Chapter Text
"...and check this out."
"Oh!"
Hodgson is a perfect friend, as far as Harry's concerned, and part of that is because he knows exactly what they expect from him. He knows precisely how to make them happy, what steps they'd like him to present that in, and there are none of the messy bits that confuse him into anger with so many other people (including himself). He wishes everyone would just say what they mean more often, because George will tell him to fuck off if he's annoying and tell him bluntly what he's doing wrong if he's trying to be nice and doesn't do it right, and Harry… he appreciates that guidance.
He doesn't feel like he's great at being a human, all things considered, and he needs all the help he can get.
So when George claps their bony hands with delight at the new treasure Harry presents, he knows it's a genuine reaction. Which is enough to make Harry really pleased.
"A soft cuboid!"
George being so happy without any self-consciousness always makes Harry grin like an idiot as his spirits lift, too. He'd turn a death stare and a threat of mild stabbing towards anyone that mentioned it - outside of George's earshot, of course, because they do not like violence and the very mention tends to upset him - but it really does make him… happy. Probably as close to a pure version of the feeling as he's ever truly known, if he's more honest with himself than he likes being without a much higher blood alcohol level.
He needs it, today. He woke up with a creeping sense of doom just hanging out in his chest, and he knows he's been more clipped and cold than usual all day as a result (his 'Jopson face', as the crew put it out of Tom's earshot). It would be nice if his body would just decide if it wanted to have a panic attack or not and get it over with, but he'll live.
"It's packing from the new glow sticks. Good spring back, right?" Harry demonstrates by squeezing it and then hands them the chunk of foam. The little grey rectangle is about the size of a credit card and a centimetre thick (with equal parallel sides, Harry knows his friend), and has the sort of squishy texture that immediately made him think of George's favourite stim toys when he unpacked it out back. "And it doesn't matter if it gets lost because there are loads of them, so you can use it at work without worrying."
The last time George had a proper meltdown was when Stanley confiscated their stim necklace because it wasn't 'strictly uniform' and he was in a particularly bad mood after Jopson refused to lie about the state of their food storage standards to the health inspector. It was also raining that afternoon, which meant Hodgson got splattered with water at unpredictable intervals in the ticket booth - something that would have been difficult enough with a coping mechanism available. Ned ended up having to walk George all the way back to their grandparents' house so they didn't get lost, because it's not really possible to navigate the way home when the world is all too-bright colours and sounds and bad .
It's not like any of them have the resources to bring an employment tribunal or even quit, so the crew have been working overtime trying to find solutions to make sure it doesn't happen again. Jopson's suggestion of simply murdering their boss was… taken under advisement.
"This is very good, thank you Harry," George wraps an arm around themselves and squeezes while giving a thumbs up with the other hand, prompting Harry to do the same. It's their established way of hugging, because George hates touch, and by now it cheers Harry up just as much as - perhaps more than, given his own spectrum-adjacent tendencies - physical contact does. "I would like more please, old chap."
"I'm on it, old bean," Harry flicks their familiar salute before leaving the ticket booth and heading back to his current task, trying to look busy enough to avoid being asked any questions or accosted by stupid guests along the way. His chest is still being a bastard and he's not in the mood to put on a customer service mask.
Perhaps he does briefly stop to chase after a buggy and return a toddler's dropped blanket, but that's mere speculation. Nobody saw, so it's none of anyone's business.
"What's the verdict?" Graham is shirtless and sweating in the warehouse out back, where he's still unpacking the boxes they're working through, and Harry tries not to stare. Or blush. He very much has a 'want to be/want to be with' complex when it comes to Graham physically - the bloke is thick as oatmeal and practically made of steel when he flexes, and Goodsir's only human (allegedly) - and it only makes it slightly less excruciating that the entire crew (including Graham, of course) know about his crush and only tease him a moderate amount.
And that they all basically have an open season policy on snogging each other. That does help too.
"They love it," Graham beams at that and Harry grins right back, because they've all been worried about their friend for a while now and had both got a little excited when they felt the packing foam texture.
"Fuck yeah, neuotyps lose again," Graham punches the air in exaggerated celebration where he's crouched over a box of keychains, and smiles even harder when Harry leans down to peck him on the lips before getting back to helping with the grunt work. He's unfairly handsome, the cunt.
It's mid afternoon and fucking sweltering back here, but physical labour is still better than having to repeatedly remind customers that they might be feeling unwell because they haven't had a sip of water since they entered the park hours before. Stanley does this thing where he pretends he's 'affirming Harry's gender' (statement delivered with the requisite sneer delivered looking directly down his nose) by giving him physically challenging jobs, pushing him further and further until he's forced to admit he's not strong enough to handle something. For his own amusement, Goodsir assumes. It does his head in and makes him want to prove the bastard wrong even more than usual, but since the rest of the crew figured it out they've been great at sneakily helping out when he's not looking.
Not that Harry will ask for help, even from them. That would be spectacularly off brand.
"You coming to Ned's tonight?" Brian grabs the top couple of boxes from the stack Jonny's lifting - it's still hard to manage, but not impossible. If Harry could bring himself to, he might even be thankful. "Sol says he might finally reveal what goes in a Gates of Hell."
All the crew knows about the Gates of Hell - aka Sol's signature 'cocktail' - is that it involves seven different spirits. That alone makes it a dangerous prospect that they've all consumed far too many of, and Sol has repeatedly promised that he'll share the secret recipe when youngest crew member Tommy finally turns eighteen. Given that Armitage was adopted near birth and isn't entirely sure of his actual birth date, it's been put off until they have time for a celebration.
"Is it Tommy's birthday?" Harry asks, because they all know Tommy's choosing his own real birthday, fuck whatever his documentation says. Considering half of them contradict their birth certificates on quote unquote gender and don't give a single fuck, they get it. If it is his chosen birthday, then it's time to make a hell of a fuss and have a party. If it isn't, it's a regular hang out in Ned's flat. Very different nights with very different commitments.
Hary's not sure he's going to have the energy for casual conversation tonight, not if his heart doesn't decide to stop beating like a fucked clock.
"Not sure, actually. Reckon Jops would've made it a bigger deal if it was," Graham shrugs and finishes stacking the boxes he's holding so he can pull out his phone, no doubt making the necessary enquiries. "Why, you got somewhere to be?"
"Nah. I'm just really bloody tired this week and I've only got the energy for important stuff." Harry does his best to keep up a decent front, but the breathlessness he's been trying so hard to ignore is suddenly much more pressing out of nowhere. He does his best to take a couple of deep breaths before he speaks again. Which doesn't work, of course.
Now comes the fucking onset of panic, dammit. Couldn't have been when he was on break and there was nobody to see but his cigarette, could it? Always has to be embarrassing.
It hits Harry so suddenly he wonders for a second if he's finally going crazy (thinking you're going crazy is a symptom of a panic attack, he knows that from afar, but the knowledge can't touch him in the moment), but Graham is here and Graham will know what to do. That's about as complex as he can get his brain to work, right now.
"Gore, turn around," it's not what he thought he was going to choke out, but it is a smart choice given the situation. "Need to- Got to take off my binder. Now."
Graham gets one look at the ashen colour of his face and realises what's happening. It's not exactly a common occurrence, but given where they've come from and where they've ended up… they've all seen each other compromised at one time or another.
"Shit. Okay. Alright man." If he were feeling less like he was about to fucking die, Harry could kiss him. His friend doesn't freak out and doesn't just turn away, he goes to stand in front of the closed door - facing away as he leans against the frame so there's no way anyone could just burst in. It means Harry can get enough air to strip his shirt and binder off quickly before the crushing pressure gets too much. "Want me to grab anyone?"
"No." Harry isn't having a panic attack, strictly speaking, he's… ninety percent sure. He's just been hit by a lack of air and maybe some anxiety and… and yeah, he probably slept in his binder via drunken accident like Jopson keeps warning him about. Maybe it is a panic attack. He's a fucking mess, but he manages to choke out something like actual words after a long pause. "Fuck, sorry. Just give me a minute."
Graham lets the quiet settle - at least, as quiet as it gets with hundreds of rowdy guests suffering through holidays outside - and only speaks up when he's been able to hear Harry's breath hitching shallowly for a good while.
"Need some help?"
"Please," Harry doesn't fucking say please. Not anymore.
His case worker back in the day said that the counsellor said it's a symptom of trauma (if you spend your formative years in the fawn response then apparently you can lose flight entirely and all you're left with is fight ), but whatever fuels it... he mainly doesn't say please because it makes him vulnerable. It makes him feel like he's begging. It makes him feel scared . And Harry fucking Goodsir has been through enough that he certainly doesn't get scared anymore.
(Harry Goodsir is currently fucking terrified.)
The crew don't know this, of course they fucking don't. Each other's trauma isn't their bloody business unless it's voluntarily shared or becomes relevant in a pinch. But they know each other's ways and mannerisms down to the bone, and they know their habits like bare skin in the dark. So when Harry mumbles out a plaintive please, Graham knows he's having a bad time.
"Alright. Can you pick up your shirt?" He hears Harry shake his head (it's the first time he's ever been appreciative of that stupid dangly crab earring jangling at him all day) and glances over his shoulder quickly to check he's okay to move. Whether or not Harry would know if he saw him shirtless at this point is entirely irrelevant - Graham isn't going to do that to his friend, especially not when he's vulnerable. "Okay, Harry. I'm gonna grab your shirt and put it over your head. Not looking, just making sure you're okay. I'm looking at the crates of stupid stuffed toys on your left."
He picks Harry's shirt up off the floor and grabs the binder at the same time, shaking it out quickly from habit before folding it over his arm. He's already starting to make contingency plans for if Harry can't get it back on once he calms down, but he doesn't want to jump the gun.
Harry's reluctant to raise his arms to let Graham help him dress, so Gore leaves the shirt around his neck and steps away to give his friend some space. Harry gives an affirmative grunt when it's okay to look, and Graham finishes texting Silna a very brief summary of the situation (in case they need back up) before he walks back over.
The trembling in Harry's limbs isn't exactly subtle, but it's the way he always comes down from panic so it doesn't concern Graham all that much. Friends panicking is fine, he knows what that looks like, and he'd only be scared if someone started doing something that was way off the usual list of how it looked when they weren't completely in their head.
And honestly, Graham thinks he's the one most qualified to deal with it, out of all of them. Unofficially, of course, because Collins is a know it all nursing student who has to have the final word on everything. Considering that before Graham's bipolar was medicated properly he fluctuated wildly between earnest 'do good!' and party-boy 'do what you want!' with no middle ground at all... he really fucking gets what it feels like to be chained to your own brain like a comet.
"Fuck. Sorry. Fuck. I'll be alright, just-" Harry's phone clatters to the floor where he's been trying to text but his hands are shaking too badly, so Graham picks it up and takes his hand instead. He's not really surprised when Harry grips him tight like he's a lifeline.
"Stop apologising, love. You're not doing anything wrong." Graham squeezes Harry's fingers and glances around before grabbing one of the foam rectangles from the nearest open box and pressing it into Harry's free hand. "If it's good enough for Hodgson, it might help."
Harry manages a breathless noise that resembles a laugh at that, and they lapse into something resembling silence while his heart tries to remember what rhythm feels like. He's deeply fucking humiliated whenever this happens around anyone, but at least Graham is good at keeping him on track.
And fiddling with the stupid foam does help, actually. Not that he'll admit it.
"Hey," Graham breaks the quiet after a particularly annoying guest starts yelling about drink prices from outside and makes them both jump. "Remember that myth at school about how if you froze your nipple with deodorant and flicked it, it would come off?"
"I… yeah, think so." The statement is so out of the blue that it breaks into the anxious loop Harry's stuck in and makes him look at Graham like he's got two heads. Which was the point, obviously.
"D'you reckon we could do that with your whole tit and use the top surgery fund for drugs?" The conspiratorial look on Graham's face - along with the way he lowers his voice like he's had a revolutionary idea - is what does it. Harry just stares at him for a second before bursting into laugher, the kind of wheezy cackle that has him doubling over where he sits until he's basically half in Graham's lap.
It's not always easy to help Harry out of an episode, there aren't any magic switches to flip from okay to not okay and back again, but today it seems like Graham's terrible sense of humour has helped. Harry's still giggling (only slightly hysterically) as he climbs fully into his friend's lap and clings to him like a koala, and Graham squeezes him tight until he can feel his heart finally, mercifully, slow down.
"Better?" It's a good five minutes before Graham asks, because as hot as it is in here even without a very clingy little bastard in his arms, there's nothing to be gained by rushing this. He might not have Silna's tact or Collins' tactility, but he's definitely the only one of the group with an ounce of patience.
Jopson would probably have punted Harry out the window for trying to grab them like this. In a… loving way, of course.
"Better," Harry finally sits up and lets Graham go, cracking his neck where he's been tensed up at a weird angle and seeming to lose what's left of the tremor in his limbs. "Sorry. That was threatening all day. Um. Thanks. For all the… stuff."
He gestures vaguely at nothing in particular and Graham rolls his eyes, planting a kiss on Harry's freckled nose purely to make him scowl. Heaven forbid any of them would actually use their words to express a feeling.
"You knocking off at five today?" It doesn't really surprise him when Harry shrugs, because it tends to take him a while to fully come back online after something like this. It's rare for him to lose his shit, but when he does it really knocks him for six. "Yeah, you are, and Stanley can eat my arse if he has a problem. C'mon, let's get this finished so we can fuck off."
By some miracle, they manage to get the last of the glow sticks unpacked without further incident - stowing the foam packing pieces in an annoying spot so the boss won't find them if he decides to snoop. Harry wrestles himself back into his binder before they head out to clock off, and gives Graham a shy peck on the cheek before they leave the store room.
As payment for averting mental disaster goes, Graham will take it.
Silna is waiting for them anxiously at the gates, and she immediately pulls Harry into her arms with that maternal warmth she saves for him and only him, and only for very bad days. They've been a little distant lately, since Silna sneakily acquired a girlfriend and decided it was best to shield her from the crew's chaos for the time being, but all that seems forgotten as Harry hugs her back just as tight and goes up on his toes to press his face into her shoulder.
"Come on, eejits. Let's go home before someone tries to pull us back in." Graham gives them both a pat on the back and isn't surprised when their hands stay joined as they start walking away from The Actual Gates of Hell (aka work).
It's not until they're waiting for the lights to change at the nearest road crossing that Harry squints across at Graham with a smirk - because apparently he's recovered enough that trouble is back on the menu, oh joy - and turns to Silna before declaring loudly:
"Graham's gonna freeze my tits off."
Well, shit. He's glad he didn't bother working out today because he's about to experience some… explosive cardio to avoid Silna actually throttling him.
"He what?!"