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Hank wakes up and promptly wishes he hadn’t.
Everything aches. His body is covered in a layer of grime he will never be able to wash away, and the sun is a deadly fuckin’ laser. One that is apparently hellbent on making him go blind before he’s even hit 21.
Groaning, he stretches his body out like a cat. His spine pops loudly in the quiet room, dulling the ache in his back. It gives him enough energy to lift himself up on an elbow and figure out where the hell he is, ‘cause it certainly isn’t his dorm. The sun doesn’t hurt so much now that his eyes have adjusted, but the headache threatening to send him barfing into the nearest trash can leaves him with his eyes half shut, not wanting to test his luck.
He’s in a bedroom, that much is clear, but it isn’t one he recognises. He tries to recall any memories from last night, but has trouble remembering more than simply walking through the door of Garraty’s apartment, his friends cheering loudly at his side.
Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Hank’s brain rewinds.
Garraty… Ray Garraty, who just so happens to be roommates with Gary fuckin’ Barkovitch. Feral, swing first, ask questions later Barkovitch.
Rubbing his eyes, Hank sits up to take a proper look at the room, pointedly ignoring the dip he can feel in the mattress beside him. It’s surprisingly neat, a small desk with a corkboard attached to it taking up most of the space that isn’t the twin size bed. The corkboard’s got pictures pinned up, little green blobs and blurry figures Hank can’t make out from this distance.
A few cat toys are littered across the floor, alongside the clothes that Hank was wearing yesterday. He looks down and sighs; he’d managed to strip down to his underwear sometime during the night.
And, well. If Hank had any more doubts, there’s Barkovitch’s camera sitting snug on his desk, plugged into an old-looking charger. The thing never leaves his neck, so it’s pretty damning evidence that he’s somehow managed to find himself in Barkovitch’s bed.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he turns his head, dread creeping into his stomach. Sure enough, Barkovitch is curled up beside him, tucked so tightly into a ball that if Hank didn’t know how tall and gangly the guy is, he’d think he was tiny. He’s still dressed up from the night before: his usual ratty pair of jeans, a jacket far too thick for spring, and that dumb bandana he uses to tie his hair back instead of just cutting it.
Hank’s clearly been taking up most of the bed all night—he has a tendency to sleep “like a freakin’ starfish!” according to his roommate, Art—so he doubts Barkovitch would’ve even had the space to move if he tried. A small part of him feels guilty, but an even bigger part of him feels deeply horrified that he’d walked into Barkovitch’s room and actively chose to sleep there. Sure, he doesn’t have the best track record of making decisions while drunk, but this is a new low, even for him.
Moving as carefully as he can, Hank rolls out of the bed and sighs in relief, finally able to stretch his neck and back out in full. He wanders over to where he saw his clothes, bare feet padding softly against the carpet, and picks them up, nudging a jingly cat ball away with his foot. He pulls his jeans on sluggishly, wobbling precariously on one foot.
He tries not to; he tries very hard not to, but no matter what he does, his eyes stray back to Barkovitch.
He’s directly in line with the open window, the sun beaming down on his pale skin and exposing dark rings under his eyes. It also exposes the stuff Hank usually just tries to ignore, like the jagged scars running down his neck. Some have faded, turned into little white lines that protrude from the skin. But others look new and angry, red around the edges. He bets they itch. Almost hopes they do. That has to be at least some of the reason Barkovitch keeps on fuckin’ adding to them.
Hank rolls his eyes. This guy’s a psychopath even while sleeping, keeping the window open like that.
Although… this is the most peaceful Hank’s ever seen Barkovitch. He’s curled up tight, but his limbs are loose in sleep, his usual furrowed brow relaxed into something that makes him look younger, a little bit sweeter.
He sort of looks… nice, when he isn’t awake and baring his teeth like a fuckin’ dog.
Well—Hank pauses—maybe not nice. He’s still got those scars on his neck, and the wounds on his knuckles he got from a fist-fight earlier that week have only just started to scab over.
Less evil-looking, he guesses. Hank’s usually not one to shy away when he finds someone attractive, but the thought of Barkovitch being maybe a little bit pretty freaks him the fuck out, so he decides he’s not gonna think about it.
He slides his jacket on and finally looks away, turning to finally make his escape from this situation before Barkovitch can wake up and realise Hank crashed in his bed. The guy spits slurs on a good day; Hank doesn’t actually wanna get punched in the face, despite all his usual bravado.
Right as Hank’s hand is on the door handle, his eyes catch on the photos pinned to the corkboard. He bites the inside of his cheek. He shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t. He doesn’t want to get caught snooping, but he’s also insanely curious as to what Barkovitch deems special enough to hang up. The rest of the guys have all spilt their secrets, but Barkovitch stays locked up tight like a prisoner, like if he says something about himself any deeper than a puddle he’s gonna get jumped.
So, in spite of himself, Hank turns back around and starts snooping. There are only a few photos, pinned up by rusty thumb tacks that look like they’ve been alive longer than Barkovitch has. He must’ve brought them from home, cause Hank can’t imagine any store selling shit that looks like it’ll give him tetanus.
The first photo is a close-up of a leaf, dead and brown, hanging by a thin thread on a branch. The sun shines through it, highlighting all those weird veins that leaves have. It’s cool-looking, he guesses, not really his thing.
The next is of a pregnant woman, her face turned away from the camera as she fiddles with what Hank thinks are knitting needles. He can just barely make out the slope of her nose, her high cheekbones. Pale blonde hair pools around her shoulders, just a bit longer than Barkovitch’s. Lighter, too. She looks content, knees curled up to her stretched out tummy.
She’s got a bruise, right under her visible eye. It’s a dark purple, stark against her pale skin. It stands out like a sore thumb, souring any happy feelings Hank got from the photo.
The photo’s clearly old—and not taken by Barkovitch, he can tell—but it’s hung up nonetheless. Hank’s eyes travel down the corkboard, staring at the little knitted dog that’s sitting on Barkovitch’s desk, right underneath the photo. It’s falling apart, torn up from what Hank can only assume are years of love.
An uncomfortable feeling creeps up and into his chest—Hank looks away before he can dwell on it.
The third picture is of shoes, lots and lots of shoes. Hank recognises his own pair, alongside the rest of their friends. They’re all lined up in perfect unison, which must be Barkovitch’s doing, because Hank can’t remember the last time he managed to line up both of his shoes together, let alone make them perfectly symmetrical. It’s weird, but also kind of cool. Hank wonders when he took it.
The last is a group photo of them, taken outside on a sunny day. They’re all sat in a circle, one spot open meaning Barkovitch left to take it. None of them are looking at the camera, but no one looks stupid, which in Hank’s experience is a pretty hard thing to achieve. They’re eating lunch, which is pretty much open season for ugly candid photos to get taken of each other. But no, they’re all happy, grinning underneath the sun. Even Stebbins is cracking a smile, that asshole. Hank doesn’t even remember this moment, but Barkovitch has it hanging up where he can see it every time he’s studying.
An annoying voice in the back of his head kindly lets Hank know that he’s the one in the very centre of the picture, smiling widely at McVries. He happily tells that voice to go fuck itself.
A muffled noise behind him has Hank flinching and spinning around, a horrified look on his face. Barkovitch is starting to stir, his limbs twitching every so often and his brows furrowing back down into a frown. Hank takes one last look at that group photo, then makes his way to the door. Time to get the fuck outta here.
Garraty’s sitting on the couch when Hank leaves the room and looks surprised to see him.
“Hey, man. What are you still doing here?” He’s got the TV on some documentary about animals, but it’s turned all the way down. Hank scratches the back of his neck and realises he must look a mess; no one else is even here. They must’ve gone home last night. Jesus.
His first instinct is to lie, to make up some bullshit excuse as to why he was in Barkovitch’s bedroom at—he looks over to the clock they have leaning up against a wall—7 in the morning, but immediately decides that is way too much effort. Instead, he throws himself onto the couch next to Garraty, who looks slightly queasy at the bouncing.
“Don’t throw up on me,” are the first words that leave Hank’s mouth all day, cracking in his throat like he’s still a teenager. He immediately clears his throat, realising all of a sudden how thirsty he is. He leans forward and steals the glass of water Garraty’s clearly been nursing for a while, downing it within seconds.
“Dude,” Garraty moans. “You’re gonna have to go fill that up.”
“I’m your guest, bitch.” Hank shuts his eyes and throws his head back, thankful that all the curtains out here are shut. He seriously has no clue how Barkovitch was sleeping through that.
“Yeah, well. I don’t exactly remember inviting you to stay the night,” Garraty snorts, lifting the glass from Hank’s hands and leaving to fill it back up.
Hank shrugs, flicking a piece of sleep out of his eye. “Look, man. I’m as clueless as you, I just woke up here.”
“In Barko’s room?” Garraty walks back over and hands him the glass, a newly acquired water bottle held protectively against his chest. And, well, Hank can’t exactly refute that, so he just sighs and turns his head, giving in and watching the animal documentary. Garraty joins him once more on the couch and they stay like that for a bit, in complete silence aside from their occasional gulp of water.
Eventually, their peace is disturbed by Barkovitch’s door slamming open. Hank just about falls off the couch, but Garraty doesn’t so much as flinch. Clearly this is a norm for their household. Barkovitch looks surprised to see him, finally changed out of his yesterday-clothes and into something more comfortable. His hair is still a mess, but at least he’s ditched the bandana.
“The fuck are you still doin’ here?” Barkovitch grumbles, clearly put off by his presence. He lingers near his door, fingers twitching by his side. Garraty raises a brow, looking back and forth between Hank and Barkovitch with a confused look on his face.
“He—?” Garraty begins, but is promptly cut off as Hank leaps out of his seat.
“Is doing nothing! He’s doing nothing! I mean—I’m doing nothing. I’m just watching TV, what are you doing?” Hank is the king of rambling as a way of subduing, and happily uses the technique against poor Barkovitch, who still looks sleepy.
Barkovitch visibly flounders, his jaw clenching then unclenching like he isn’t sure if he’s being messed with or not. He glances over at Garraty, who shrugs in response.
“I—? I just woke up, fuckin’ asshole.” Barkovitch storms past them and into the kitchen, rustling around in the pantry. Hank breathes out a sigh of relief and sits back down, trying and failing to melt into the cushions when he realises Garraty is staring at him, a single brow raised.
“Good morning, by the way.” Garraty hikes a knee up onto the couch and turns so he can see what Barkovitch is doing. If he wasn’t so sluggish, Hank wouldn’t even think he’d been drinking last night. Stupid Garraty never gets bad hangovers.
Barkovitch hesitates, sending the both of them a look over his shoulder as he snatches a cereal box out of the pantry. He sighs, and murmurs a mornin’ so quiet Hank can only hear him cause the TV is literally at 0. His shoulders are at his ears, looking like a cat with its hackles raised.
“Did you take your…?” Garraty tilts his head, somehow firm but kind-looking at the same time. Hank watches him watch Barkovitch, curious as to what he’s not privy to. Meds, he assumes? It wouldn’t surprise him if Barkovitch’s been taking something. He’s gotten a lot calmer nowadays.
Barkovitch rolls his shoulders out, a hand rising to pick at his neck, seemingly without him even realising. “I just… I was gonna eat something first.”
Garraty stares at him for one long moment, a deeply pensive look on his face. Eventually, he seems to find what he’s looking for and relaxes. He turns around and goes back to watching the documentary, arms crossed comfortably across his chest. Hank personally would’ve maybe tried a little bit harder if it was him making sure Barkovitch took his meds, but whatever the hell he and Garraty have going on is clearly working. So, whatever. Hank tries to chill again.
Barkovitch eventually comes around, bowl of cereal in hand. The only space left on the couch is beside Hank, and he sort of looks like he’d rather die than sit. Hank can’t help but feel slightly offended. Sure, he definitely needs a shower, but there’s no need to act like he’s gonna give Barkovitch a disease just from sitting next to him.
Barkovitch hesitates for a second longer before giving in and just sitting. He’s pretty much hanging off the edge of the couch, but it’s good enough for Hank. He brings his knees up to his chest and rests the bowl there. Barkovitch doesn’t watch the TV, just slowly spoons his cereal into his mouth and zones out. He doesn’t notice Hank’s staring.
Hank suddenly remembers that photo—the one with him in it, front and centre—and immediately looks away. It probably doesn’t mean anything, it definitely doesn’t mean Barkovitch suddenly likes him, that much is clear. But maybe this means there’s a chance for camaraderie between them. It’s not like Hank wants Barkovitch to stay on the outskirts of their group forever, only ever talking to Garraty and Harkness. They’re not exactly the peak of a social life.
God, his head fuckin’ hurts. All this thinking ain’t good for him.
“I can’t hear shit, can you guys hear shit?” Barkovitch turns his head to them, fiddling with the spoon in his hands. Hank rubs his eyes and shakes his head.
“Nah, man. TV’s on 0.” On said TV a hound dog sniffs down a deer alongside its redneck owner, its floppy ears dragging along the ground with each step it takes. The camera crew follows closely behind, the owner clearly annoyed by how much noise they’re making.
Barkovitch side eyes him. “Why?”
“Headache.” Both Hank and Garraty speak at the same time. They turn towards each other in surprise when they realise, eyes wide and mouths open. Garraty grins and holds up both his hands for a double high-five, and who is Hank to deny a double high-five?
A muffled laugh has Hank turning his head, his entire body freezing as he realises Barkovitch is laughing. Not his usual mean, sharp, laugh. A nice one, buried into the sleeve of his sweater, blonde hair falling forward and into his face. He stops when he realises Hank is staring, but can’t immediately wipe the smile off his face like he usually does. Hank grins at him, not wanting Barkovitch to think he’s staring for a bad reason.
Barkovitch’s eyes dart away, but the smile stays.
“You’re such fuckin’ losers.” Barkovitch gets up and dumps his bowl in the sink, quietly disappearing back into his room to do whatever it is he does.
On the TV, the deer discovers the hound and runs as fast as it can.
Later, after they’ve been marinating on the couch long enough that they can raise the volume of the TV without instantly dying, Barkovitch reemerges from his room. He doesn’t slam the door this time, so Hank barely notices him. What he does notice is a little furball slithering through his legs and jumping up beside him on the cushion, staring at him with beady blue eyes. Hank blinks.
He turns his head, surprised to see Barkovitch staring back at him, holding a hat.
It takes about three seconds for Hank to realise why he’s being stared down by both Barkovitch and the cat, and by that point he’s already screwed. Barkovitch doesn’t even have to say anything, just holds out Hank’s Yankee’s cap. The one that Hank doesn’t go anywhere without, the one that Barkovitch has clearly found somewhere in his bedroom. God-fucking-damnit.
“This yours?” Barkovitch tosses the cap at him, a flat expression on his face. It lands directly in Hank’s lap, startling the cat beside him. It raises its hackles and hisses quietly at Hank, as if he’s the one who threw a hat at it. Guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, jeez.
Garraty, looking like he’s seconds away from laughter, leans forward and scoops up the cat, holding it in his arms like a baby. It meows in defiance, but otherwise makes no attempts to scratch or bite. Hank can hear him whispering to it, occasionally glancing up to see if they’ve killed each other.
Hank purses his lips, speaking before thinking. “Nope.”
Barkovitch’s mouth drops open slightly, and Hank can see why. This is total bullshit, but it’s not like Hank’s gonna admit to their little sleepover.
Barkovitch’s fingers pick at the scabs on his knuckles, but he stops when he notices Hank looking. Unable to stay still for long, he rocks back and forth on his heels, head tilting slightly. “No?”
“No.” Unwilling to elaborate, Hank tosses the cap right back at Barkovitch. He fumbles to catch it, giving Hank a look so confused that he sort of feels bad for the guy. Shrugging his shoulders, Hank stands and walks over to the front door. Both Barkovitch and Garraty track his movements silently, exchanging an occasional perplexed look.
Hank’s half way through tying up his shoelaces when he realises he has somehow managed to lose his other shoe. A cursory glance around the entryway does nothing but confirm his suspicions; the only other shoes are Garraty’s dirty sneakers and Barkovitch’s ancient-looking boots.
He turns and eyes the two of them, raising a brow when no one says anything. After a few prolonged moments of awkward silence, Barkovitch sighs and kicks forward Hank’s other shoe, sliding it all the way over to him. It’s apparently been hiding behind their coffee table this whole time, huh.
“Thanks,” he says, more than used to the silence in response from Barkovitch. He pulls on his other shoe and stands, ready to finally leave whatever parallel universe he entered last night.
“See you at lunch?” Garraty asks, still cuddling that cat. It seems to have relaxed now that Hank’s leaving its property.
Barkovitch looks over at Garraty and must suddenly realise that his cat has been monopolised, because he marches straight over to grab it from Garraty. It happily climbs up onto Barkovitch’s chest and stays there, like a toddler being carried. Hank stifles a snort.
He runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head, realising how knotted up his hair is. “Nah, not today. I’m free Wednesday, though.” Three days from now.
“Alright, see you then, man.” Garraty grabs his water bottle and sends him a wave, disappearing into his bedroom with a yawn, leaving Hank and Barkovitch alone.
Hank spares Barkovitch one last look before he leaves. He’s sitting down in Garraty’s now unoccupied place, curled up with his cat held to his chest, Hank’s hat discarded beside them. Barkovitch looks calm, eyes blinking slowly as he massages its little paws between his fingers. The cat accepts his affection easily, tail swishing back and forth.
“Cute cat.” Hank really doesn’t know why he doesn’t just leave, take the easy way out and go meet Art for breakfast like he usually would. It’s true, though. The cat is very cute, and that is in no way related to the fact that Barkovitch is snuggled up with it, looking all domestic-like.
Barkovitch ducks his head, blonde strands of hair falling in front of his face and hiding his expression. His body visibly tenses up, hands freezing in place.
Hank frowns. He feels like he always gets off on the wrong foot with Barkovitch, even when he feels like he’s making perfectly easy small talk. Barkovitch always clams up and shuts people out.
He scuffs his shoe against the floor in frustration, wincing when the wooden panels squeak.
A moment passes—long enough that Hank contemplates just turning around and leaving without another word—before Barkovitch speaks quietly.
“Mango.”
Hank blinks. Huh? He barely heard him. Mango? Like, the fruit? Either way, it’s clearly something to keep the conversation going. Hank accepts the olive branch for what it is.
“...Peach?”
Barkovitch slowly raises his head, tilting it quizzically. Hank can’t help but notice that his cheeks are slightly pink. “What?”
“Aren’t we naming fruits?” Hank licks his lips, wondering if he got it wrong.
Barkovitch’s silent for a moment, then all of a sudden rolls his eyes obnoxiously wide. Hank’s surprised to hear a laugh from him. “Her name is Mango.”
Oh. Right. In hindsight, that does make more sense than naming fruits.
“Right.” Hank rubs his eyes, he really isn’t easy to fluster, but something about Barkovitch makes him feel so embarrassed when he blunders. “Well, Mango’s cute.”
“Of course she fuckin’ is,” Barkovitch grumbles, burying his face into her fur. Mango meows, as if to say yeah, of course I am, asshole.
Okay, talking cats are definitely a sign that Hank should go home. Barkovitch’s bed was comfy enough, but he didn’t exactly enjoy waking up in it.
Next time, maybe he will, says that voice.
Go to hell, he says back to it.
“Yeah,” Hank forces out a laugh, which he has never had to do. He feels insane. “Anyway, I got… class. So, I should probably… y’know, head out.” He is also, notably, a pretty horrible liar.
Barkovitch doesn’t say anything in return, just stares at him through his hair. He’s started moving again, at least. The scabs on his hands stand out against Mango’s soft fur, but Hank finds he doesn’t hate it.
Hank chews the inside of his cheek. Yeah, time to get going.
“Seeya round, Barko.”
Hank makes sure not to slam the door behind him.
Three days later, as Hank’s peeling the skin off of a particularly stubborn clementine, he spots Barkovitch walking towards them through the crowd. He looks back down at his clementine, then immediately snaps back up. He gapes, not even bothering to send his usual barrage of insults back when Parker makes fun of him for it.
He drops the clementine, eyes glued on Barkovitch, who grows more and more bashful the closer he gets. Bashful, wow. That’s a new one for him. Garatty audibly laughs, nudging McVries with his elbow and then pointing over to Hank.
Because, well. Holy shit. Walking towards their group with a sheepish-looking expression on his face, Barkovitch is wearing Hank’s fuckin’ hat.