Page 18 of Untouchable

He clears his throat and Parker stops talking abruptly.

“What’s wrong?” Harp asks, his own voice sounding muddy and far away.

“I just… thought you were asleep.”

“Are you kidding?” Harp asks. “I’m embroiled in the story of how you set that cad Terry Druce up for the winning goal of the season in tenth grade. I’m on the edge of my seat—table—whatever.”

“Oh,” Parker says, sounding sad. “I, um—sorry about the dumb stories—”

“I wasn’t making fun of you,” Harp says quickly. “I asked you to talk and you are. I appreciate it.”

* * *

There’ssomething unexpectedly gentle in Harp’s voice. It’s almost easy to believe that Harp really does want him to continue.

So he does.

And, if Parker didn’t know any better, he might have sworn Harp is almost enjoying the massage now. Or, at the very least, he’s no longer clenching his body as though preparing to sprint out down the stairs.

Parker discovers he’s disappointed when he reaches the end of the session. In spite of everything, he’d enjoyed himself.

Parker's hands slow down and so does his story.

“Okay, Harp, thanks for letting me work on you today," he says in a low, soothing voice. His hands slow down and stop.

"I’m going to step out and let you get dressed. Take your time getting off the table, sometimes people get a little dizzy.”

* * *

It feelslike the inertia of the earth is stopping when Parker lifts his hands off.

Harp feels abruptly dissatisfied that the whole thing is over. It had ended up being... nice. A little bit like that hot shower feeling, where his mind decompressed along with his muscles.

Parker slips out of the room as quiet as a cat, pulling the door shut behind him, and in spite of the fact that Harp was enjoying himself—and didn't even mind listening to someone else talk—the sudden privacy opens up something tight in his chest.

Nowhe is truly relaxed. He feels like he could sleep here on the table, just like this, and Parker would probably wait for him downstairs. Instead, he goes slow, gets up, and pulls on his clothes.

His muscles and tendons and joints feel warm like they would after a long session chopping firewood but without the pain that activity tended to exacerbate. He feels like he can stand a little straighter as he buttons his flannel again, foregoing the undershirt this time, skipping the top button because of how warm he feels.

Harp inspects the sheet for any evidence of his body's grossness—a grease print or stray beard hair—and when he's satisfied that it's clean he shakes it out and folds it, leaving it neatly on the table and heading downstairs.

* * *

Parker hearsHarp on the stairs and glances up. Harp seems looser, more relaxed, as if he’s gone softer around the edges, like he’s just been pulled up from the depths of sleep. Again, there’s a gentleness to him Parker would never have suspected from their first interaction.

Parker is proud. He feels like he’s made a difference.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

"Pretty, uh, not bad," Harp says. One hand slides along the smooth bannister and the other cards through his mess of hair. "That was a lot easier. Thanks for talking."

Parker finds himself blushing—and for once, it’s not because he’s managed to stick his foot in his mouth again. There’s something about the easy way Harp runs his hand through his hair, the way he’s not curled in on himself as though bracing for a blow anymore. He seems like the kind of guy that would chop down trees and build a log cabin for his boyfriend—or girlfriend, or whatever. The kind of guy you could curl up with in front of a warm fire on a snowy evening.

He’s really hot,Parker thinks, a little miserably.

He reminds himself that this is not, nor will ever be, the time or the place for that.

“Glad I? could help,” Parker says, his most professional smile plastered back on his face. “I’ll, uh—just break down the table really quickly—“

---