Harry is a punk. Zacharias is a recovering druggie. Cho is the Ice Capades dropout sleeping with both their cocks pressed hard against her body. Her head is tucked underneath Harry's chin, her arms (the left one long gone numb) wrapped around his body and her cold toes stroking his ankles. Harry has one hand down the front of her thin, tattered, stained cotton panties and the other stretched up over his head to idly finger Zacharias's gritty curls. Cho can feel his vocal chords vibrate against her hair as the two talk each other to sleep.
Zacharias, too, has his fingers in Cho's clothing; occasionally, the boys will brush dirty fingertips, sticky from her orgasm.
"We're on a budget tonight, okay," Cho says, standing by the door wearing a long, black fur and putting in diamond earrings. Underneath the fur are a red leather miniskirt and a white, lacy top. Her eyes are lined in ebony and her lips shimmer like blood, fresh off a syringe. "So nothing nice tonight, you hear me, Harry? Zacharias? Get takeaway or something, yeah? Right. I'm off, then. See you bastards tomorrow morning."
"Get a right load!" Zacharias calls from the bathroom. Harry, doing a crossword on the bed, chuckles.
"Appreciate the concern, you fucking prick!" Cho shouts back. She forgets to shut the door as she struts off whinging on about her personal safety and the horrors of prostitution these fucking days.
"A sushi boat, then?"
"That's twenty quid, Harry."
"The bird's off getting more. We can always pawn that fucking coat."
"Tsht. You're telling me."
"Just don't spend your share on opium suppositories this time, eh Zacharias?"
"I need those."
"And I need a goddamn drink, but you don't see me running off to blow it, do you now?"
"A sushi boat, then. Fine."
Between the three of them, they can pack their lives into a standard-sized brown suitcase, a tattered navy blue duffel as wide across as Zacharias's diminishing waist, and a large, straw handbag with a watermelon beaded onto the front. All of their clothing hangs on rusting, wire hangers in the closet with the rod that's about to fall apart. They each own one pair of shoes. Cho, red eel skin pumps. Zacharias, retro black and white trainers. Harry, steel-toed combat boots. In between the faux leather jacket and the twill, brown trench hangs the two dollar wedding dress Cho wore (with the red pumps) the day her and Harry married. He wore a pilfered blazer, black jeans, and his boots. No tie. Zacharias was picked off the side of the road on their way to the nearest casino, where they lost everything in one easy hand of five card stud. A pimp had offered to put them up in a shitty motel as long as they offered to put up Cho. They didn't offer, at first.
"I still can't believe the pimp took your eye, mate," Harry says. He's standing in front of the closet, for no apparent reason except to reminisce. His fingertips are blistering from clenching hold to too many whisky bottles. He runs them over the plastic sequins on the front of Cho's gown.
Zacharias laughs and takes his eye patch off, setting it on the dresser. There's a mirror in front of him, but he doesn't look in it. He can't not jump at his own reflection, yet, and that's just not fair to his psyche. Or his pride.
He picks up a stick of Cho's midnight black eyeliner and sniffs it. He experimentally dabs a little underneath his left eye, the good one. He looks in the mirror, avoiding the right side of his face as much as possible, and applies a clean line on the bottom lid. He talks as he works. "And I can't believe you carved his eye out with a steak knife."
Harry shrugs his heavy, scratched jacket onto his shoulders. "An eye for an eye, darling." He pauses, checking his pockets for money. "Jesus said that, didn't he?"
"I think it was God." Zacharias responds.
"Same fucking misnomer," Harry says, running a comb unsuccessfully through his matting hair. He squats down behind Zacharias and kisses his cheek. He gives the eyeliner an approving nod and whispers, "Wear that to bed."
Two hours later and it's three AM. Harry's propped up in bed watching Mommie Dearest. Zacharias is in the bathroom again. Harry's pretty sure he's fallen asleep in there, but just before he considers getting up and checking on him, the door opens and Zacharias plops down next to him.
"Shhh!" Harry whispers loudly. "This is the part where she beats her daughter with wire hangers! It's the best part!"
Harry glances over. "Wha--what?"
"You are sick."
"No," Harry smiles, getting up and going over the closet. He takes Cho's dress off the rack and lets it fall to the floor. He goes back to the bed and hands Zacharias the hanger. "Hit me with it."
"C'mon! Where's your sense of adventure?"
"Where's your sense full stop?" Zacharias half-laughs. His one eye looks around at the table and the glued-together lamp for help.
"Mmm." Harry shoves his hands in his jean pockets and pulls them out again, his left hand fisted. "Here," he pins Zacharias to the wall and shoves three fingers into his mouth. "Eat this."
Zacharias wakes up to a cold, spinning room. He's lying on his back. On the floor? Oh, no, that's the bed. He knows because if he shifts his weight to the right a bedspring digs into his side. His head is beginning to clear, but there's a weight around his waist he can't seem to shake.
That weight, it turns out, is Harry. And—he lets his eye adjust to the darkness—is he naked?
Harry smirks, a slow, growling laugh bubbling up his throat and out of his mouth. He licks his lips. "Sleep well, babes?"
Everything hits Zacharias: the movie, the wire hanger, Harry fucked up Potter pressing him against the wall, a pill forced down his throat… "You fucking drugged me!" he accuses. He tries to get up, but Harry only presses his weight down harder. Now that Zacharias is in full control of his senses, yes, he can definitely tell that Harry is naked. And so is he. He can now also tell that his hands are handcuffed together over his head. The handcuffs are chained to the bedpost with one of Cho's diamond necklaces.
"She left those here," Harry says. He places a tiny, black pot above Zacharias's navel. "Nice and forgetful of her, eh?" He winks.
And then Zacharias regains another emotion. He can't quite put it in words, but he's pretty sure his cock hardening up against the curve of Harry's arse gets the job done. "What's that?" he asks, motioning at the pot with his eye. He arches his back to raise it up.
"That," Harry sticks his middle finger in the dark liquid. He puts it to Zacharias's lips, rubbing it on like lipstick. "That's soy sauce."
Zacharias licks it off his lips and then freezes. He smacks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "You're not going to—"
"Pour this down your chest, lick it off you, and then do the same to your dick, smiling all the live long while?" Harry cocks an eyebrow. Zacharias nods weakly. "Yeah, yeah I am."
"Fuck! It stings!" Zacharias writhes unproductively.
Harry wipes the soy sauce off of the head with his lips as his hands spread the rest of it down to the base of his shaft and over his balls.
"Deal with it," he mutters, his lips already closing around the tip. Harry moans around Zacharias's cock as he penetrates his arse with a lubricated finger.
"I thought you said you'd stopped that shit!" Harry yells, pulling his pants up to his hips. "You fucking promised me."
"Harry, be reasonable," Zacharias says, calm thanks to the opium suppositories shoved up his arse. "I met you two months ago. You can't just relinquish a junk habit. It has to be spoon fed."
Harry's silent. He's standing in the middle of the room, looking awkward and uncomfortably hard, still. "I'll be right back." He goes into the bathroom and locks the door.
Zacharias is rubbing the red circles around his wrists when Harry flushes the toilet and unlocks the door. He watches Harry walk the long way around the bed, go to sit on it, but then second guess himself and sit on the table, which miraculously does not crumble.
"I mean," Harry starts. "Do you have to do it that way?"
Zacharias raises the eyebrow above his eye patch.
"I don't know." Harry shrugs. "Couldn't you, like, sniff it or eat it or something? Opium is from a flower, right? Poppies or some shit."
"God. You are so fucking—"
"What? What? Because you know something, Zacharias? At least my bad habit is being ignorant about where fucking opium comes from, okay?"
Zacharias scoffs. "Right. Let's just completely ignore those three days last week you disappeared. Or how 'bout the hundreds of dollars you've spent on liquor this month, eh Harry? Oh, oh, and let's not forget the punching match you had with your wife, Harry. Your wife. Remember her? The one that's out selling herself right now so we can get the fuck out of here," he says, unnervingly nonchalant.
Harry pushes himself off of the table, fists clenched and ready to swing, but in a pure stroke of luck the door swings open instead. Cho is home. She's bruising and sweaty, but she's alive and she's home. That's the priority, here.
She stares at the empty sushi platters, the wire hangers strewn on the floor and the bed; Zacharias looking sweaty, but smiling, with smudged eyeliner, and her husband in only a pair of fading jeans and a clenched jaw. The room stinks of the salt in semen and soy sauce. She clears her throat.
"What'd I miss?"