Page 65 of Untouchable

Harp speaks almost absentmindedly as he watches the movie.

Parker feels strangely relieved. He’d been expecting Harp to wax poetic about the amazing adventures he’d been having since he could walk, taking in sights Parker couldn’t even comprehend.

But maybe they had a little more in common than he’d thought.

“So what’s Florida like?” he says, wriggling to get more comfortable.

"Flat, crowded, and covered with trees and swamps. Picture the complete opposite of Colorado in every way. Do you want another drink?"

Parker grins up at Harp as he pauses the movie and stands up.

“Of course,” he says. Harp disappears into the other room, leaving Parker alone with the ice cream and the fire. He grabs the third and final serving of ice cream, and then snags a blanket that’s neatly folded on the back of the couch, swaddling himself with it. He’s not cold at all, but the weight of the thick knit is comforting and cozy.

I’m so glad I didn’t check the weather report, he thinks idly, grinning to himself.

* * *

Harp regretsit the minute he offers, but he's about to go pour himself another serving of whiskey and it seems wrong not to give Parker the option to have some too.

As he returns to the kitchen and pours them each another drink, it feels good—to be accepted, to be joked with, not to have to filter every single thing he says out loud through eight hundred logic gates before actually announcing it.

Hanging out with Parker is surprisingly low-pressure. Harp gets their drinks situated, stops to check on the dogs, and then returns to the couch.

Parker is staring at the paused screen as if trying to decipher hieroglyphics.

"We can fast forward to the part that looks like where I grew up," Harp offers.

Parker accepts his drink.

“We don’t have to,” Parker says with what could be an authentic smile. He hides behind a long sip of the drink and Harp is glad he watered this round down.

"Are you sure?" Harp asks. Maybe Parker is enjoying it.

When Parker nods, Harp decides to take him at his word, relaxing back into the corner of the couch. The first gulp of the new whiskey hits him and he feels... comfortable in his own skin. He lets his legs spread out a bit, resting one of his own against Parker's and hoping he doesn't mind him getting more comfortable. It seems like there are so few parts of Harp that Parker hasn't touched with his bare hands that it's almost silly to be hung up about personal space.

* * *

Parker,who’s still tipsy enough to lack good judgement, feels Harp relax, feels the light pressure of Harp’s leg against him, and immediately melts against Harp—he leaves just enough room between them for plausible deniability, as though he’s not throwing himself on top of Harp. And even though he’s utterly baffled by the movie, he doesn’t mind it, if it means he gets an excuse to lean up against Harp’s bulk.

And Harp is just so much bigger than he is—Parker’s always been aware of Harp’s size, and how much taller he is than Parker, but it’s magnified now, and Parker feels small and safe against Harp, without a care in the world, like a little terrier curled up at his side.

Parker’s doing his best not to fidget, and as a result, he ends up drinking his drink much faster than he intends. Harp is quiet, still watching intently, and Parker gives up even trying to comprehend the movie, simply letting himself enjoy the moment. And, strangely enough, he begins to relax and settle down—a stillness descends on him, and he feels suspended in time, not worrying the past or the future. He simply is, and that’s enough.

He wonders idly if this is what it’s like to be Harp—at peace with stillness, at peace with silence.

* * *

It's funny,but it is a little bit like Christmas, Harp realizes—or, it's a bit like the sanitized TV version of Christmas that Harp had grown up with but never actually had as a child in Florida. The snow on the ground, the crackling fire, the quiet movie, and the steady presence of someone by his side.

Harp is struck with the odd feeling that he's had several times in his life: the sense of a future nostalgia for a moment lived in the present, the acute awareness that a moment will be something he remembers and travels back to when he needs a respite, solace.

He's gone from feeling like Parker is a strange guest to feeling like Harp couldn't feel any more at home than he does now, with his friend by his side.

The ice cream kicks in faster than Harp realizes at first. But then he's there, fiddling with the hem of his pajama pants, tracing the stitching over and over again with his fingertips, appreciating the softness of the flannel and the stiff thread he'd used to repair them. He's immersed, too, in the movie—in a flow state almost. The movie—the characters—seem so real as they travel across the country in the snow on the screen, but he's centered here in real life, too.

Underneath it all emerges a bone-deep pleasure and he smiles, elbowing Parker gently. "You feelin' it yet?"

* * *

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