Chapter Text
Harry isn't used to the way his suit jacket fits against his torso, polished shoes cutting off his feet. His curly hair is pulled into a knot at the nape of his neck, a copious amount of gel used to slick back the flyaways and shorter curls Dora always calls 'unruly'. He feels much more at home in his worn-in sneakers and loose t-shirts, the slight smell of rubber always following him. This is for his fiancée, he reminds himself, pushing his shoulders back and running a comb through his beard.
There's a small soiree that one of her friends is holding tonight, and Dora has insisted they go. She keeps telling Harry it'll be good for him, to get out and meet new people— the implication being new people who are of a high enough reputation to suit her tastes. It's frustrating, of course, but Harry always acquiesces, follows along with her whims. There will be multiple people who offer him lucrative jobs, who ask him if he's sure he wants to teach? Especially something like gym? and he will smile and nod and tell them he will consider their offers.
A band is already playing when they arrive, and Harry takes a deep breath of the evening air. He walks around to Dora's side of the car, where she is waiting patiently, and offers her his arm. She accepts it, and stands up, graceful and poised, heels making no difference to her balance.
"Do take care of the car— it was a gift from my father," she says as Harry hands the keys to the valet.
Harry clears his throat and begins to move toward the entrance. The fabric of Dora's dress rustles as she walks with him, readjusting the fur draped over her shoulder. She's wearing a yellow dress, something Harry picked out for her last year, saving up for a few months to buy it with his own money. She had beamed at it, complimenting the color and style, and not-so surreptitiously checking to see if there was still a tag— Harry had already removed it, for this reason. He had discovered that there was a certain reál threshold that she would beam at, but if it fell short, the smile would freeze, and she would quickly pat Harry on the hand and tell him how much she appreciated his effort. It was a habit that grated on him, but she had grown up with a certain level of class that Harry hadn't, so he does his best to live up to her expectations.
As they enter the foyer, Dora smiles brightly, waving to her friends, engagement ring sparkling in the sodium light. It was another thing Harry had saved up for, picking up a second job as a courier for a few months. He knew Jamrock inside out, it wasn't hard for him to deliver things. He had skipped lunches, forgone replacing his old sneakers when they had worn out, and saved every last centime he could to buy this for her. Her eyes had lit up when she saw it, an immediate yes falling out of her mouth. It only took a day before she asked him how many karats the diamond was, if the band was pure silver or plated.
"Dora, darling, there you are— and Harry, too, of course," a woman says, sweeping up to them. "I was so hoping you'd show up, I have a delightful offer for you."
She directs this last part at Harry, who attempts a smile in return. It will be another job offer at Wild Pines or Banque Le Caillou or possibly GRIH, somewhere high up in the boards of people who do nothing but sit around in suits and figure out how best to squeeze every last reál out of the people they claim to care for. He does not want these jobs, but he knows somewhere in his heavy heart, that he will soon need to take one. The salary of a gym teacher in Jamrock is not one that supports Dora's lifestyle, and when they do marry and she moves out of her father's house, he will need to take on those finances.
"That sounds nice," Harry says, and thankfully it comes out sounding like he means it.
He grits his teeth throughout the night, and drinks more champagne than he should, prompting a tight squeeze on his arm from Dora and a hard, pointed look. They dance, at some point, and Harry manages not to bump into anyone else on the floor or step on Dora's toes. He isn't meant for this type of dancing, boxy and formal— he misses the days he used to go down to Boogie Street, and spend hours in the clubs, writhing and jumping on the dance floor. There's a part of him that wants to go back, wants to turn around tonight after dropping Dora off and relive the thrill. He files the feeling away in the back of his mind and continues his parade through the evening.
When it comes time to go home, Harry feels like a weight has been lifted. Dora is yawning politely behind her hand, resting her head against Harry's shoulder. He walks her out, waving down the valet and passing him the ticket for their car. The ride back to her house starts quietly, Jazz FM playing over the radio to break the silence. Then, merging on to the 8/81, there is a bump, a hiccup in the road, and Harry can feel a tire losing air. He sighs, and pulls over, resting his head on the steering wheel for a moment. Dora, who had been mostly asleep, looks at him confused.
"Just a flat tire— something must have been in the road, maybe a nail. It'll be just a second to change it," he reassures her.
Revachol seems to shudder around him as he steps out of the car, breathing life into his veins. A few cars rumble past quietly, people racing who knows where in the night. Harry takes a moment, face turned up towards the moon. He inhales deeply, the momentary solitude fortifying him. he gets to work, and the tire is changed in no time, a spare nestled in the trunk just for this. He will have to go to a garage in the morning and get the tire patched or replaced, and the thought of the bill makes his head spin.
He finishes the drive to Dora's home, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek on the doorstep. Only a few more months before the wedding, and he won't have to worry about driving all over Revachol. His fingers drum against the steering wheel, and it feels like the city is changing the roads under him. He drives past Boogie Street, turns to go home, and ends up looping by again.
Harry parks a street over, leaving his suit jacket in the Coupris and changing out of his fancy shoes, putting on the extra pair of sneakers he leaves in the car in case he decides to go for a run. It's a Friday night, and the night air here is lively, bustling with people and noise. He slips into an old haunt, a disco-themed club known for it's open-mindedness, and undoes a few buttons. The music is loud and the building is hot, and Harry is reveling in the freedom of it.
There are people pressing on him from all sides, the drink in his hand threatens to spill with every jostle, and he has never been happier. Hands slide on him, and for a moment he feels guilty, but the next sip of alcohol washes it away, and the rest of the night is spent in the company of anyone nearby.
He stumbles out, early in the morning. It's Saturday now, bakers already working on the morning's goods, preparing for the rest of the world to wake up soon. The clock in the Coupris reads 4:27 am. It isn't time to go to the garage yet, so Harry drives home, pretending there isn't still something burning in his veins, and sleeps the night off.