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You could say I’ve drifted to the edge, right up to the edge, almost over the edge.
He didn’t know what possessed him in that moment.
The man in front of him, Harry apparently, was clearly off. It wasn’t just that he was obviously drunk or on something. He appeared as if unmoored, shaken, his eyes were rimmed red, face a bit blotched, he appeared disheveled. Not unattractive, but off. The conversation too, which mostly consisted of being talked at rather than to, was unnerving. He had known the man for all of a minute and he was already referencing people jumping from the heights. Not the best pick up line he's heard, by any means.
Every instinct he possessed was urging him to, politely of course, always polite, shut the door. Whatever this was, was about, was not his business, and needed his involvement no further.
So again, he wonders, having just invited Harry inside his flat, what had possessed him.
“Thanks mate, really- I- err, yeah, is this fine?”
“What?”
Harry is pointing towards his sofa.
“Oh, yeah, of course. Would you, um, like something to drink?”
The stranger looks back at him inquisitively, before a playful smile forms on his lips.
“Think I have that covered,” he says, raising the half-empty bottle of Japanese whiskey.
“Right, right, bit dumb of me.” He really must be out of sorts.
“It’s fin-“
“How about a glass then?”
The man blinks, having sat down.
“Yeah, that’d be nice, thanks.”
He brings two to the sofa, and Harry pours them both a generous share, which they clink together before partaking.
Whiskey had never been his forte. It was always his father’s thing, or at least had been when his father was alive. Beer for regular occasions, but a nice whiskey when the moment called for it, neat, with no chaser or ice. The taste was not altogether unpleasant, though it was stronger than his preference.
Harry began to fidget.
“You like it?” he finally asks.
“Yeah,” Adam focuses on the fading aftertaste, “it’s not bad.”
Not ‘best in the world’ good, though he wouldn't hold that against him.
Harry nods once, twice, three times.
“I don’t normally do this you know. This,” he’s waving his arm in the direction of the door and Adam has to stop himself from staring at it, at his bicep and forearm, “just showing up on people’s doors. You must think I’m off my rocker or something.”
A bit.
But instead he responds, “It’s fine, it really is. I’m not usually one to let strangers inside, either.”
The silence is short.
“And that was,” Harry seems to struggle with his words, “that was really forward of me. I’m not, well, I can be when, I-“ he puts his hand through his hair, “fuck, I’m making a mess of this, aren’t I.”
Adam doesn’t say anything in response. Mostly for the fact that it's true.
“What I mean to say is, sorry to have just shown up on your doorstep and propositioned you.”
He takes another sip of whiskey.
“It’s flattering, at least.”
That doesn’t seem to reassure Harry.
“You are gay, right? I’m not totally off my rocker here.”
“I am, yeah. Was I that easy to peg?”
“Oh, no," he looks embarrassed, "just- you know sometimes you just get that sense, even from a distance, ya know? Felt like you might be a kindred spirit.”
Adam doesn't know what to make of that, so he lets it pass.
Another round is poured, and they make small talk. Harry apparently plays the drums, though has dabbled with other instruments. He comments about his furniture, liking his decor, and about how the view of London here is a lot better than his view all the way down on the 6th floor. Adam talks about his writing.
They’re on round four by now.
“It’s just, you know, I noticed you earlier, looking up at me. And I’ve seen you before too, like I said, since it seems like there’s no one else here. This building, this fucking building, it’s so silent, ya know? It can feel… it can feel like you’re not even there, being in here, sitting in the silence.”
He doesn’t really know how to respond to that. If this were a scene he was writing he might, but real people, right in front of him, in the moment, a few shots in, it’s too unpredictable.
“Are you… okay?”
That immediately feels like the wrong thing to have said.
Harry fidgets even more.
“Sorry, sorry! That was forward of me to ask that like that.”
But then Harry is laughing. A great hearty drunken laugh that only accentuates his beautiful face and the rough depth of his voice.
“I suppose okay people don’t show up on stranger’s doorsteps now, do they.”
And Adam laughs too.
“I suppose they don’t, no.”
They sit on that for a minute.
"What did you mean when you said that you thought we were kindred spirits," he finally asks.
"Oh, that?"
“I just find that a little hard to believe, is all, we don't even know one another yet!"
“Yet?”
Is he flushed already.
“Come on though, why would I be a kindred spirit?”
Harry grips his glass seemingly in contemplation.
“I just imagined that you’d be like me,” he speaks quietly.
"Bit old to be like me, I think," he's smiling.
Harry isn't smiling, still looking downward refusing to face him.
“I mean that you might be lonely too. Someone who hates the silence.”
And that shuts Adam right up.
How do you respond to something like that, where do you even begin, because- and this is where the drinking had truly shown itself- he thinks of answering truthfully.
“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”
Harry moves closer to him, almost on auto pilot.
"It feels like death ya know, like my worst fears coming to life. All alone, no one around, no one to speak, no one to care.”
He's rambling now, so clearly uncomfortable, and uncomfortably vulnerable.
Adam still doesn’t know what to say.
“That’s why I came to you, to be honest. I just,” Harry starts to tear up, “I just didn’t want to be alone. Not tonight.”
And before he understands what he’s doing, Adam begins hugging him. Harry tenses at his touch.
“That’s fine, I-“ he hiccups- “I don’t- I- It-“
“Shh, shh, it’s okay. I get it. Believe me, I understand Harry. I understand.”
Harry tries his hardest, he can tell, to hold back from crying more. But the sobs, one, then two, then a torrent, escape from him and straight into Adam’s chest. All he can do is sooth him, his hand gently in his hair, affirming repeatedly that it’s okay.
They don’t sleep together that night. An extremely embarrassed Harry wakes up on his sofa, apologizes profusely, and would have ran out of his unit to never speak to him again, if not for Adam making him promise to check back in with him after he’s cleaned himself up and had a change of clothes. He keeps that promise.
They don’t sleep together any night, in fact. Well, sans one time, after one too many drinks and hard to put together memories leading to a somewhat awkward morning in Harry’s flat. But they’re good sports about it. They talk it through, they laugh, and it’s mutually agreed that while there’s no regret it wasn’t what they wanted. Not for each other, anyways.
Instead what they have is a friendship. One of those beautifully cherished things which at his age, long past college and well into his career, he genuinely didn’t think he would find again. Had feared, in fact, he’d never find again.
Because Harry also understands the loneliness. So much progress has been made but the human condition remains frighteningly the same, and for them especially those feelings, the otherness, it’s entangled with so much. It can be overwhelming, almost too overwhelming. He still fears what might have happened had he not opened his door that night, not opened himself up to the stranger who showed up on his doorstep.
It’s thanks in part to Harry that he finally opens up about his parents, in a way that he hadn’t in more than thirty years. Their ghosts are still with him, he thinks; fantasy and imagination on his fingertips just a page away from becoming all too real, showing him what might have been, what could have been, were they alive. But now they’re on his peripheral, happy to follow him along as he lives, rather than the other way around.
It’s with Harry’s encouragement that he finally puts himself out there, for the first time since his early thirties. Not letting his fear and sadness foreclose the sort of connection that he, at his core, so truthfully desired. Despite a few successful dates he hasn’t found him yet, that someone, but he’s hopeful; hope itself is a wonderful thing though, a feeling he’s happy to hold on to and nurture.
And it’s with his encouragement that Harry branches out, gets a bit more sober, settles into himself. He’s been seeing Marc for three months now and it seems to be going well. He’s happy for him, even if it means they don’t see each other quite as frequently as they once did.
It had been pure chance, pure whimsey and half-baked decision making, that he allowed a total stranger into his apartment that night.
But not everyone needs to remain a stranger.
Some people could be more.