Page 234 of Untouchable

"Would you, um, feed the dogs, while I...?" Harp says, grabbing Parker by the hip before they collide in the kitchen. "I take it you're hungry, Gil? Why don't you have a seat at the table?"

"Sorry," Harp says to Parker quietly, and Parker isn’t sure if he's apologizing for Gil being here or for the fact that he's still holding him by the hip or for the fact that Harp is so suddenly out of sorts. "Would you—do you mind? If you feed them and I'll make our plates..."

“Yeah—of course—” Parker says quickly.

He’s glad to have a task, and he slips into the pantry, portioning out kibble for the dogs, who are waiting eagerly by the pantry door. He’s still mortified—what a fucking entrance to make—but there also seems to be another strange undercurrent that Parker can’t quite identify. He hadn’t even realized Harp’s brother was coming into town today, and he can’t help feeling a little frustrated at Harp’s inability to keep dates and times straight.

It’ll be fine, he tells himself, and he is happy to meet someone who’s so important to Harp. But he’d been looking forward to one more day wrapped up in Harp before they went back to reality.

* * *

"So, um, how was your flight?"Harp asks, casting the question over his shoulder as he ices cheap, treacly cinnamon rolls.

Gil offers a noncommittal answer about Denver turbulence and a long Uber ride and the conversation goes nowhere.

He realizes he doesn't want to share the story of his first Christmas on Storm Mountain with his brother, the explanation for his ritual and why it was something more important than a crappy breakfast. The story had been for Parker, and now it feels wrong to just blurt it out for someone else, too.

Harp can feel himself shutting down, pulling back and regrouping. He's trying to remember what it's like to balance two people at the same time. It feels exhausting and he's only just begun.

He feels, too, like his mother, like an echo of their childhood. Gil looks more like Walt now than he ever had before, and Harp can remember his mother standing at the counter in the kitchen, talking over her shoulder at them as they conspired nearby.

"You look great, Gil.”

“Different,” Gil corrects, rolling his eyes.

“Why the change?"

Gil smiles for the first time since Parker walked through the door. "The Portland gays helped reform me. You were right about needing to be with my people instead of in the middle of a swamp."

* * *

Parker setsdown the bowls of kibble and crouches for a moment, petting Bo both to give himself something to do and because he needs to do something soothing, something familiar. He’s not quite sure why he’s so on edge suddenly, other than embarrassment, but he suddenly feels stiff and awkward, as if he’s forgotten how to move his limbs or form words. He normally adores meeting new people, and the chance to hang out and get to know Gil should be something he’s excited about, even if Gil has crashed their romantic holiday.

“Uh—can I, um, grab coffee?” Parker asks as he straightens up.

“Sure,” Harp says from his spot at the counter where he’s drizzling frosting on something. “Just made some.”

Parker isn’t sure why he suddenly feels the need to ask for permission, but Harp’s family is here now, and it makes Parker feel like a guest in the place that’s come to feel more like home than his own apartment. Self-consciously, he slides past Harp—normally he’d stop to nuzzle against him—and pours himself a mug of coffee, dumping in milk and sugar and sitting down at the table across from Gil.

* * *

Harp setsthree plates and napkins down for them before bringing over the cinnamon rolls.

"Was someone, um, making a drink?" Gil asks, nodding towards the counter. Harp follows his gaze to the open bottle of vodka sitting out.

"I was about to make a bloody mary when you knocked on the door, yes," Harp says, not sure why he's bristling. "Why? Do you want one?"

"Little early for me," Gil says, frowning. "But don't let me stop you."

"I think I changed my mind. And I hadn't offered one to Parker yet so," Harp says. "We can stick with coffee."

The last thing he needs right now is a day-drunk Parker, though Parker seems stiff enough that he wouldn't have accepted the drink if offered anyway. Keeping track of both Gil and Parker in the kitchen is goddamned dizzying, and Harp has that same feeling that he gets when he goes to town sometimes, dazed and threatening tunnel vision. Overwhelmed.

Learning to listen to Parker’s voice in his house was novel and wonderful and had matured into something that Harp can’t live without, now. But listening to two extra voices in the house along with the sounds of the three dogs, the hissing coffee hot plate, the scrape of Harp’s heavy old plates and mismatched silverware—Harp can’t help but to step back from his body, to let it all crash over him.

Gil reaches for the pan of cinnamon rolls, breaking one off and putting it on his plate.

Harp grabs Parker's hand under the table and squeezes it. Parker smiles down at his plate. Gil looks between Parker and Harp and clears his throat and every second seems more awkward than the last so Harp rushes to serve himself and then Parker without asking or thinking, really.

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