Page 67 of Untouchable

“He’s mine now,” Parker says. He turns Bo to face him, making a noise of disgust as Bo licks his mouth. “I’m your favorite right? Be kind of smelly if you like me better than your dad.”

"That's fucked up."

"Because he can't help it?"

"Because my own dog is admitting he likes you better. My own flesh and blood..." Harp clutches his chest but remains deadpan.

Parker frowns and scrambles to kneel on the couch beside Harp, looking him in the eye intently.

“Here,” he says, shoving Bo into Harp’s arms. “Don’t look sad, Harp—you can visit him every other weekend and alternating holidays.”

"I sure am gonna miss you, buddy," Harp says, holding Bo a half foot from his face and frowning. "But there's no denying it: you are kind of smelly. And the only thing that can fix that is a b... a bah... a bath," Harp says ominously.

Bo becomes a squirming snake in his hands, recognizing the word, and Harp leans over to place him on the ground before he drops him. He snorts as Bo trots away, unamused with the threat of a bath.

When Bo has escaped, Parker realizes he’s still sitting back on his heels, his face only inches from Harp’s. He’s lost any ability to keep track of time, and he’s not sure if a second passes or an hour as he looks into Harp’s eyes. They’re so warm and brown, and Parker thinks vaguely of a creek bed, a soft layer of earth underneath the sparkling water.

He finds himself thinking about what it would be like to kiss Harp, wondering if Harp’s lips would feel rough or smooth against him, wondering what Harp’s beard would feel like brushing against his cheek. He’s definitely high, he realizes, and the idea of twining his body with someone else’s sounds more appealing than it ever has before.

Parker notices his lips are slightly parted, and he thinks idly about what might happen if he leaned forward, closing the distance between them, and kissed Harp.

* * *

Harp is entranced.He has difficulty relating to the passage of time even sober and on his best days, so he's near useless while high. He's not sure if he stares at Parker's freckles for one second or half a minute. He breaks and laughs and looks down.

"God, I'm really high, actually."

* * *

“Me too,”Parker says. He laughs again and then claps his hand over his mouth. It’s only once Harp looks away that Parker realizes he’s completely invading Harp’s space. And the desire to lean forward, to press his mouth to Harp’s, to fall into his lap and wrap his arms and legs around Harp’s sturdy torso, is only growing and growing.

To resist the urge, he throws himself back along the couch, kicking the blanket away and sprawling out.

“This feels so… nice,” he says rather stupidly, running his hand over his chest. He slides his hands under the hem of his shirt, acutely aware of the heat of the skin of his stomach against his hands, the way the flannel brushes against his skin, the smoothness of the leather couch beneath him.

I can’t kiss Harp, Parker reminds himself. I’m not allowed to.

But he’s having trouble remembering why. It might be something about his job. Or maybe that Harp is his friend. Or perhaps it’s simply the fact that he can’t remember is reason itself. The rest of the world feels soft and far away, though, as though something above, some second sun, is shining down on all the anxieties he normally has—about work or friends or family—and, in this new light, he suddenly realizes none of those things were even worth worrying about.

He grins up at the ceiling.

* * *

Harp unpauses the movie,turns it down, and leans back. He lets it run in the background.

There are lots of things that could be more fun when someone is high than watching a movie, but he wants to leave what happens next up to Parker. After all: getting high isn't a special occasion for Harp, though he does appreciate the fact that he's no longer aware of the tightness in his hips.

Eventually they'll get to the part he wants to show Parker, and in the meantime they should just relax.

"Put your legs out this way," Harp instructs when Parker splays everywhere except Harp’s personal vicinity. “You can just treat me like furniture,” Harp says with a chuckle.

Parker gives him a crooked smile and after a moment, he’s rearranged his limbs so that his feet are in Harp’s lap. “Thanks,” he says quietly, not quite looking at Harp.

Parker is drifting and Harp finds that he’s restless. Parker's bare foot is warmer in his lap than the one that still has a sock. Something about it is magnetic, and before Harp can think about what he's doing, he's taken the bare foot between his hands and started to knead it, the same way he does sometimes with his own weary feet, calves, forearms at the end of a long day.

Parker lets out a contented little sigh, practically melting in Harp’s hand.

“Fuck, Harp,” Parker groans. “Maybe you should be the massage therapist instead.”

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