Chapter Text
(He knows what will happen. He knows John will not refuse him anything. He does not understand it.)
John turns his head into Harold's hand, rests against his cupped palm. And he looks at Harold very steadily; his face is open. He exposes himself, deliberately, fearlessly.
Harold stares back; he freezes. Harold has never given all of himself to another person. There is nobody alive who has even his whole name. He takes away his hand, quickly, snatches it, and walks around the couch to sit down. He takes off his jacket and folds it neatly over an armchair. It's Mr Finch's habit.
"When I met you," he says. "I had quite given up hope."
He turns his head and John, with a shuttered awful look now, follows him. John moves silently, a shadow, and when he drops into the cushions Harold is faintly surprised to feel the movement.
They sit side by side, facing out, as they do on their bench out by the 59th Street bridge.
John says quietly, "You gave me hope."
But Harold can't have that from him. He won't accept that. It's quite quite wrong. John is a candle. It's so essential to his nature Harold is shocked that he doesn't seem to know. Even on the street John had built a kind of home, found some kind of family. John loves and hopes endlessly.
He shakes his head. He says, "The trembling hand."
John looks at him mutely. His eyes are shining. Harold can tell though he fixes his gaze straight ahead. John is a blur at the edge of his vision.
"I didn't intend to play this strategy," he explains. And then he realizes that is no explanation at all and he drops his head into his hands and groans.
John says, "You know what would happen. Are you afraid? I'm not."
John is endlessly brave. Harold is filled with admiration. He can imagine the look on John's face: the unshed tears, the clenched jaw, the flutter in his throat. He had long had the habit of averting his eyes from displays of emotion, but with John, secretly, he looked. He had done it as a kindness, he had thought; to spare John from the disgrace of it, but now he thinks in a hot rush that this was a wicked lie. The worst kind of lie: a lie to the self.
"But either way, this is it for me." John says. "You're stuck with me, Finch."
He says it like a burden but Harold hears it like a gift. He reaches out again, and this time he is braver. He pulls John towards him; he holds his gaze. John's breath is coming in little hitching gasps and Harold leans in and kisses him, slow and deep.
John's mouth is hot, mobile; John kisses like he does everything: with total commitment. Harold rakes his fingers through John's hair and John presses him backwards into the sofa with a soft thunk. John sits back on his heels and drags, featherlight, his thumb over Harold's bottom lip. The delicate rasp of the whorled pad of his thumb rakes up a shiver that runs straight to Harold's groin.
He catches John's hand in his own and John stills, waiting; he has a kind of alert peacefulness about him that is hard to–and then Harold sees it: he is leashed. Harold is lying on the couch, his head against the arm and John is kneeling above him, his strong legs caging Harold's hips. He is suddenly, overwhelmingly aware of the power of John's body, of the solid packed muscle and the speed with which he could move. All this, Harold thinks, and you yield to me.
He drags John to him and kisses him hungrily. He feels drunk with it. He says recklessly against John's mouth, "You are mine. Do not doubt it." And it should be cheesy; should be the worst kind of cliche but John lets out a kind of half sob and nods his head and Harold feels a glorious soaring inside him: a bright light, a ringing bell.
John is kissing him, pressing hundreds of kisses to his mouth, his jaw, pressing his face into Harold's neck. And now Harold is at sea. He is lost, unmoored, drowning in sensation. John is above him and around him, kissing him and running his hands up and down his body like he, Harold, was something wonderful, someone to be desired.
He groans. He's half hard. He jerks his hips and John grins wickedly and grinds down against him in a slow, deliberate circle. Harold's breath hitches. He looks at John and nods. John's grin broadens. John says in his deep, husky voice, "Tell me what you want. I'll do what you want."
Harold swallows. He says, "Skin. I want your skin against mine." He tugs John's shirt out of his pants as John's clever fingers unbutton his own. John tosses both their shirts over the back of the couch and he shucks his pants with one hand. John reaches for Harold's button but he shakes his head and says with sudden inspiration, "No. Leave mine on."
John is utterly, thrillingly turned on by this idea and it shows as he sits back down over Harold. He's naked; he's totally naked: his glorious body is totally available, laid out on a plate. His beautiful cock is hard and he rubs it against Harold's pants and Harold feels the heat of him through wool, feels the roll of John's balls, feels John's ass grinding against cloth and he gets achingly hard himself. His cock strains and throbs against his fly.
He's breathing faster; John is too. They look at each other and John's face is a shout of joy. John is rolling his hips and Harold grinds into the motion; the slide and grind of their cocks sensitized further by the rasp of wool and silk between them. He's close; he's almost there and he wants– Harold says urgently, "Now, John. Come now." And John thrusts his wonderful body, all the beautiful planes of his chest down onto Harold, crushes the breath out of him. Harold can feel John everywhere: the sear of skin against skin, the slide of sensation that awakens every nerve to pure pleasure, pure heat, and as he presses his mouth to John's, John comes with a choked, "Oh God."
There's come, John's come, on his pants, soaking onto his cock as it smears over John's belly, and for some reason that makes him wild, takes him higher. He is riding a wave of euphoria, revelling in these new discoveries. John is so eloquent with his body. He is elegant as an algorithm. Harold had never grasped, had never imagined the depth and subtlety of this expression. John face is turned into Harold's neck and Harold whispers to him, "Take me out. Just take out my cock and put it in your mouth."
John's eyes go glassy. He nods quickly, eagerly. He scoots down the couch and noses at Harold's crotch. He undoes the fly and Harold's cock jerks, his balls tighten, as John's firm hand grips around the base, as John's mouth, his brilliant talented mouth, closes around it. Harold stretches his hand down and hooks his fingers into John's hair. John's mouth is all hot, wet pressure; suction. John flutters his tongue and swallows Harold deeper, deeper. He makes a muffled begging sound and then Harold is fucking John's mouth desperately, almost heedlessly, and John just takes him, takes him. John is–the only word is hungry; he takes Harold's cock deep into his mouth and then he moans, a long satisfied moan as Harold thrusts upwards, his hips jerking crazily, stuttering, as Harold comes in a blinding flash that crashes his brain, that dumbfounds him.
He clasps John to him, gasping, laughing. He feels brilliant; he feels exceptional. They are exceptional together and this was so far beyond, outside of, his predictions he thinks he was a fool, a craven idiot, to have denied them both this until now.
*
Later, much later, John will slip out of their bed and Harold will watch him lacing his shoes. He will sit forward and press one hand to John's broad back. John will pause and tip his head to look back at Harold. "Is it wrong," John will say, "to be so glad?"