Page 68 of Untouchable

"I mean, it's kind of fair, right? Better than a cash tip." Harp strips the other foot unceremoniously and starts to knead away without rhyme or reason.

With anyone but Parker this would be way too weird for Harp. But massage is literally what he does—and Harp bets that none of Parker's clients have ever been in a natural position to return the favor. Parker groans again and moves his foot closer.

Harp wonders abruptly if Parker has ever had a boyfriend who rubs his feet at the end of the day.

That's none of your business, of course.

Harp frowns as he draws a knuckle under the ball of Parker's foot.

Well. He does deserve it though. I hope he has.

* * *

Somehow Parker’sfeet end up in Harp’s lap, and he’s not quite sure if he’s done it on purpose. He doesn’t even quite realize the movie’s turned back on, but he’s enjoying it more now—he still doesn’t really get it, but suddenly he can appreciate the cinematography a little. And what matters more than the movie, Parker thinks vaguely, is that Harp’s sharing something that clearly means a lot to him. He’s sharing it with Parker.

He’s on his feet all day every day, and Harp’s strong, broad fingers are seeking out each of the knots in Parker’s feet with deadly accuracy.

“Much better than cash,” Parker mumbles, a little belatedly, and he squirms to adjust to give Harp better access to his feet. He closes his eyes, and lets out another little moan. His eyes fly open again, but Harp’s still watching the movie, and it seems like he didn’t notice Parker making porny noises at the other end of the couch.

"You know, I wish I knew all the things you know how to do," Harp says. "I mean, I guess there would be no one for me to use them on but... I don't even know where to start."

“God, well, you’re more than welcome to use me anytime,” Parker says, and he makes a choking noise when he notices the innuendo. “It—um—going to school for it was fun,” he continues quickly. “Like learning all of the… stuff.”

"It seems so strange,” Harp says, “that we all have these same networks in our bodies. I mean, that's the cliche, right? The differences are only skin deep. Like someone says their back hurts in X spot and you know you have to work on Y muscle in their chest—it seems like alchemy to me. And it only gets more magical when I think about the fact that you didn't go to med school—you're working on muscles that are invisible to you. You'll never see them, but you know they’re there. You have faith that the networks are the same from body to... body."

Harp trails off, and Parker wishes he would keep talking. He thinks hazily that he could listen to Harp talk all day and all night. It’s not just the things he says—though Harp’s commentary is always wry and insightful. It’s the way he says it, the slow honeyed warmth of his voice that Parker wants to curl up in like it’s a hot bath.

“My parents wanted me to go to med school,” Parker blurts out, and, like most of the time he opens his mouth, he immediately regrets it. They’re having a nice moment—he doesn’t need to get stuck in his head and bring the mood down. “I, uh—yeah. It’s—I like it a lot. Learning about the body. Being able to… help people.”

"You've given me more help than an entire team of PT assholes who were so far up their own butts they didn't give a shit about their patients," Harp says, raising his eyebrow. "And don't even talk to me about doctors. No offense because I know, with your sister and everything but... it's rare to meet anyone with a doctorate of anything that doesn't grate my nerves down to nothing pretty quick."

Parker can’t help smiling at the praise. He likes, too, the way that Harp states these things as simple facts. So often, the approval Parker has gotten—from his family, from his ex—was grudgingly given, with an undercurrent of surprise, as if they couldn’t believe Parker had achieved something.

But not with Harp.

It’s never like that with him, Parker thinks.

“I don’t think you’d like my sister much,” Parker says, pulling himself back to the conversation. “She’s, um… mean. Definitely meaner than my other sister, but that sister is pretty mean, too.”

"Your sisters are mean to you?"

Parker offers a noncommittal sound.

"Fuck that. You're right: I don't like either of them."

Harp’s hands are still working his feet, occasionally sliding up a little further, over the tops of his feet and around his ankles, and the contact is comforting in a way that transcends physicality, as if something inside Parker’s heart is uncoiling and opening.

“My parents were really happy when I told them I was thinking about med school. Like in high school, even with my bad grades. I think they were just happy I wanted to do something that wasn’t, you know, sports. But, then, I, uh—didn’t get into college,” Parker mumbles. He can’t quite bring himself to meet Harp’s gaze because he’s so ashamed. He feels as though he’s confessing something, revealing an ugly, awkward truth about himself. It’s terrifying and liberating in equal parts—Harp has made him feel so safe, so comfortable, but he’s afraid of revealing just how inferior he is to the razor sharp edge of Harp’s intellect.

"And yet here you are, at your age, with a fulltime career, living somewhere beautiful, out of your parents' house," Harp says, frowning. "You're the nicest, most professional young person I've met in a long time, and if your parents aren't proud of raising you to be kind above all other things, they sound like they're not worth much more of your thought."

Parker sits up suddenly, pulling his feet out of Harp’s lap. The happy, warm haze he was basking in has vanished abruptly. He wants to believe Harp—more than anything, he wants to. But he can see now that Harp doesn’t get it. And he feels an unpleasant urgency buzzing in his stomach, a gnawing guilt, because he can’t let Harp keep believing all these misconceptions he obviously has about Parker.

“You don’t get it,” he says, and he’s almost shocked by the flare of frustration surging through him. “Being nice is—it’s, like, whatever. Anyone can be nice. Like, I appreciate you trying to make me feel better, I really do, but like—you don’t have to, you know? I was too dumb to get into college, and I barely even made it through high school because my grades were so shitty. It’s… it’s whatever.”

He shrugs, trying to pretend he doesn’t care, though his throat is suddenly tight, his face hot.

“Like, you don’t have to pretend that doing massage is… important,” he finishes lamely.

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