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carlyinromeTITLE: Nothing Left to Grieve
RATING: NC-17
FANDOM: Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, The Salton Sea
CHARACTERS: Harry Lockhart/Perry van Shrike, Tom Van Allen/Jimmy the Finn, Tom Van Allen/Harry Lockhart
SUMMARY: Perry has a secret. Harry has boundary issues.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: Written per the
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kinkbangmeme requests: gemini_melia, who wanted Perry van Shrike as Tom Van Allen’s new identity; and anonymous, who wanted Harry discovering Perry’s tattoos. Title from Fiona Apple’s “Get Gone.”It was Jimmy the Finn, actually, who had given him the idea. Like in medieval times, naming yourself for a virtue. It just turned out Gay Perry sounded better, or else he would have been Perry the Fag. It was armor. The thing with Colette—the kiss, not the betrayal—had made it clear that he might never be able to be with a woman again. But Jimmy had shown him that he didn’t have to go it alone. So the name was fortifying, but it was hopeful, too. Like the best things.
***
It took Harry a couple months to realize that Perry always wore long sleeves. At first it was no big deal, because hey, winter in LA was still winter, but when summer started coming it got hot fast, and there Perry was in his long sleeves, the cuffs always buttoned. At first, Harry thought maybe it was a gay fashion religion thing, like rolling the cuffs up and altering the designer’s intended line was sacrilege or something. But then one day Harry and his complete disregard for personal boundaries burst in on Perry in his bedroom a little too early one morning. Harry immediately forgot the inane question that had driven him to entering the most sacred sanctum, because Perry was in the process of dressing, slick and dripping from the shower that still had the mirrors fogged, wearing nothing but the towel slung around his waist. For a brief moment, Perry’s back was to Harry, and Harry froze; he wondered if he had missed Perry sneaking in some trick. Until Perry turned to face him, face pinched in annoyance, the thought that this body belonged to Perry was too alien to Harry’s mind to even consider.
A fine figure—broad shoulders, thin waist. But his back, from the nape of his neck to right above the towel, was completely covered in ink. A grim reaper stretched across his shoulder blades, spreading his cloaked arms over a landscape—a leafless weeping willow, dimly reflected in the water below—in ghostly embrace. Below that, in gothic script, the thick black letters like brands on his flesh: The Salton Sea. Harry fumbled through his mental Rolodex before remembering the Salton Sea as some stoner Death Valley a few hours away; a couple weeks ago, Perry had flat out refused to take a case there. The man’s arms, too, were tattooed; the right with a black armband, and the left with orange and red flames that burned from his shoulder to his elbow. Harry, who had always been squeamish about needles, flinched; this was hours under the needle, days, like penance.
Certainly, this was not a man to fuck with. Harry started slinking back out the door, but it was too late; the man turned. And suddenly Harry was wondering if maybe he had hit his head somewhere, or if he was still in bed dreaming, because the don’t fuck with me guy tatted up like some Japanese mobster was wearing Perry’s face. And he looked mad.
“Motherfucker,” Perry growled, grinding his teeth, “what part of do not enter my bedroom under any circumstances, I don’t care if your goddamn hair is on fire did you not understand?”
Now that Perry was facing him, Harry could see that his right arm was tattooed beyond the armband; his entire forearm, down to the wrist, was cobwebbed with an intricate, grimacing skull. That would explain the cuff buttoning, though it would be many hours of processing before Harry would put these things together.
Perry had a tattoo on his chest, too. The flames from his left arm ended in a starburst just below his collarbone, and beneath that, the word Liz. Again Harry contemplated the hours under the needle; he was slightly nauseous.
But there was no time for that. Scary, tattooed Perry was looking at him like he was one wrong answer away from tearing him in half.
Harry’s jaw worked uselessly for a few minutes before he could conjure speech.
“I,” he said. “Um. Are those real?”
Perry exhaled a long sigh that was almost a growl.
“What do you want, Harry?” he asked, each word a stiletto, perfectly formed and lethally sharp.
“I, um, the Klosterman file? I know you need it for this morning, but I can’t find it, and I wondered if maybe you moved it, and—who’s Liz?”
Perry’s jaw clenched so hard and so fast that Harry swore he heard teeth cracking.
“Get out.”
He didn’t sound angry anymore. Instead, there was some nameless, dead emotion. As terrifying as Perry’s anger had been, this was worse, and Harry was torn by the desire to get as far away from Perry as possible; and by this new, desperate ache in him, to stay and try to work that dead thing out of Perry.
He didn’t know how to go about that, though, so he hightailed it downstairs to hide at his desk as fast as his little legs could carry him.
A fine figure—broad shoulders, thin waist. But his back, from the nape of his neck to right above the towel, was completely covered in ink. A grim reaper stretched across his shoulder blades, spreading his cloaked arms over a landscape—a leafless weeping willow, dimly reflected in the water below—in ghostly embrace. Below that, in gothic script, the thick black letters like brands on his flesh: The Salton Sea. Harry fumbled through his mental Rolodex before remembering the Salton Sea as some stoner Death Valley a few hours away; a couple weeks ago, Perry had flat out refused to take a case there. The man’s arms, too, were tattooed; the right with a black armband, and the left with orange and red flames that burned from his shoulder to his elbow. Harry, who had always been squeamish about needles, flinched; this was hours under the needle, days, like penance.
Certainly, this was not a man to fuck with. Harry started slinking back out the door, but it was too late; the man turned. And suddenly Harry was wondering if maybe he had hit his head somewhere, or if he was still in bed dreaming, because the don’t fuck with me guy tatted up like some Japanese mobster was wearing Perry’s face. And he looked mad.
“Motherfucker,” Perry growled, grinding his teeth, “what part of do not enter my bedroom under any circumstances, I don’t care if your goddamn hair is on fire did you not understand?”
Now that Perry was facing him, Harry could see that his right arm was tattooed beyond the armband; his entire forearm, down to the wrist, was cobwebbed with an intricate, grimacing skull. That would explain the cuff buttoning, though it would be many hours of processing before Harry would put these things together.
Perry had a tattoo on his chest, too. The flames from his left arm ended in a starburst just below his collarbone, and beneath that, the word Liz. Again Harry contemplated the hours under the needle; he was slightly nauseous.
But there was no time for that. Scary, tattooed Perry was looking at him like he was one wrong answer away from tearing him in half.
Harry’s jaw worked uselessly for a few minutes before he could conjure speech.
“I,” he said. “Um. Are those real?”
Perry exhaled a long sigh that was almost a growl.
“What do you want, Harry?” he asked, each word a stiletto, perfectly formed and lethally sharp.
“I, um, the Klosterman file? I know you need it for this morning, but I can’t find it, and I wondered if maybe you moved it, and—who’s Liz?”
Perry’s jaw clenched so hard and so fast that Harry swore he heard teeth cracking.
“Get out.”
He didn’t sound angry anymore. Instead, there was some nameless, dead emotion. As terrifying as Perry’s anger had been, this was worse, and Harry was torn by the desire to get as far away from Perry as possible; and by this new, desperate ache in him, to stay and try to work that dead thing out of Perry.
He didn’t know how to go about that, though, so he hightailed it downstairs to hide at his desk as fast as his little legs could carry him.
***
He hadn’t chosen to be mean. He hadn’t chosen any of it, really. Well, the names. He picked the names. And, just like he’d done with Danny, he had gone shopping, bought the first outfit, the first new skin. He had put it on, the suit and the name, and after that, things just kind of grew wild.
Perry van Shrike was not Tom Van Allen. Tom Van Allen had died, and Danny Parker, too. It was a complete departure, everything burned away and nothing left to grieve. Tom Van Allen had not been mean; Danny either. Sometimes, when his mind drifted to past lives, he thought of how Perry would have reacted to Jimmy’s question about JFK, and flinched.
Despite his name, and the years spent in LA, where sex was a commodity and the market was over-saturated, he had not been with anyone since leaving the Salton Sea. And that had been the first time since Liz. Days recuperating in Jimmy’s shitty apartment, Jimmy’s shaking hands helping him change his bandages, gripping his aching body—never a demand, always a plea: please invite me in out of the cold. Jimmy had offered to give him the bed, but he’d said no, there was no reason they couldn’t share it. The first few nights he was too felled with drugs and pain to think of things a bed was except a place to sleep, but then one morning he had woken up to find Jimmy’s lips soft against his, not like Jimmy was trying to take anything but like a prayer, like kissing the Pope’s ring. And he had felt his body relax, and when Jimmy startled, eyes wide and apologies tripping out of his mouth, he had just put his hand on the boy’s arm and told him it was okay. And he had laid, spine liquid with painkillers and the strange thought that maybe there was nothing left to wait for, until Jimmy had kissed him again, and he had been soft and willing beneath the boy’s hands.
That was a long time ago, and mostly he thought of sex and recoiled like a car crash victim passing the scene of the accident, but sometimes he saw a small beauty or kindness in another person and was so lonely he ached.
Perry van Shrike was not Tom Van Allen. Tom Van Allen had died, and Danny Parker, too. It was a complete departure, everything burned away and nothing left to grieve. Tom Van Allen had not been mean; Danny either. Sometimes, when his mind drifted to past lives, he thought of how Perry would have reacted to Jimmy’s question about JFK, and flinched.
Despite his name, and the years spent in LA, where sex was a commodity and the market was over-saturated, he had not been with anyone since leaving the Salton Sea. And that had been the first time since Liz. Days recuperating in Jimmy’s shitty apartment, Jimmy’s shaking hands helping him change his bandages, gripping his aching body—never a demand, always a plea: please invite me in out of the cold. Jimmy had offered to give him the bed, but he’d said no, there was no reason they couldn’t share it. The first few nights he was too felled with drugs and pain to think of things a bed was except a place to sleep, but then one morning he had woken up to find Jimmy’s lips soft against his, not like Jimmy was trying to take anything but like a prayer, like kissing the Pope’s ring. And he had felt his body relax, and when Jimmy startled, eyes wide and apologies tripping out of his mouth, he had just put his hand on the boy’s arm and told him it was okay. And he had laid, spine liquid with painkillers and the strange thought that maybe there was nothing left to wait for, until Jimmy had kissed him again, and he had been soft and willing beneath the boy’s hands.
That was a long time ago, and mostly he thought of sex and recoiled like a car crash victim passing the scene of the accident, but sometimes he saw a small beauty or kindness in another person and was so lonely he ached.
***
When Perry came downstairs, dressed and pressed as usual, with long sleeves buttoned at the cuffs and a jacket for good measure, he didn’t say anything about the thing upstairs. In fact, he didn’t say much of anything all day; he would make a terse comment about work when it was absolutely necessary, but even then he didn’t pepper in the word “fuck” or “idiot” or anything like that.
Harry considered calling a doctor.
Hours at a detective agency were by nature variable, but usually Harry started whining about going home about four thirty. Today, Perry didn’t even let it get that far; at four, without looking up from his work, he just said, “Why don’t you call it a day?”
Normally Harry viewed early release like a half day from school; normally, he would have snatched up his things and run off to find some mischief to get into. But today wasn’t normal; even if there wasn’t the question of Perry’s tattoos, normally Perry didn’t look like that, like he had a mouth full of ashes. Instead of running off to play, Harry marched over to sit on Perry’s desk, insinuating himself between Perry and his paperwork. Perry glared up at him.
“What is wrong with you?” he asked.
“Are you firing me?” Harry said.
Perry sighed. “No. Just go home.”
“Perry—”
“Barging into my room was a violation of my trust as your friend, not as your employer. Your paycheck is safe. You don’t have to worry. Now go home.”
Harry snorted. “You think I’m worried about losing my dental? Well, okay, I kind of am; I haven’t had the best oral health track record, what with all the smoking and candy, but—but the point is, what’s up with you? You’re all . . . not you.”
Perry pushed his chair back to put some space between them.
“It’s a hell of an assumption, thinking you know who I am.”
“I know you.” Perry’s face was impassive. Harry tried again: “Okay, fine, whatever. But I’m your friend; tell me.”
“You’re not my friend. I’m serious; get out—”
“The hell I’m not! I ‘violate your trust’ one time, and we’re not friends anymore? What are you, some middle school girl? Fuck that. Is this about whoever Liz is, because you sure got your panties in a twist when I—”
Perry got his panties in a twist again. Maybe because he had been so reserved all day, Harry was taken by surprise by how fucking fast he sprung out of his chair and slammed an eye watering punch into Harry’s cheekbone. It knocked Harry off the desk; he fell to the floor, grabbing at his throbbing face.
“Jesus, you fuck! What the hell—”
“I told you to go.”
Harry picked himself up, and, against his better judgment, invaded Perry’s space.
“Yeah, well, I’m not going to. What are you gonna do, hit me again?”
The anger bled from Perry’s face, and he took a half step back.
“No,” he said softly. And then, almost to himself, “I’m not a bully.”
Harry was never the type to let a soft spot pass untried.
“Then are you gonna tell me what’s up with your prison ink?”
“I was not in prison.” Harry just stared at him until he relented. “Come with me.”
Harry followed Perry up the stairs and to his bedroom. He didn’t know what to expect—maybe Perry’s aversion to hitting him was less self-definition and more concern about what the neighbors would say if they saw him batting around the help—so he just stood, dumb, and waited for the scene to unfold.
Perry took off his jacket, and he took off his shirt. He folded them neatly and placed them on the dresser, and then he stepped to within a foot of Harry.
“Don’t ask me about Liz,” he said. “In fact, keep your manic fucking mouth shut altogether.”
Harry bounced.
“I just want to look,” he said, and circled Perry.
Perry stood still while Harry examined his tattoos. He spent several minutes looking at Perry’s back, and then circled around: his left shoulder, and then his chest. He really, really wanted to know about Liz; the most insane part about all of this was that Perry had cared enough about someone to have their name tattooed on him—and a female someone, to boot. But Harry was very sure that Perry would hit him again if he broke the rule, so he forced himself to focus on the flames, the starburst. His eyes ran around the little points emanating out from the center; it was kind of hypnotic.
Without thinking, Harry reached out to touch it. Perry bore his touch, but it didn’t ease the haunted, sad look from his face, so Harry reached up with his other hand and cupped Perry’s cheek. It was a careless action—Harry thought maybe he’d seen it in The Godfather, and for a fleeting instant it had seemed a manly show of solidarity, but then Perry leaned into his touch, his eyes squeezing closed, and Harry realized how intimate a gesture it was. But Perry looked less sad, almost relaxed, and Harry was so relieved that he pulled Perry into a hug.
Perry cried out a little, half gasp and half moan, and for a second Harry was run through with panic: oh, crap, he’d gotten the gay activation sequence started. But he could feel Perry all against him, and Perry wasn’t hard. Perry was so still, like he was afraid if he breathed he would spook Harry away, and Harry wondered, the question falling into his head like with the grace and heft of an anvil, how long it had been since Perry had been touched.
Harry had done the pity fuck before, but never with a friend, and despite what Perry had said downstairs, they were friends. Underneath all the verbal sparring, he was actually quite fond of Perry, and Perry had done a lot for him, a not because he had to. So never with a friend, and, not to split hairs, never with a guy. Not that he had done any kind of fucking with a guy. But when he thought of Perry going so long without being touched that he was surprised, that he was so grateful he couldn’t fucking move for fear of ending it, sadness weighed on Harry’s chest like a lead vest. He wouldn’t be able to breathe until Perry felt loved.
And so Harry tightened his arms around Perry, and he kissed him. For a second Perry tautened in the embrace, surprised, but then he kissed Harry back desperately, like their lips were locked for CPR, like he needed the kiss to live. Harry kissed him, and he drove him back until Perry stopped, the backs of his legs hitting the bed, and then Harry pushed him gently to the bed. Perry sat on the mattress, and then, as Harry climbed over him, pushed himself back into the bank of pillows lining the headboard, until his back was flush and he was penned.
Perry broke away, eyeing Harry distrustfully, but with a discernable sheen of hunger.
“Harry,” he said softly.
Harry moved between Perry’s legs. He pressed Perry’s shoulders into the headboard, and kissed him, his mouth and neck, his palm pressing against Perry’s fly, rubbing slowly up and down.
“It’s okay, Per. Relax.”
Perry stopped protesting, but he didn’t relax. He got harder and harder beneath Harry’s ministrations, and he was growing flushed, panting.
Harry was surprised how unfreaked out he was by all of this. He had committed to the idea of sexual therapy for Perry, but still, Harry had never been with a guy before; it should have been weird. But it wasn’t. It was comfortable; it almost felt right. He had been hoping, though, at some point Perry would take the wheel, because, hello, Harry had never done a dude, and a guy called Gay Perry should have, whattya call it, more experience in the field. But Perry was just compliant beneath him; he had his big hands resting on Harry’s shoulders, but they neither petted nor directed him.
Harry left off kissing and stroking Perry; for a moment, he waited to see if Perry would react, but he just stayed in the same place Harry had pinned him, watching him. Harry undressed Perry, and Perry lifted his hips and moved to help where he could, but he didn’t comment, and he didn’t take over the task himself. Harry threw the rest of Perry’s clothes to the floor—Perry must really have been in a state, because he didn’t say word one about wrinkles or hangers—and then reached over to the nightstand, pawing through the drawers for lube.
He came up empty, and when he asked Perry about it, he shook his head.
“I don’t have any.”
There weren’t any condoms, either, which just cemented Harry’s certainty that it had been a long time since anyone had been close to Perry. And then he caught Perry’s look—hesitance, shame—and he blurted before he could stop himself, “Are you even gay?”
Perry swallowed. “I—I’m just . . .”
He trailed off, his eyes sliding from Harry’s, sliding away.
Well, shit. Harry was now determined for this to happen, and he went into the bathroom to find something they could use. He found some Vaseline under the sink, and brought it back into the bedroom. Perry watched him come in, his eyes on Harry every second. He had moved; he was now on his stomach, his hips propped up with pillows so that his knees were slightly bent and the weight of his upper half was balanced on his forearms. Harry had not been sure how this part would go—he realized, as he entered the bedroom, that he was willing to do it either way, surprising himself again—but that was a pretty clear sign. Harry stripped, and situated himself between Perry’s legs. He rested a hand on Perry’s hip.
“Have you ever done this before?”
“I—a few times. A long time ago. Not this way.”
Harry started asking another question, fumbling for pointers, but he had only got a few words out when Perry’s expression turned so pained that he couldn’t take it. He patted Perry’s back, over the thick black letters, and told him to relax, it would be fine. He would take care of it.
This time Perry did relax, and he waited for Harry to touch him. For a moment, Harry’s drive flagged; he was in uncharted waters, here. He puzzled over the Vaseline; he even scanned the instructions on the back, but this wasn’t covered. He would have to wing it. He coated his fingers and, as gently as he could, started lubricating Perry. Harry had thought it would be an in and out, real quick type deal, but when he slipped his finger inside him, Perry moaned, pressing against him. So Harry continued moving his fingers inside him, thrusting slowly in and out until Perry was writhing against the pillows cradling his hips.
Harry had been planning on having to psych himself up with the usual fantasies—Yasmine Bleeth, Harmony in high school, being Hugh Hefner when he had those seven girlfriends. But watching the effect he had on Perry, hearing him moan and pant and watching the muscles in his back and ass bunch and strain as he fucked the pillows worked just as well. Better. A lot. The point is: it was working, and soon Harry was not just ready but desperate, and he had none of the same nervousness pushing himself into Perry; it was just the next necessary step; it was like heaven and going home.
Okay, girls were fantastic; Harry loved sex with girls more than anything, but sex with Perry was insane. He was so fucking tight, and watching this big, strong, badass man writhe beneath him, the muscles beneath his tattoos rippling and beading with sweat, was ridiculously hot. This was for Perry, to show him he was loved, so Harry wanted to go slow, but it was really hard; he felt crazy with lust, and all he wanted to do was jackhammer fuck Perry into the bed, until he was a quivering, whimpering mess. God, how fucking hot would it be to hear Perry whimper?
And worse, there was a distinct possibility that Harry was going to come too soon, and then instead of feeling loved and connected Perry would feel like a fuck toy, and that wouldn’t do. And so Harry was more relieved than he had been in a long damn time when Perry arched his back, keened, shuddered, and then fell limp. It wasn’t a moment too soon, and all Harry could think as he came was thank you thank you thank you yes yes yes.
For a moment Harry fell against Perry’s back, his forehead pressed into the valley between Perry’s strong shoulders, and then he gently untangled their legs and lay down beside him. Harry ran his hand lazily over Perry’s back, the violent color of the tattoos marking his flesh, and Perry looked at him, and smiled.
Harry considered calling a doctor.
Hours at a detective agency were by nature variable, but usually Harry started whining about going home about four thirty. Today, Perry didn’t even let it get that far; at four, without looking up from his work, he just said, “Why don’t you call it a day?”
Normally Harry viewed early release like a half day from school; normally, he would have snatched up his things and run off to find some mischief to get into. But today wasn’t normal; even if there wasn’t the question of Perry’s tattoos, normally Perry didn’t look like that, like he had a mouth full of ashes. Instead of running off to play, Harry marched over to sit on Perry’s desk, insinuating himself between Perry and his paperwork. Perry glared up at him.
“What is wrong with you?” he asked.
“Are you firing me?” Harry said.
Perry sighed. “No. Just go home.”
“Perry—”
“Barging into my room was a violation of my trust as your friend, not as your employer. Your paycheck is safe. You don’t have to worry. Now go home.”
Harry snorted. “You think I’m worried about losing my dental? Well, okay, I kind of am; I haven’t had the best oral health track record, what with all the smoking and candy, but—but the point is, what’s up with you? You’re all . . . not you.”
Perry pushed his chair back to put some space between them.
“It’s a hell of an assumption, thinking you know who I am.”
“I know you.” Perry’s face was impassive. Harry tried again: “Okay, fine, whatever. But I’m your friend; tell me.”
“You’re not my friend. I’m serious; get out—”
“The hell I’m not! I ‘violate your trust’ one time, and we’re not friends anymore? What are you, some middle school girl? Fuck that. Is this about whoever Liz is, because you sure got your panties in a twist when I—”
Perry got his panties in a twist again. Maybe because he had been so reserved all day, Harry was taken by surprise by how fucking fast he sprung out of his chair and slammed an eye watering punch into Harry’s cheekbone. It knocked Harry off the desk; he fell to the floor, grabbing at his throbbing face.
“Jesus, you fuck! What the hell—”
“I told you to go.”
Harry picked himself up, and, against his better judgment, invaded Perry’s space.
“Yeah, well, I’m not going to. What are you gonna do, hit me again?”
The anger bled from Perry’s face, and he took a half step back.
“No,” he said softly. And then, almost to himself, “I’m not a bully.”
Harry was never the type to let a soft spot pass untried.
“Then are you gonna tell me what’s up with your prison ink?”
“I was not in prison.” Harry just stared at him until he relented. “Come with me.”
Harry followed Perry up the stairs and to his bedroom. He didn’t know what to expect—maybe Perry’s aversion to hitting him was less self-definition and more concern about what the neighbors would say if they saw him batting around the help—so he just stood, dumb, and waited for the scene to unfold.
Perry took off his jacket, and he took off his shirt. He folded them neatly and placed them on the dresser, and then he stepped to within a foot of Harry.
“Don’t ask me about Liz,” he said. “In fact, keep your manic fucking mouth shut altogether.”
Harry bounced.
“I just want to look,” he said, and circled Perry.
Perry stood still while Harry examined his tattoos. He spent several minutes looking at Perry’s back, and then circled around: his left shoulder, and then his chest. He really, really wanted to know about Liz; the most insane part about all of this was that Perry had cared enough about someone to have their name tattooed on him—and a female someone, to boot. But Harry was very sure that Perry would hit him again if he broke the rule, so he forced himself to focus on the flames, the starburst. His eyes ran around the little points emanating out from the center; it was kind of hypnotic.
Without thinking, Harry reached out to touch it. Perry bore his touch, but it didn’t ease the haunted, sad look from his face, so Harry reached up with his other hand and cupped Perry’s cheek. It was a careless action—Harry thought maybe he’d seen it in The Godfather, and for a fleeting instant it had seemed a manly show of solidarity, but then Perry leaned into his touch, his eyes squeezing closed, and Harry realized how intimate a gesture it was. But Perry looked less sad, almost relaxed, and Harry was so relieved that he pulled Perry into a hug.
Perry cried out a little, half gasp and half moan, and for a second Harry was run through with panic: oh, crap, he’d gotten the gay activation sequence started. But he could feel Perry all against him, and Perry wasn’t hard. Perry was so still, like he was afraid if he breathed he would spook Harry away, and Harry wondered, the question falling into his head like with the grace and heft of an anvil, how long it had been since Perry had been touched.
Harry had done the pity fuck before, but never with a friend, and despite what Perry had said downstairs, they were friends. Underneath all the verbal sparring, he was actually quite fond of Perry, and Perry had done a lot for him, a not because he had to. So never with a friend, and, not to split hairs, never with a guy. Not that he had done any kind of fucking with a guy. But when he thought of Perry going so long without being touched that he was surprised, that he was so grateful he couldn’t fucking move for fear of ending it, sadness weighed on Harry’s chest like a lead vest. He wouldn’t be able to breathe until Perry felt loved.
And so Harry tightened his arms around Perry, and he kissed him. For a second Perry tautened in the embrace, surprised, but then he kissed Harry back desperately, like their lips were locked for CPR, like he needed the kiss to live. Harry kissed him, and he drove him back until Perry stopped, the backs of his legs hitting the bed, and then Harry pushed him gently to the bed. Perry sat on the mattress, and then, as Harry climbed over him, pushed himself back into the bank of pillows lining the headboard, until his back was flush and he was penned.
Perry broke away, eyeing Harry distrustfully, but with a discernable sheen of hunger.
“Harry,” he said softly.
Harry moved between Perry’s legs. He pressed Perry’s shoulders into the headboard, and kissed him, his mouth and neck, his palm pressing against Perry’s fly, rubbing slowly up and down.
“It’s okay, Per. Relax.”
Perry stopped protesting, but he didn’t relax. He got harder and harder beneath Harry’s ministrations, and he was growing flushed, panting.
Harry was surprised how unfreaked out he was by all of this. He had committed to the idea of sexual therapy for Perry, but still, Harry had never been with a guy before; it should have been weird. But it wasn’t. It was comfortable; it almost felt right. He had been hoping, though, at some point Perry would take the wheel, because, hello, Harry had never done a dude, and a guy called Gay Perry should have, whattya call it, more experience in the field. But Perry was just compliant beneath him; he had his big hands resting on Harry’s shoulders, but they neither petted nor directed him.
Harry left off kissing and stroking Perry; for a moment, he waited to see if Perry would react, but he just stayed in the same place Harry had pinned him, watching him. Harry undressed Perry, and Perry lifted his hips and moved to help where he could, but he didn’t comment, and he didn’t take over the task himself. Harry threw the rest of Perry’s clothes to the floor—Perry must really have been in a state, because he didn’t say word one about wrinkles or hangers—and then reached over to the nightstand, pawing through the drawers for lube.
He came up empty, and when he asked Perry about it, he shook his head.
“I don’t have any.”
There weren’t any condoms, either, which just cemented Harry’s certainty that it had been a long time since anyone had been close to Perry. And then he caught Perry’s look—hesitance, shame—and he blurted before he could stop himself, “Are you even gay?”
Perry swallowed. “I—I’m just . . .”
He trailed off, his eyes sliding from Harry’s, sliding away.
Well, shit. Harry was now determined for this to happen, and he went into the bathroom to find something they could use. He found some Vaseline under the sink, and brought it back into the bedroom. Perry watched him come in, his eyes on Harry every second. He had moved; he was now on his stomach, his hips propped up with pillows so that his knees were slightly bent and the weight of his upper half was balanced on his forearms. Harry had not been sure how this part would go—he realized, as he entered the bedroom, that he was willing to do it either way, surprising himself again—but that was a pretty clear sign. Harry stripped, and situated himself between Perry’s legs. He rested a hand on Perry’s hip.
“Have you ever done this before?”
“I—a few times. A long time ago. Not this way.”
Harry started asking another question, fumbling for pointers, but he had only got a few words out when Perry’s expression turned so pained that he couldn’t take it. He patted Perry’s back, over the thick black letters, and told him to relax, it would be fine. He would take care of it.
This time Perry did relax, and he waited for Harry to touch him. For a moment, Harry’s drive flagged; he was in uncharted waters, here. He puzzled over the Vaseline; he even scanned the instructions on the back, but this wasn’t covered. He would have to wing it. He coated his fingers and, as gently as he could, started lubricating Perry. Harry had thought it would be an in and out, real quick type deal, but when he slipped his finger inside him, Perry moaned, pressing against him. So Harry continued moving his fingers inside him, thrusting slowly in and out until Perry was writhing against the pillows cradling his hips.
Harry had been planning on having to psych himself up with the usual fantasies—Yasmine Bleeth, Harmony in high school, being Hugh Hefner when he had those seven girlfriends. But watching the effect he had on Perry, hearing him moan and pant and watching the muscles in his back and ass bunch and strain as he fucked the pillows worked just as well. Better. A lot. The point is: it was working, and soon Harry was not just ready but desperate, and he had none of the same nervousness pushing himself into Perry; it was just the next necessary step; it was like heaven and going home.
Okay, girls were fantastic; Harry loved sex with girls more than anything, but sex with Perry was insane. He was so fucking tight, and watching this big, strong, badass man writhe beneath him, the muscles beneath his tattoos rippling and beading with sweat, was ridiculously hot. This was for Perry, to show him he was loved, so Harry wanted to go slow, but it was really hard; he felt crazy with lust, and all he wanted to do was jackhammer fuck Perry into the bed, until he was a quivering, whimpering mess. God, how fucking hot would it be to hear Perry whimper?
And worse, there was a distinct possibility that Harry was going to come too soon, and then instead of feeling loved and connected Perry would feel like a fuck toy, and that wouldn’t do. And so Harry was more relieved than he had been in a long damn time when Perry arched his back, keened, shuddered, and then fell limp. It wasn’t a moment too soon, and all Harry could think as he came was thank you thank you thank you yes yes yes.
For a moment Harry fell against Perry’s back, his forehead pressed into the valley between Perry’s strong shoulders, and then he gently untangled their legs and lay down beside him. Harry ran his hand lazily over Perry’s back, the violent color of the tattoos marking his flesh, and Perry looked at him, and smiled.
***
Fortification was important. If you didn’t protect yourself, you would get hurt. And the depths of pain you could suffer and still have to keep on living—it was unimaginable.
And maybe that was hell, but safety behind an impregnable wall was not heaven. And happiness was not the absence of pain. Sometimes you had to risk the pain to be happy. To live.
And maybe that was hell, but safety behind an impregnable wall was not heaven. And happiness was not the absence of pain. Sometimes you had to risk the pain to be happy. To live.
no subject
Date: 2011-01-24 03:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-24 04:07 am (UTC)Thank you very much; I'm really glad you liked it. It was an interesting prompt to work with. I'm especially glad the tone-mixing worked for you, because I was worried; my kneejerk is to write in Harryspeak, but switching between Harryspeak and Tomspeak would have been too weird.
no subject
Date: 2011-01-25 02:39 am (UTC)This is so different that what I was (attempting) to write; my draft was always in Perry's voice (which isn't easy for me to write). I'd never thought of writing it in 'Harry-speak', but you do that really well.
And the tattoos. Oh, yeah. Did I mention that part was hot?
no subject
Date: 2011-01-25 03:45 am (UTC)This is so different that what I was (attempting) to write; my draft was always in Perry's voice (which isn't easy for me to write).
I would be interested in seeing what you came up with.
I'd never thought of writing it in 'Harry-speak', but you do that really well.
Well, Tom's such a downer, bless him, and I thought Harry's voice would be a nice counterpoint to that.
Thank you. I'm glad you liked it. :)
no subject
Date: 2011-12-21 05:39 am (UTC)"Okay, girls were fantastic; Harry loved sex with girls more than anything, but sex with Perry was insane. He was so fucking tight, and watching this big, strong, badass man writhe beneath him, the muscles beneath his tattoos rippling and beading with sweat, was ridiculously hot."
This line is the essence of what draws me to this pairing. Well done, madam.
no subject
Date: 2011-12-21 06:44 pm (UTC)Aw, thank you so much! I'm thrilled you liked the story; it was kind of weird to write; the premise was almost like crack!fic, but I wanted to write it as plausible.