"Harry!" Neil Patrick Harris said, his arms outstretched.
"Dude," Harold said, hand still on the doorknob. "How do you know where we live?"
"I'm Neil Patrick Harris," NPH said, as if that explained everything. He shouldered past Harold into the apartment.
"Wait -" Harold turned and followed him.
Kumar was just lighting up a joint as NPH sat down on the couch next to him. "Hey;" he said, and took a deep hit.
Harold pressed his lips together. He couldn't help but be a little jealous at Kumar's supreme unflapability. Even when he wasn't high, nothing seemed to surprise him.
"My man," NPH said, and gave Kumar a high five.
Kumar passed the joint to NPH and leaned back into the couch cushions. "I'm sitting on my couch getting high with Neil Patrick Harris," he said, and laughed.
Harold sighed and sat down on the couch. Why fight against it? Whether he went along willingly, or kicking and screaming, his life seemed to be a series of comedically timed mishaps. NPH handed him the joint and he took a hit reflexively.
The television was on, some movie Kumar had decided to watch before they got high. Harold couldn't remember the name, and it was all in French, with no subtitles, so he didn't understand what was going on, either. The colors were pretty though, and he smoked and stared at the screen until Kumar reached around NPH and punched him in the arm.
"Hey!" he said, but passed Kumar the joint.
Time passed. They shared another joint. The French movie ended and the credits scrolled. "Well, that was disappointing," Kumar said. "I thought French movies were all about chicks getting naked."
"There was that shower scene," NPH pointed out. He had his arm slung around Kumar and his head on his shoulder. Harold felt nauseous.
"Dude, that was a dude!" Kumar said.
The DVD went back to the menu, where it played the theme over and over. At that point, no one, least of all Harold, cared.
"Guys," NPH said, putting his head on his knees. "Guys, guys, guys."
Harold and Kumar exchanged a look over NPH's back.
"What?" Harold ventured.
"Guys," NPH said one more time.
Kumar patted his shoulder awkwardly. "It'll, um, be okay?" he said.
"I just love you so much!" NPH exclaimed. He sat back up and pulled them both into a hug. Harold ended up bracing a hand on NPH's thigh so as not to do a face plant in his lap. NPH smelled like leather and pot, with a hint of expensive aftershave. He tried not to breath in too deeply.
"Let's go for a ride," NPH said. He leapt to his feet and bounced on his heels, looking down at Harold expectantly.
"No way," Harold said in what he hoped was a decisive tone. "Last time I let you in my car you stole it and did unspeakable things in the backseat. Now I have a new car, and you are so not touching it."
"I apologized, didn't I?" NPH looked vague for a moment. "Didn't I?"
"Yeah, man," Kumar said. "We're cool, aren't we Roldy?" He jabbed Harold in the side with his pointy elbow.
"Yeah, sure," Harold mumbled. He didn't like the direction this conversation was going.
"Great!" NPH clapped his hands. "It's a whole wide world out there, boys. Wouldn't want to miss anything." He threw out his arms to express the whole wide worldness of the whole wide world, knocking a glass that had been sitting precariously close to the edge of the table to the floor, where it shattered.
"Shit!" Kumar said. He took a step back.
"Nobody move!" NPH said. "I totally got this one." He took a giant step over the broken glass and stumbled into Kumar.
Harold sighed. "I'll clean it up," he said, resigned.
"My bad," NPH said.
"That mug was from my grandmother," Kumar said. "It was the most hideous thing I've ever seen." He engulfed NPH in a bear hug. "Thank you so much." His voice was muffled by NPH's shoulder.
Harold shuffled forward, wishing that they owned a vacuum. Or, for that matter, a broom. He picked up a large shard and cradled it carefully in his left hand.
"Dude, leave it, let's go," NPH said, clapping him on the back.
Harold's hand clenched spasmodically around the ceramic shard. "Fuck!" he exclaimed. Blood was already welling up through his fingers.
"Oh man, my bad," NPH said again.
"Dude." Kumar looked around wildly and grabbed a t-shirt off the back of the couch. He took Harold's hand, dropping the piece of mug back onto the kitchen floor.
"Wait," Harold tried to say, but Kumar had already wrapped the shirt around his hand in a makeshift bandage. "That was my favorite shirt," he said lamely.
"I think you're going to need stitches," Kumar said.
Harold blanched. "Are you sure?" he asked.
"Trust me, Roldy," Kumar said. "I almost went to med school, remember?"
"Right." Harold dug his car keys out of his pocket and handed them to Kumar. He pointed at NPH with his good hand. "He doesn't get to drive," he said. "Ever."
"All right!" NPH pumped his fist in the air. "Road trip!"
"Are you really sure about this?" Harold whispered.
Kumar looked at him over his shoulder and raised his eyebrows. "You saw what the ER was like," he said. "You really want to wait five hours to have some intern who hasn't slept in three days stitch up your hand?"
"What's the hold up, Harry?" NPH was breathing down Harold's neck, literally.
Harold's hand throbbed. He clenched his teeth as Kumar slipped around the corner and NPH leaned more heavily into his back. Kumar waved them into an unmarked door.
"It's a stockroom," he explained, rummaging through a cabinet on the far side of the room.
Harold pointed at NPH and schooled his expression into what he hoped was commanding, though he suspected, at this point, he just looked constipated. "You," he said. "Sit over there, and for fuck's sake, don't touch anything."
NPH closed the door, but the corners of his mouth were twitching in what was probably amusement. "Sure thing, Harry," he said.
"Come on over here," Kumar said, patting the counter top. He picked some latex gloves out of a box and snapped them on, over his wrists.
Harold awkwardly hopped up onto the counter and held his hand out to Kumar.
"Have some Vicoden," NPH said, magically appearing at his elbow. "This is probably gonna hurt." He shoved some pills into Harold's good hand.
"I thought I told you not to touch anything!" Harold hissed.
"Take the pills, Roldy," Kumar said as he unwrapped the makeshift bandage. "And try not to wince too much."
Harold swallowed the pills dry and shut his eyes, waiting for the first prick of the needle.
The sun was coming in the window, and it was directly in Harold's face. He groaned and tried to roll over, but there was a warm body in the way. He cracked an eye open, and then sat up so fast he cracked his head on the ceiling of his car.
"Dude!" he said loudly.
Kumar propped himself up on his elbows and blinked slowly. "Dude?" he said. "Why are we in your car?"
Between them, NPH snored softly. He was wearing a purple shirt with a white unicorn on it, and nothing else. Harold blinked, and with a cold sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, realized he wasn't wearing any clothes either. "Pants," he said, panicking. "Where are my pants?"
Averting his eyes from Kumar, who was in a similar state, Harold groped around the floor of the car for his pants. He finally found them wedged between the door and the front seat. He had to lay down and squirm to put them on. Kumar rolled NPH over into Harold's space and tugged his jeans out from under him.
"Hey!" Harold said, protesting. He sucked in his stomach to avoid any of his molecules touching NPH's molecules.
"Hhhnnggh," NPH said, and then continued snoring.
Kumar zipped up his jeans and poked NPH in the shoulder, hard. "Wake up," he said loudly.
Spying his shirt threaded through the steering wheel, Harold snagged it and slipped it on, buttoning it up to his neck. Thus armored, he felt brave enough to face his roommate and the rogue celebrity that (no doubt) had gotten him into this mess in the first place.
Instead of waking up, NPH sprawled onto his back and continued snoring. Harold and Kumar exchanged a horrified glance, and then they both scrambled to get out of the car as fast as possible.
"Dude!" Kumar yelled. He pulled his t-shirt roughly over his head, making his hair stick up in new and interesting ways. "What the hell?!"
Harold covered his face with his hands. "This isn't happening," he moaned.
A car pulled up behind them and the horn tooted. "Hey kids," Goldstein said, poking his head out the passenger window. "What are you doing out here?"
"We're going out for tacos," added Rosenberg from the driver's seat.
"Um," Harold said.
"Ah," Kumar said.
NPH emerged from Harold's car, completely dressed but looking rumpled and really ... happy. "Dudes," he said, raising his eyebrow.
"Neil Patrick Harris!" Goldstein said, and jumped out of the car.
NPH spread his arms and grinned. "The doctor is in, baby! Did I hear someone say something about tacos? I'm starving."
"Hop in, man," Rosenberg said.
Goldstein was standing still with a dumbstruck expression on his face. "I loved Doogie," he said to no one in particular.
"Get in the car, you meshuggener," Rosenberg said.
Goldstein complied, and they drove off in a cloud of dust, NPH waving at them and grinning like a maniac in the backseat.
"So," Harold said
"So," Kumar said.
Harold shoved his hands in his pockets. "Let's never speak of this again."
Kumar nodded vehemently. "Agreed," he said.
They stared at each other for a long moment, fraught with something Harold didn't want to examine too closely.
"White Castle?" Kumar finally asked.
"Absolutely," Harold said.