rocking forward, right into someone else.

At first, they just stare at each other. The man’s got the same look in his eye—something gilt, something feral, an identical fear in his mouth. Harrison blinks hard, and the man does too—not a man, actually, but his own reflection.

He approaches the mirror, jolts at the way he touches himself—more carefully than he’s ever been touched before. Who are you? he wants to say. He’d like to leave this place now, the club, Las Vegas, the earth. He’d like to buy himself a pet tarantula, run off a cliffside, eat a tub of ice cream with his bare hands. Why did he come here again? His mind is so quiet. This could be peace. But who is he? In Jeremiah’s bathroom he knew, but now there’s this stranger ahead of him, the person who must be him—someone’s chandelier earring grazing his jaw, the cowboy hat lopsided, mascara running down his cheeks even though he hasn’t cried. Where did you go? he mouths, but he knows. He’s disappeared also like Jesus in the tomb, his limbs vanishing one by one, his skin melting off his hands—body gone, body gone, body gone. He grabs his cheeks, panicked because he’s on fire, gold tossed into the crucible. He’s going to burn to ash. He’s going to need a burial soon. His face has been stolen, his breastbone and knuckles too. A month ago, someone spat him into a basket like his body was ripe for the offertory—body gone, body gone, body gone.

“Back,” Harrison says, nose grazing the spattered mirror. His chest swells, and maybe he is burning, and maybe he’s right here, hidden somewhere in the pinprick of his reflection. “Back,” he repeats. He isn’t thoughtful. He isn’t profound. Maybe that’s fine. He squeezes his tear-duct, sticks out his tongue. He’ll die eventually, let his body disappear, but not right now. “Body back, body back, body back.”

Cont'd ft. Harry-something (CW: mild violence):

“I know you.”

Harrison whips around. In front of him stands a redheaded man—the same redhead who’d held Jeremiah close on the dance floor, trailed his oily nose along his neck. He wears a pair of browline sunglasses, a black vinyl vest draped with silver chains. He holds a clove, its smoke clouding the ruby pinging off his ring finger, his mouth ghosted with what looks like red lipstick.

“What?” Harrison says, jumping when the bathroom door clangs open and in come two more women. He lifts his fingers to his mouth, pulls up a hangnail until it stings.

“I saw you out there,” says the man, taking a puff of his cigarette. “Harry-something?” He looks like a scarlet ibis, strangely translucent. “JJ’s friend.”

Harrison digs his fingertips into his eye socket. His head feels like it’s been cleaved with an axe. “Harrison.”

Redhead smiles, blows smoke into Harrison’s face. “What’d you say?”

“My name is Harrison.”

“I’m Perry,” he says, and Harrison wouldn’t give a fuck if his name was Matt Dillon or Rob Lowe or Nash Baker because he’s blowing smoke into his face again, his clove flailing like a dislocated finger. He gestures to Harrison’s outfit, nodding. “You’re like a one man show.”

Harrison covers his eyes. Maybe he can find a dark hole in this club to dive into, somewhere no one will find him again. “What does that mean?”

Perry’s smile falters momentarily, but then it’s back, all teeth, no lips. “You’ve got this flair. You ever been told that? Weird, but good, it’s—”

The second he purses his lips to blow out more smoke, Harrison grabs him by the throat, pulls him so close he can see a constellation of blackheads on his chin, feel his heart hammering.

Perry yelps, nearly losing his hold on the clove altogether.

Harrison arcs his jaw around his ear. He smells like orchids, freshwater. “Don’t ever do that again.”

Cont'd - Harrison is weird :)

Perry laughs, the sound strangled beneath Harrison’s grip. Smoke fumbles out of his mouth like worms. He really does look like a bird, which in this case, isn’t a good thing. “Noted.”

“Do you want to kiss me?”

“You have a hand around my throat.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Well, I'll leave it there lmao!!! Sorry I subjected you to this man, but hope you enjoyed this gigantic update!

FIN. MAGNUM OPUS COMPLETE!

See you soon!