#numerica

Henry groaned and stumbled up the stairs, putting his lab coat on the rack beside the door. He pulled the sweater under it, taking it off and folding it in his arm, putting it where it belonged alongside his other sweaters. His undershirt smelled like sweat and his hands stank of blood, though they were completely scrubbed clean of any gore. He had a bad day at the clinic, and a patient… and he failed a patient. Seven and a half hours of nerve wracking tension and yet, a failure. Their heart was under too much strain. There was no chance of survival, but still, with every fail, Henry felt himself lose a bit of his soul. It was late, the surgery had gone on far too long as they tried to keep their patient from falling over the edge, and yet it came to nothing but consoling the poor mother and brother that their family member was gone.

Henry could still hear their sobs, though they thanked him for doing all he could.

Did not change the fact that he felt terrible.

He went to go shower, letting the water wash off his troubles and tumultuous thoughts, and left the bathroom when he finished, a pair of shorts his only garb - no matter, everyone was asleep.

He walked, mechanically, into the kitchen, his footsteps not directed by his mind but something else entirely, some external force and drive.

He hardly noticed filling up the glass, popping in two pieces of ice, swirling around the oaky whiskey.

He sipped it sans passion, without want or desire, just a motion that helped quiet the sorrow his heart murmured in his head.

Henry settled himself in his armchair, staring at a picture on the mantle. Eleanor’s portrait. Each time that a patient passed under his watch, he could remember her laugh, at first crisp and clear, draining, slowly, into something weak and brittle, until it was gone entirely.

He missed her desperately, and saw his drink trembling, his grip not as steady as it had been five minutes prior.

He downed it to let the burn rise to his eyes, to let himself cry.

It was not enough.

He filled another glass, though part of him whispered that he should stop. He ignored it, and Henry coughed on the ice that ended up with the liquid, crunching it in his teeth and letting the icy numbness seep into his gums and the nerves that resided in them.

“Henry?”

Mid gulp, he froze, turning to none other than Joey, who was rubbing his eyes, glasses abandoned, squinting to try to make up for what he could not see.

“Yeah, doll?” Henry swallowed what remained in his mouth finding it completely dry, causing him to swallow a second time. “Why are you up?”

“I… I heard you showering,” Joey murmured, inching over to him a step at a time. Henry drained the rest of his drink into the sink. “I was waitin’ for you to come to bed, but you didn’t, so I came out to check on you. Are you alright? Did you have a bad day?”

“Yeah,” Henry admitted, to both. “Lost a patient.”

“Oh… oh, Henry, I’m sorry,” Joey’s eyes revealed the empathy he shared for him, for those who had suffered, though they were sleepy and tired. “Do you want to sleep?”

“Yeah,” Henry repeated, and let Johan take his hand, leading him to their room. As Joey leaned in to kiss him goodnight, Henry flinched his head away, Joey’s kiss landing upon his cheek. Henry’s heart ached as he caught Johan’s confused expression. He sat up, and steeled himself to explain. “Wait… Joey… I… I was drinking. Didn’t want you to taste that.”

“I see…” Johan, somewhat surprised, spoke slowly. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” Henry answered, but the words did not stop there, slipping off his now too heavy tongue. “I had. Some visions. About the past. After they passed away. I heard them yelling.”

“I…” Joey knew who they were, and he felt a surge of guilt that he stamped down as hard as he could, though it burned through his throat and brought unbidden tears to his eyes. Look at what you have done. Are you happy now? “I’m sorry….”

“Don’t be,” Henry told him sternly. “You did what you had to. You brought a dead man - me - back to life, you saved me. You saved me, and the whole world. These visions are good reminders for me. Reminding me why I can’t do what I did. Thank you.”

“I’m sorry,” Joey choked out, the words hot and aching. Henry silenced him with a kiss. Joey melted, and found himself atop the man an hour later, holding each other as if they were the whole world. They had wept enough to fill fifty nine rivers, and Johan turned his head from where it was buried against Henry’s collar, kissing up the neck whose nerves and sinews were tightened with held in screams and sobs, to the lips of the man who held him. “I’m sorry, I love you.”

“Never apologize, Joey,” Henry instructed, deepening their kisses. “Keep being you. Change all you need, but always be my Johan Icarus. Please.”

“Okay,” he promised, and Henry brought him back to his lips. “You need help with this, though. You need to stop drinking, Henry.”

“I know,” Henry sighed. “It’s… hard.” He laughed a little, “but then again, you know better than anyone how hard it is.”

“Maybe not better than anyone,” Joey chuckled. “But certainly well. Dependency on anything is not pretty to break apart f-from, I’ll admit that with certainty.”

“I thought I was some sort of saint when I was helping you get off numerica,” Henry reminisced, smiling. “But you did all the hard stuff.”

“I needed you then,” Joey reminded. “Things have changed around here.”

“They definitely have,” Henry agreed, and held him.