13. Bare

"BOY!" Vernon's voice thunders through the house. Loud, stomping feet crash their way up the stairs.

Harry closes his eyes wearily, hands coming up to rub his face. Dudley must have broken something again and blamed it on him – never mind the fact that Harry had been locked in his room the whole day, behind twelve locks and deadbolts on the door. Just three more years, he tells himself. He can leave soon.

His uncle slammed the door open with such a fury that it crashed into the wall and swung back into his uncle's grip. The large man advanced on Harry, who had stood resignedly in the center of the room.

"Boy…" Vernon growled, his face purpled in his rage, veins throbbing in his forehead and neck. "How DARE you break Dudley's things?! Doing your freaking things around MY HOUSE!"

Harry stood there, calmly meeting his uncle's eyes, fists curled behind his back where no one could see the treacherous trembling of his fingers. He knew what was coming; it wasn't like this was new.

"You ungrateful brat." Vernon sneered at him, hand squeezing tightly around the belt in his hand. Hah, Harry scoffed. It was almost like an old friend.

"Move!" His uncle snapped at him, a meaty fist swinging violently at Harry's head.

Harry ducked the blow on instinct, stepping away to pull his over-sized, threadbare shirt over his head. He dropped it on the ground under him before bracing his arms on the wall. Better to lose a shirt to blood than have to clean blood off the hardwood floor with a bloody back.

Pain bloomed along his back before his ears registered the CRACK! of the belt against his back. He gritted his teeth and willed his muscles to relax against the blows. It was always worse when he tensed against the strikes.

CRACK! The belt drew another line of fire along his back. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the next blow.

It was almost two and a half months into their budding relationship before Harry found the strength to allow John to see him naked and bare.

Harry had told John of bits and pieces of his past during the nights as they lay curled together – quiet confessions and retellings of how he had never had the chance to have a childhood, let alone be a normal person. He whispered to John about his old cupboard, about just how his cooking skills were so developed for one so young.

John wouldn't talk at all during those nights; he'd curl his lean frame around his lover's petite – extended periods of severe malnourishment and neglect, the doctor in his mind whispered – body and wrap his arms so tightly that Harry would laugh breathily and confess that it felt like John's arms could shield him from everything in the outside world.

On some nights, Harry would sob quietly into John's chest, his body shaking and shuddering so violently, John feared that the younger man might just fall into pieces. He'd hold him extra tight, trying to keep his lover from shattering into fragments too small to piece back together.

Harry wasn't the only one that whispered into the darkness of their bedroom.

Some nights, John would be the one with his face settled into the curve of his lover's neck. He spoke of his time in the Army under Her Majesty's service – how each kill had branded its mark into his mind until there were too many bodies for him to count. He had no need to keep a count himself, he whispered to Harry, his nightmares did that well enough for him.

Every kill he had made also came with every friend and comrade he had failed to save.

One, with his guts spilling out from a tear in his stomach when he hadn't gotten far away enough from a shrapnel bomb.

Another, with half his ribcage missing, blood pouring from his chest as his heart pumped desperately to keep him alive.

Another, whose death had been a quick one – sniper bullet straight through the eye.

Countless more.

Harry would twine his fingers through John's short cropped hair as he listened. His hand stroked along the lean muscles of his lover's back – a body forged through pain and war – as the man trembled in his arms.

Each time, he'd have to remind the older man of the countless others he had saved on the frontlines. If he had to focus on those he lost, Harry whispered to John, then he also had to remember those who were alive because of him.

During the night, their secrets lay bare between them.

Azteka:
I hope to see Mycroft and Lestrade's reaction to John's beau. I would imagine Mycroft being respectful toward Harry; knowing that if he ever got on Harry's bad side, not only would it be detrimental to Mycroft's health and sanity but also detrimental to the welfare of the country. As for Lestrade, I can totally see Harry and him being BFFs. I can also see Harry giving a verbal tongue lashing to Donavon and Anderson.

Response: Yes, definitely! I hope to have more interactions between Harry and everyone else soon! ^ ^

Note:

Hey, guys. Long time no write, ehehehe…I'm sorry…

Anyways, a bunch of shite happened – college applications and all that fun stuff, then midterms and blah, blah, blah. After a bit, this drabble fic kind of fell to the wayside. Fuck, I need to update the Hisoka fic too…shite.

I have so many plot bunnies rampaging around my head, it's not even funny.

Also, I'm so sorry if the end of this chapter was so rushed… I actually wrote most of it in like December and I couldn't really pick up the train of my thought at this point. Ugh.

I might post a few new random drabble plot bunny shite sometime in the future, just FYI guys.

Ta~

Ari