Chapter Text
Harry
Spending his Saturday night with an older man who was not his father was never what Harry Styles pictured his mid-twenties to look like. But yet, here he is. What started as selling pictures of his feet to help him escape his tiny town turned into a full-fledged career as a sugar baby. And you know what? He wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Another glass?” John asks, nodding to the nearly empty one Harry has in his hands.
Harry politely shakes his head, instead just swirling the dark liquid while he smiles at the man, fluttering his eyelashes for added effect. “I’m alright. Thank you, love. You should have the rest of the bottle.”
John, who Harry’s known now for coming on four months, just shrugs a bit and does as he’s told, pouring the final quarter of the very expensive red into his comically large wine glass.
They’re at The Ledbury, a gorgeous restaurant that Harry has started to grow fond of. It’s sophisticated without feeling stifling, the perfect blend of an ostentatious and cosy feel, with warm lighting and off-white walls, and tables that aren’t too close together. He’s lucky enough to have been brought here with some regularity, and never on his own dime. A perk of the job.
“Have you considered my offer?”
Harry’s eyes flit back to the man in front of him. John’s a nice enough man, not terribly bad-looking as far as sixty-four might go. Harry assumes that at dinner like this, they must look like father and son, maybe even grandfather and grandson. He doesn’t mind, though. John pays well, always offers to give Harry whatever he might wish, and thus far, has done nothing to encourage any level of distrust.
Still.
“I have,” he replies coolly. Last Thursday, after a fundraising gala that Harry joined John for – for prostate cancer, or something – John proposed that perhaps they might take their relationship to the next level. He didn’t mean sex, no. That was already on the table, if John so pleased to pay the price for it. No, John wanted a relationship with Harry. An exclusive one, at that.
And well. That was very much off the table.
“I don’t exactly do relationships,” Harry explains, his tone sympathetic and his eyes comforting. He wants to let the man down gently; John’s never been anything but kind to him. “I know the whole soulmate thing is overrated, but the idea of being with anyone seriously who isn’t mine feels. Well.” Harry shrugs. “It feels a bit like a waste of both of our time.”
In John’s brown eyes, there is a look of understanding, perhaps a bit of pity. Harry’s not immune to this sort of gaze. At nearly twenty-five, his grey eyes make him stand out. By his age, most people have met their soulmates, and the grey eyes of childhood have changed to whichever beautiful hue they’re meant to have.
It’s never been something that bothers Harry, though. And if he were honest with John right now, his reason for declining a relationship with the man has far more to do with his own finances than the mystery man out there that will turn Harry’s eyes from grey to, well, whatever colour.
He’s always been sceptical about the whole soulmate thing, but John doesn’t have to know that. None of his sugar daddies do. It’s none of their business. Afterall, it’s not like his soulmate is ever going to be one of his clients.
“I understand,” John says. Harry’s relieved and doesn’t regret accepting his initial request on the website where they met, as sometimes is the case with these men. They can be far too pushy. “I hope you find your soulmate one day, Harry. I guess I just want more out of this sort of relationship than you can provide.”
“You’ll find the right person then,” Harry promises, reaching out and resting his hand on top of John’s. The wrinkled fingers feel a bit cold, foreign even, but Harry doesn’t mind.
John simply shrugs again. “I hope so. I’m sure you can imagine it’s difficult finding someone to settle down with an old widower like me.”
Harry laughs, taking the final sip of his drink and finally setting his wine glass down. “You’re quite the catch, John. I know the right person will come along and not mind any of that stuff.” He sets his napkin on the table then as well. “I have to run to the little boy’s room, is that alright?”
The older man nods, and Harry smiles, squeezing his hand one more time before he gets to his feet.
There’s always something about talking about soulmates, specifically his own, that makes Harry a bit uneasy. He tries to avoid the topic at all costs, really, at least with anyone who might make him open up more about it. He figured a trip to the loo would erase any licence John might have taken to ask further questions.
When Harry returns to the table, the cheque has been paid, and John is nodding towards the coat check. “Do you need a cab tonight?”
Harry shakes his head. If this is the last time they’re seeing each other, he would feel a bit rude taking one on John’s dime. Besides, he lives right around the corner. He can get himself home.
“I’m alright, thank you.”
Together, they get their overcoats and shuffle them on in silence, not speaking again until they’re outside. Even in the dark, Notting Hill is beautiful. It was a dream of Harry’s to visit; he had no idea that one day, he’d get to call this gorgeous and very posh neighbourhood home.
“Thank you for everything, Harry. I have really enjoyed our time together.”
Harry accepts the hug John offers, leaving him a lingering kiss on the cheek. “I have as well. And truly, if you need a date for an event or something, feel free to reach out. I’m not offended if it’s just for one evening.”
John chuckles but promises he will, looking over at the sleek black car parked up the street.
“Good luck finding your soulmate,” he says, handing Harry an envelope and a kind smile before walking up the dark, wet sidewalk towards his fancy ride.
Harry knows in his hand is at least a thousand pounds. John worked in some boring finance position before retiring two years ago, and without any children of his own, he chooses to spend much of that money on those who keep him company. For the last few months, that has been Harry.
With the cash safely tucked away in his jacket pocket, he strolls in the opposite direction, towards his flat.
A perturbed meow is the first thing that greets Harry upon opening his front door. His near-ancient cat, Dusty, is waiting for him on his doormat, looking especially disgruntled.
“I fed you, you know,” he says to her, scooping her up once he has toed off his favourite Gucci loafers; black patent leather with a rainbow, a gift from an old sugar daddy whose name he doesn’t even remember anymore.
When looking for his first place to live on his own after years of living with his best mate, Niall, location was more important to him than anything else. Harry had idolised Notting Hill ever since he was a young boy. The fact that it was the neighbourhood he now called home was a dream come true, so much so that he had to pinch himself often.
Sure, the flat was rather small, but the brokerage he found it through called it the Deluxe Apartment 1 Bed , and that felt posh enough for him. How could he complain when his flat was deluxe ?
Overall, the place is cosy, with incredible natural light running throughout. Harry took his time to select his furniture, finding pieces that felt unequivocally him and using the cash he earned to splurge on pieces that really made the place both his own, and homey; the velvet green sofa, which was both beautiful and comfortable; the antique vanity where he did his skincare; a mustard yellow reading chair with a handknit blanket over the back, a gift from his mum.
Exhausted after what had become a rather mentally taxing day, Harry slips out of his designer suit and into the shower, setting Dusty down on the window ledge, her preferred spot to watch the world pass by over the fire escape located at the back of the flat.
It’s as Harry’s towelling off that he gets his expected FaceTime request.
“Hi Niall,” he greets, giving a face to the screen before rolling his eyes.
“Oi, what’s with that tone?” His friend asks, laughing a bit. He gasps, faux affronted when Harry drops the towel to reach for a clean pair of Calvins. Only his torso was visible in view of the camera, but still he hears, “Hey! ‘m a taken man! Who do you take me for?”
“Someone who’s seen my arse more than anyone else on the planet?”
Niall grumbles a bit but doesn’t protest that truth. “I see you’re alive then. S’why I called.”
“I know why you called.”
For all that Harry’s friends were supportive of the career he’s found himself in, Niall is still a bit wary, more than anyone else. Harry chalks it up to the fact that they’d lived together for years. Niall was used to being able to physically see Harry to ensure his safety at the end of every night out. Now that they lived apart, after Niall and his own soulmate, Amelia, decided it was finally time to live together, Harry got a FaceTime every night after he had a date, even with clients he’d known for months.
“How’d it go then? Did John take it well?”
“He did.” Harry grabs a jumper that was honestly probably Niall’s once and slips it over his head. “Was a bit sad, but understood, I think. We really didn’t pass the point of no return, not yet at least.”
“You’ll still give him a good review, then?”
“’Course. He was nothing but a gentleman to me.”
“Good,” Niall says on an exhale. Years into this and he still didn’t quite trust the vetting process that the website Harry used claimed to have. He was just a bit more wary than Harry, which was probably for the best. “Well, Meels and I are going down the flea market on Sunday if you’d like to join.”
Harry smiles. He appreciates that the two still include him now that they don’t really have to feel as inclined to. “Yeah? Text me when you leave, and I’ll meet you there. I still need a bedside table that doesn’t feel like it’s meant for my Nan’s place.”
“All your furniture is fit for a Nan’s place.”
Harry flips Niall off, only to blow him a kiss as he reaches for his phone. “Goodnight Niall.”
“Goodnight, Harry.”
The press of the red button that ends the call and the silence that follows Harry as he reaches for his skincare routine is just on the right side of peaceful. He loved his years living with his best mate, but it was nice like this too, to have his own space and his own freedom. He’d worked hard for this, after all.
Snuggled up in bed that night, he logs into his account on the SugarBook website. Of all the parts of the job that Harry enjoys (the extensive skincare that he can claim is work, looking good gets him more dates; the nice clothes that come to him as gifts; the posh holidays on gorgeous beaches that he’s brought on), logging in at the end of the day to chat up some men is often his favourite. Each night (and sometimes throughout the day as well), he logs in to look over his messages, write reviews of men he’s been on dates with, and, the very best bit, search for new clients. Harry enjoys scanning dozens of profiles of the men who have paid money to connect with him, the mindless and fun flirting that followed, and the suggestive photos he takes on the occasion that someone needs a bit more persuading to choose him for a date. It is a bit of a cat and mouse game that Harry both thrives and revells in, if only more so because his own love life is otherwise dormant.
Tonight, after leaving John a glowing review, Harry spends over an hour replying to a few messages from potential clients: Adam, age fifty-five, a finance manager, looking for a date to a distant cousin’s wedding in Majorca; Chris, age seventy-three, a business owner, looking for what appeared to be rather kinky sex, including handcuffs, a ball gag, and a foot fetish (no thank you); Jane, age sixty-two, interested in just some company at nice dinners and perhaps a trip or two somewhere in the Caribbean; and LT, job undisclosed, age hidden, the request form on Harry’s profile left blank - the clear standout from the bunch.
After being in the sugarbowl for so long, Harry has opted to have a way for potential clients to make it clear their intentions and what they are looking for before he approves the request to connect. It allows him to weed out those he’s uninterested in and shows if there is congruence between new clients and the services he offers. Plus, before they submit, they must agree to his terms:
- Intimacy and trust are built, not expected or given without prior communication.
- Payment must be agreed upon before a date begins.
- Long-term, recurring clients will be expected to provide a weekly allowance, either in the form of cash, wire transfer, or gifts. Holidays are not included.
- Initial FaceTime calls are required to set up an in-person meeting/date.
To have someone like this ‘LT’ person who hasn’t bothered replying to any of the questions Harry includes in his form, even a full name (real or not), is quite rare. Well, entirely rare. It’s never happened to Harry before. Most people who use the website are aware of how the industry works, and if they are really interested, they’re happy to jump through any hoops Harry requires of them.
Harry has the first reaction to just delete this application immediately. If someone does not bother to spend the time to fill out a few very basic questions, then why should Harry give them the time of day?
But there is just something about the man that has made Harry pause. For starters, he looks far younger than most of the men on the site. It’s been a long time since Harry’s seen anyone below the age of fifty. In the only photo Harry can view on the man’s profile, he looks fit too. His face is obscured in the picture, but his high cheekbones are obvious, as is his fantastic hair. LT is smoking something, too, adding some wisps of smoke further distorting the image, but for some reason, Harry finds it highly attractive. It’s safe to say that his interest is piqued.
WIthout deliberating any further, Harry decides to accept his request to connect. The action opens up a chat between the two.
‘You must have a story, LT. Most men of your calibre don’t submit blank forms.’
