Chapter Text
He did it because he was lonely.
Hard Harry certainly didn't make a habit of meeting fans - not at all, if only because he was so much worse in real life, it was just disappointing - but he certainly considered it when they sent in that many letters about the subject. J and V were an atypical pair. They often spent most of their time writing about the violence they wanted to do onto one another. At first, he kind of enjoyed it. Like a soap opera with an odd amount of biblical references. It had to be an extensive practical joke. Surely, that kind of shit just didn't happen in real life.
It was fun, sure, then he started burning them. Around the time they started talking mostly about him. To him. It felt like he had to, or else they might find something that linked Harry back to him. They might want to make friends, or worse. They might already know him. After a certain amount of time, it sure seemed like they did.
V wrote about him the most frequently, longingly. Often romantically, with the prose to match. Mark often thought she was the smart one. When she wrote about J, surprisingly, she played with the occasional flights of violent fantasy. Beheadings, ritual sacrifice, drinks, croquet, picnics.
Then I think about watching you, finding out who you are. Whoever ends up throwing all our letters away, or if you put them all somewhere safe. Somehow, I find myself worrying if you'd even like me —
J's writing was much more violent. As was his handwriting. Creative, with grand ideas about the two of them as lovers. When V was mentioned, if at all, she seemed to encourage it.
I think we're the only two men who were ever made for each other. I've never felt anything like it.
Dirty. Verbose. Much more so than her.
I can be a very good boy when I want to be.
When they invited him out, he should have done the same thing he did to all the other letters. But he went.
-
It was at a grody old bar that none of them were old enough to get into. The employees looked about the same age. The decor was old-hat and entirely too vibrant to look good under the dark lighting. But they had booths, and hardly anyone else was there.
Conversation barely flowed. Mostly between J and V, as it often did. Things blurred together long before he realized anything was wrong.
"I think I'm already way too drunk-" Mark grinned, seeming to find the words entirely too easy to say. His hands went to the side of the chair, about to stand. "I should go."
Forget about the letters, the fact that they just met local celebrity, pirate radio host Harry Hard-on, because that wasn't actually very important. They'd barely talked about that. He was here because he was vulnerable.
"No, you won't." JD said matter-of-factly. "We just put something in your drink."
Veronica smiled gently. "You can't leave now."
Mark's eyes went wide. "What?" He asked. His mouth hung open, panicked. Even through the haze of the alcohol, he could still think. They're going to fucking kill him. They're ax-murderers. They're crazy, and he can't even recall telling them his first name. He looked around for an exit, saw nothing, and stared back at them. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
"No. We're not." JD smirked, crossing his legs. Veronica tried to hide a smile. He hated them both. He tried to get up, but suddenly felt too weak in the knees. Both hands reached out to grip the sides of the booth as he lowered himself back down. "Any minute now, Harry. Then you'll be gone."
Without pause, Mark sat, turned towards them, placed an arm on the table, and immediately plunged two fingers down his throat. Retched, tried to hold the surface while he dry heaved. Their expressions shifted to something markedly more concerned. As if they were actually worried for his psychological welfare and hadn't just roofied him. He saw Veronica's legs angle sideways under the table, anticipating the possibility of vomit on her shoes. JD leaned forward, doing nothing. Letting him suffer. Nothing came.
He suddenly pulled Mark's arm with force. Knocked it against the table, with his fingers still connected to his lips by a sticky string of saliva. Glasses askew, looking all affronted as he frantically tried to push them back up the bridge of his nose. JD's arm rose like he thought he was going to do it again. They glared at each other. Mark was red-faced, chin wet with spit. No longer coherent enough to wipe it away.
Someone made a noise - he barely heard it over the heartbeat in his ears - and began to walk over.
"He's bulimic," JD waved to the worried bartender - a skinny, pale young man with glasses. Not unlike Mark.
"It's terrible," nodded Veronica. "It happens to men, too, you know."
"Really? He didn't eat—" he murmured. The bartender looked over at Mark, like he was going to ask him something, but JD stuck a hand in front of his face. Mark tried to look at him regardless, ducking underneath it. The silent plea of a desperate, very drugged man.
"Stop making such a big deal out of it!" He barked. The other man cowered, held up a hand, and went on to the next paying customer.
She had the brief thought to offer him some of her water, but Mark looked angry, surly, like he was going to swat it away. Served her right. Almost as if she refused to give him the answers to her homework, and not that she was co-conspirator in planning a rape. "Last time he's going to meet a fan," she mumbled. Then she turned to JD, sounding unsure. Still, like he wasn't even there. Barely even a person. "Will it take much longer?"
JD tipped his head towards her, speaking quietly. Always sounded like a secret he had to share. "I know, right? Just let it happen already, God—" he rolled his eyes. She nodded, receptive. Reassured. Ever the moral rapist. "It takes a while."
"Sorry," mouthed Veronica, glancing down at where the side of Mark's head rested against the table. JD, not sorry at all, only shook his head. One arm stretched over her shoulders, brushed a stray hair behind her ear. He took her chin - she seemed to resist for a moment, then leaned forward to kiss the side of his lips. Her mouth opened. JD's tongue slid deep inside.
The happy couple were the last thing Mark saw before everything went dark. Face planted on the bar.
The drunk friend, who really needed to be taken home.