Page 91 of Untouchable

"Who cares? Do you think reading Proust is going to make your opinions matter more than the next guy? Or make you more dateable?"

Parker makes a face.

“Well, Cole was always saying how I didn’t, like… get stuff, you know. Like he’d make references to things I hadn’t seen or heard, or just—I mean, I dunno. I’m not exactly good at conversation. Like, if you wanted to have a conversation about, like, um—” He glances at the bookshelf. “Neetzack or whoever, I wouldn’t be able to keep up.”

Harp snorts. "You would be able to keep up a conversation about Nietzsche," Harp says, gently correcting the pronunciation, "without ever having read the first word of his writing. Do you know why? Because you actually think about things—about people and philosophy. You think about how you treat people and where you belong in the world, which is more than I can say for 99 percent of the population."

Harp shakes his head. "But it's not just that you're nice to people. You're... your own person. You don't know cultural references because you were busy being outdoors and enjoying youth. There's something to be said for that."

Parker doesn’t know what to do with all this praise, and in response, he pulls the collar of the flannel up to cover his face. It’s too much, because it feels so good to hear, but at the same time, he knows it’s misplaced, that he deserves none of it.

“Stop that,” he laughs. “You’re—you’re being too nice. Go back to the grumpy Harp from before.”

"Or else what? You gonna stimulate my evil pressure points?" Harp says, setting his glass down and crawling slowly across the couch cushion towards Parker.

"C'mon," Parker protests, laughing.

* * *

The whiskey seemsto sit warm at the top of Harp’s brain, his worries all forgotten. It’s astonishing to him that Parker could think he’s anything short of extraordinary. It feels good to tell Parker how wonderful he is.

"So what're you gonna do if I insist that you're endlessly interesting, more well-informed than you give yourself credit for, and have a great smile?" Harp says, leaning forward, getting in Parker's face. He's never bullied someone with compliments before, but he could get used to this. And Parker deserves to hear it all, even if he's only just echoing what Mindy has told Parker before.

And if Parker won’t shut up and take a compliment, Harp has decided he’s going to tickle him until he has no defenses left and simply accepts how wonderful he is.

“I—I—I will pressure point you,” Parker stammers. Parker holds his hands up as if to make good on his threat. “As punishment for—for making me blush and look like an idiot.”

"Sorry, Parker. You couldn't look like an idiot if you tried. And the blush just makes you cuter."

Parker lowers the shirt a little and it's almost unbearable to be so close to him. His skin is perfect and sun-kissed.

"I'm afraid the bad news is that you're a talented, charming, adorable sonofabitch, no matter what you say, and now that we're friends, I'll fight anyone who disagrees. That's the real Morton Harper inner circle experience."

* * *

Parker’s mind is short-circuiting—Harphad called him a friend, yes, but right before that, had called him cute. And Harp is still so close to him, and there’s a light in his eyes, something playful and flirty, an expression Parker hasn’t seen—it’s all so, so much.

He stops thinking.

He sits up, bringing their faces close together so quickly their noses nearly bash together. He cups Harp’s face and kisses him.

Almost as soon has he does it, he jerks away, scooting back slightly, pulling his shirt back over his face, and clapping a hand over his mouth. He feels dizzy with panic, drunk off the feeling of Harp’s lips against his.

“Oh no—” he says, his voice muffled. “I—I shouldn’t have done that.”

* * *

Harp doesn't think.He doesn't try not to be blindsided. He pulls the shirt down with a firm yank to expose Parker's face.

He's hungry and spilling over and all of this is definitely a fever dream because he interrupts Parker, kissing him this time—and this time they both lean into it. Harp is nothing but lips and a mouth and hands, a collection of senses, and the reality of Parker, filtered through those senses.

Parker tugs the front of Harp’s shirt to yank him down, closer, and then wraps his arms around Harp, pulling him down.

Parker's mouth is slick heat, inviting. He licks past Harp's lips and it's jarring, like he's being kissed for the first time in his life all over again.

Had it always been this hungry? This sweet?

No. Every moment of this can only be uniquely Parker.

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