Page 170 of Untouchable

* * *

Relief floodsHarp's chest as he accepts the barrage of kisses. It shouldn't feel odd to be the center of attention with Parker, but he's so unused to unchecked affection and gratitude that Harp finds himself blushing and unsure of what to do with the nervous, pleasant energy bubbling up in him.

"Well, let's get inside and unpacked," Harp says when he realizes that there's nothing he's going to be able to say that'll make him feel any less strange about... well, about how good he feels to be treating Parker.

They get parked and Harp grabs the bag Parker packed for the night.

"Jesus, what did you pack in here? Where did you think we were going?" Harp asks, feeling the heft of the bag the minute he lifts it from the floorboard of the truck.

“A lot of warm clothing,” Parker says, slipping his hand into Harp’s once Harp slings Parker’s bag over his shoulder. “I mean, you said to dress warm. Was that just to throw me off the trail? That’s smart—I kinda figured we’d be doing something… y’know… Harp-ish, where we were very far from civilization, probably like, chopping down trees with our bare hands and instead of lighting a fire like city slickers we’d be drinking whiskey to stay warm.”

Harp can't help but shiver in abrupt happiness as they walk hand-in-hand towards their destination across the long brick promenade. He’s outside. With Parker. People can see. And neither of them are flinching. My first boyfriend, Harp thinks absurdly.

"I wanted you to have warm clothes in case we wanted to go for a walk or something," Harp says, laughing. "I didn't think you'd pack for an Everest expedition."

"Well, you said warm, so I thought warm warm would be—What's wrong?"

As they approach the hotel lobby, Harp can see through the big picture windows that the lobby is packed with people.

"Ooh, what's going on?" Parker asks, sounding intrigued.

They continue their march up and Harp slips his hand out of Parker's unconsciously. It's a huge group of people dressed like a boardroom fashion show from hell, severe looking women towering in heels and thin, prim men in tailored suits milling effortlessly. There's a small cardboard sign at the entrance that Harp hadn't seen at first: The Stewart Welcomes The Greater Colorado Architects Council!

Parker cocks his head.

* * *

“Greater Colorado Anarchists Council,”he says slowly. “I didn’t realize anarchists would be so… fancy.”

Parker tries not to read into Harp letting go of his hand. There’s a million reasons why Harp wouldn’t want to be hand in hand as they navigated their way through a large crowd, and Parker tells himself it’s just his same old insecurities talking shit again.

“Architects,” Harp corrects, gently enough that Parker doesn’t even feel ashamed for having misread the sign.

“Architects,” Parker repeats as they approach. “Yeah, I guess that makes more sense than an anarchist convention.

He pushes the heavy front door of the hotel open and they step inside. It’s warm—almost too warm with the heaters blasting and so many people, and there’s a cheerful burble of voices talking over tinkling piano carols. A large tree stands in the center of the room so tall it nearly scrapes the already high ceiling of the entry, and it’s been painstakingly decorated. There appears to be some kind of reception going on for the architects, and they’re all holding elegant cocktails and laughing with one another.

Parker takes a deep breath—the air smells like cinnamon and pine.

Everything is impossibly lush and luxurious. Even dressed in hiking boots and a winter coat, Parker’s never felt so glamorous, simply by being here. He smiles broadly, feeling so happy he thinks he might levitate off the surface of the earth.

* * *

Steppinginto The Stewart is like trying to step into a gel mold. The sound, the presence of other people, the heat, the smell all coalesce and envelop Harp, filling his senses, filling his lungs and his stomach. He thought he could do this. He had no idea there was going to be a crowd.

Harp's senses feel assaulted. Absently, he reaches for Parker's hand again, missing it twice before finally clamping on.

A woman in a suit the color of oxblood looks up and smiles at Harp, nodding when they make eye contact. The man with her, a slender older man with a full head of shockingly white hair, looks up at him too and frowns, saying something to her. She turns away. There are more sets of eyes on Harp—and more, and more. He may not be the tallest person in the room but he is certainly the largest.

There's a tug at his hand and Harp remembers he's not alone.

"We need to check in, right?" Parker asks, curious and patient.

Harp nods absentmindedly and marches forward, cutting a winding path through the sea of architects.

Tunnel vision kicks in halfway there and Harp remembers the task at hand, thankful for the reminder from Parker. They reach the front desk and a cheerful young man smiles at them. "Checking in?"

Harp fumbles out his ID and card and slides them over the desk.

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