[ Harry practically projects his thoughts. Every twitch in his eyes, the tightening of his mouth, the way his fingers curl into his palms slowly - it's no wonder that it is extremely easy to call him out on lies. He tries so hard, but he can't bury that fire. Wears his emotions out on his sleeves, even when the edges have been burnt and trailed through blood time and time again. It's a bit sick of him, to keep it up. But Harry is, after all, a disjointed man.

Which is part of why John -- composed, placid, lucid, logical, sentimental John -- gets under his skin. Fucking roosts there, on long, dark nights. ]

[ Harry visibly tenses, fingers tightening around the glass as though waiting to call bullshit in lieu of that line of thought. Damn John for his rationality. Damn himself for agreeing, if only because it was easier to find reason to blame himself. His response is sullen: ] It doesn't mean that it hurt any less. I saw you both. Ivy still has nightmares. I can only wonder about you.

[ Pointedly, he sweeps his leg at his shoes, knocking them across the floor and out of his reach. A childish gesture, but one to show he's not backing down. Perhaps he could recall that he hadn't planned on drinking any more than he already had, but by then, Harry was thrusting the tumbler back out in Marcone's direction: ] Hit me again.