Page 100 of Untouchable

At that, Harp feels something hard begin to dissolve in his chest.

Parker wants him for him. Parker is willing to wait for it, too. Parker doesn't think he's an idiot for being scared.

Parker runs a hand through his hair and sighs and Harp knows that he’s trying to think of how to put something into words—and Harp loves that he knows enough about Parker to know that.

“Like, don’t get me wrong—I want to do… everything with you,” Parker says. “And as soon as possible. And there’s a four hundred percent chance that kissing you is what I jerk off to for the next, oh, I dunno, rest of my life. But—if you’re not feeling it, then… I don’t want to do it. Not until you’re ready. Not until it feels one hundred percent right.”

Harp tries to internalize the words, to force his heart to take them at face value. Parker is so matter-of-fact about it all that it makes Harp feel a little silly for making such a huge deal out of the night. He's acting like he's fourteen, not 44.

Plus, the thought of Parker actually touching himself to the thought of Harp sends a thrill through him, and suddenly he feels more courageous. Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing to try and treat his anxiety and move on.

"Okay, then if it won't drive you insane, that's what I'll do."

Parker raises his eyebrow.

“Why would that drive me insane?” he says. “I promise I’m not going to start crying again just because you’re smoking a joint.”

Harp laughs, kisses Parker on the forehead because he can't help himself, and crosses back to the kitchen.

"Even though I treated you to my dorky edibles, I'm more of a joint smoker at the end of the day," Harp says, bringing out his stash box. There are several containers of fresh-ish weed—the budtenders call it "flower" which Harp always thinks is vaguely cute—and he selects a strain, plucking out a nugget of dried herb.

"This is my favorite for anxiety. Less of a body high than what you had yesterday. It sort of sits in the front of your brain and shuts up all the thoughts that tell you you're an idiot," Harp says. "Fuck, I'm rambling."

He settles down at the kitchen table with his cannabis and supplies and gets to work.

* * *

Parker sits downacross from Harp, crosses his arms on the table, and rests his chin on his forearms so his face is close to Harp’s array of marijuana supplies. He has no idea what any of this is for, but it’s fun to watch Harp go about doing… whatever it is he’s doing. It reminds Parker of the way Harp cooks—each movement is precise but comfortable, like a broken-in pair of workboots.

“This is kinda badass,” Parker says with a grin. “I’m such a fucking square, you know? I mean, I know it’s legal now and all but I think all those anti-drug programs when I was in elementary school worked a little too well.”

Harp snorts. "It's not anything to be proud of. And this is nothing like what I grew up with, when it was illegal. They have it down to a literal science here."

Parker watches intently as Harp breaks down the buds and grinds them before dumping them out and beginning to work them inside of the rolling paper.

"But it has nothing to do with being a badass or a square. I know badasses who don't smoke and squares who drink like fishes."

“So smoking is different?” Parker asks. “Like, from the ice cream? You said this one feels different.”

Harp nods. "I don't claim to remember all the science behind it, although I'm sure I knew it at some point. Smoke is absorbed by the body faster, but the high is quicker. You can control the dosing easier because you get instant feedback from your body."

Parker’s curiosity is piqued. He’d felt fantastic the night before—well, before he’d started crying, anyway, which he’s still fairly sure was because of the alcohol and the stress of talking about his family.

“How long have you been doing… this?” Parker says, tilting his head towards the little container of weed on the table. He picks it up and gives it an experimental sniff, wrinkling his nose. It smells like fresh soil, in a strangely comforting way.

"I don't know," Harp says with a shrug. "The way y'all do things in Colorado is just a completely different beast than it is anywhere where it's illegal. Here, you can treat it like a fine wine or a legitimate therapy, and everywhere else you're just a degenerate drug user."

Harp finishes rolling the joint by dragging the tip of his tongue over the last little bit of the rolling paper, just like sealing a tiny envelope.

"I was a typical high school fuckup, so I smoked back then. In college and after, it happened from time to time, but as I got older, I just had too much to lose. It would've been stupid to jeopardize everything just to smoke pot—not, I guess, that that ever stopped me from jeopardizing everything. Really, I didn't pursue it in any serious way until I had to deal with chronic pain after my car accident. For that—and for anxiety—it's been a godsend."

“Can I see it?” Parker asks, and Harp snorts but hands him the joint. Parker holds it up and examines it closely. Even though he knows nothing about weed, he can tell it’s expertly rolled—neat and tight.

“Sorry, I know I’m asking a ton of questions,” he says as he hands it back. “It’s just… interesting, you know? Even though it’s legal here my parents always act… weird about it—like, going to a dispensary was the same thing as going to like, a strip club or something. In terms of… it was something they thought bad people did. But…” He shrugs. “They made it seem like this huge thing but it’s not.”

"I still feel like I'm a criminal sometimes," Harp admits. "It's hard to shake the stigma, even though I mostly use it responsibly."

"Mostly?" Parker asks, raising an eyebrow.

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