Page 330 of Untouchable

“And, I mean, I get it. Like, yeah, okay, you were an asshole. But I… I know that you care about Harp and want what’s best for him. And if our situations were reversed I’m not sure I would have trusted me, either. I know… I know what our relationship looks like from the outside. That it seems like it doesn’t make sense. But—I just want you to know I would never do anything to hurt Harp. I would literally rather… pull my intestines out of my asshole than hurt him. So… you don’t have to worry about that, okay?”

"What a fucking... image, Parker. If I wasn't gonna hurl a minute ago—"

"Sorry, right," Parker says quickly as Gil grimaces.

"I mean, don't get it fucked up, we're not friends," Gil says, frowning.

"Definitely not," Parker agrees seriously.

"You're still a vapid twink."

“No offense, but it takes one to know one. You’re just, like, the flannel Portland version of a vapid twink.”

Gil’s expression is blank, and Parker wonders if he’s gone too far—

And then Gil bursts out laughing.

“Fuck you, I am not.”

“Are too,” Parker says with a grin. He cocks his head, lilting his voice. “Like, I just love this new co-op cannabis brewery that opened up near me? They sell yoga-flavored kombucha and all of their vegan bicycles are solar-powered.”

"I may be a vapid twink but I don't sound like that," Gil says, pouting and finally sitting up. "Ha-arp, your boyfriend is bullying me," he whines.

"Good," Harp says, appearing in the door with coffee and breakfast on a wide tray.

“You sound like that a little,” Parker says.

“You do,” Harp says, nodding grimly.

Gil makes a face and opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, Harp throws a bagel at him.

“Eat up,” he says. “I’ve got a lot of stuff planned for us.”

* * *

Paris, France

One yearafter the first day that Parker got lost trying to find Harp's house, one year after Harp approached him with axe in hand, mistaking him for a city employee, Harp wakes up at sunrise in Paris, naked and draped in the softest sheets he's ever felt.

Parker is there, too, face down and still sleeping, gorgeous as ever—always more gorgeous than the day before.

Between their quick tour of London and the luxuriously lazy few days they've spent meandering around the Louvre and picnicking in the parks of Paris, it's been a hell of a week.

A hell of a year, too, Harp thinks, smiling at the early autumn sunshine pouring in through their big windows, smiling at Parker.

Last month, they'd managed to spend a week in town with Parker's parents, though Harp had insisted on a hotel room instead of the suggested plan of staying in his childhood bedroom.

("C'mon, it would be kind of kinky, right?" Parker had urged.

"Absolutelynot.")

As unlikely as it had seemed over the holidays, Parker's parents had shaped up a bit when it came to respecting their son. Harp suspects it was the fact that they finally saw that Parker was able to live his life without their constant approval or financial assistance—but they were both shocked when his parents were actually vaguely civil during the visit.

Harp smiles now because Parker doesn't know the whole story.

He doesn't know about the early breakfast that Harp had shared with Parker's parents at their country club on the last Sunday they were in town, while Parker slept in.

Or how, over a tepid plate of eggs benedict, Harp had not so much asked but informed them that he intended to ask Parker for his hand in marriage.

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