Page 290 of Untouchable

In the last strokes of the session, he’s present like he’s never been before, and he thinks that this is the last time he’ll really touch Harp.

Goodbye,he thinks. I love you.

* * *

“Okay, Harp,”Parker murmurs. “I’m going to step outside. Take your time getting off the table.”

Harp does take his time. It's not quite as bad as that first time, but Harp knows Parker must be feeling impatient by the time he's ready to come out. He's gone over the points a hundred times in his head, but that doesn't change the fact that this is the most important few minutes of his life, the corner around which he will turn for better or worse.

He puts on fresh clothes—the same clothes he was wearing the day he met Parker, the day at The Stewart. The Shirt, worn for good luck. He doesn't bother looking in the mirror. Searching his face will never tell him what Parker sees—or saw—in him. All that matters are his actions, and all he can do is demonstrate that he's thought about this, that he wants to move forward.

Parker is on the landing just outside when Harp opens the door.

"Thanks for that, Parker," Harp says, putting a hand on his shoulder and letting it rest there like a question. "Let's go downstairs and sit down. Can I get you something to drink? May we talk for a few minutes?"

* * *

Parker shivers at the heavy,familiar weight of Harp’s hand on his shoulder, and it’s only then that his eyes begin to prick with tears. Harp’s wearing a flannel shirt, as usual, and Parker wonders if he even realizes it’s the same flannel Parker had stolen from him at The Stewart, when they’d had a perfect weekend hiding from the world, when Harp had opened up to him completely, at last, when Harp had finally let Parker make him come.

The contrast between that lovely, honey-warm night and now is almost too much to bear.

Don’t touch me, he wants to say—he wants to beg. Please. This is already so difficult. Don’t make it harder for me.

He looks away from Harp, knowing if he sees any amount of kindness in the deep brown of his eyes, he’ll lose all his resolve.

“I need to—to break down my table,” Parker mumbles. “I’ll—I’ll be down in a second. No drink. I, uh, need to drive.”

Parker had been so eager to talk at first, and now his focus is all on the table, on driving away.

* * *

He doesn't blame Parker.

Harp had it in his mind that Parker would say yes, of course, I've been dying to know what's on your mind this entire time, pour me a glass of wine.

His heart stumbles at Parker's request to break down the table, at the fact that his thoughts are already on his exit.

Maybe he's misjudged. Maybe after Harp had been rude to him, after he'd had too much to drink, after he'd failed to stand up for Parker, maybe Parker had realized that Harp simply isn’t worth all of the effort.

If his mind is already made up, it will only take him a minute to say no,Harp tells himself. You can focus on the pain when it's here. Until then, you have to trust that you can do this.

He nods and leaves Parker on the landing, marching downstairs to pour them both a glass of water and wait at the kitchen table where they've shared so many meals, so many goddamn memories that he can't be there without thinking of Parker anymore, even after just a few months.

* * *

Parker begins to cry.He doesn’t even bother to wipe the tears away, simply letting them slip down his face and onto his scrub top. It feels good to simply let himself cry, to let himself mourn, like the start of a rainstorm after a morning of low, dark clouds and the rumble of thunder. He strips off the sheets and breaks down the table, the familiar movements soothing. He stands at the doorway for a moment, indulging himself one last time.

The strangest thing, he finds, when he looks at the vast span of the bed, its rumpled comforter, the late afternoon sunlight spilling in from the window, is the memory that comes back to him most strongly.

It’s not the first time they had sex—well, that kind of sex anyway—only a few days ago, Parker realizes. It’s not when Harp carried him up the stairs, so gently, so carefully, and tucked him into bed. What he thinks about is the morning after their first night together, when he’d woke in a soft pool of light, startled awake by the fire alarm.

The day had proceeded to become thoroughly fucked, but there was a moment, after he’d pulled the burned quiche from the stove but before he’d gone out to find Harp, where he’d sat in the kitchen with a mug of coffee and one of Harp’s flannels draped around him, smiling to himself about Harp’s equally frustrating and endearing tendency to lose track of time and the real world, reliving the previous night, and feeling like the luckiest person in the world.

Parker takes a deep breath and says goodbye to this space that holds so many memories, so many formative moments between them. Their first session, waiting, utterly perplexed, for Harp to get out of the shower. The sessions when he’d finally begun to make progress, where he’d first begun to feel like he was helping. All the kisses and touches they’d shared.

He turns and goes down the stairs.

He can’t quite bear to see Harp just yet—he feels too weak, like his resolve will crumble. So instead he goes out to his car and packs his table and bag neatly into the back and stands for a moment, feeling the bracing chill of the mountain.

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