Copyright 2013 Hollis Shiloh. All rights reserved.
Cover designed by Spare Words Press
Falling for Archie
by Hollis Shiloh
Lionel Grimsby, also known as "Grim," was a large man who talked louder than anybody else. When he left the room, one felt as though there was more oxygen and room and that furniture was the right size, instead of everything being too small.
Harris Lark had known Lionel since they were boys together at a rich, snobby private school, both outcast and each other's only friend. Lionel had been loud, brash, overweight, and irritating; he was still all of those things. Harris had been pedantic, awkward, and gifted but hopelessly muddled, and he still was all of those things. Even as an adult, Lionel was nearly his only friend.
Despite having the world's safest job (writing owner's manuals, generally for small appliances), Harris had managed to break his leg last week. He'd been cleaning the leaves from his gutter and fell.
Grim came over the first day to help, but his job kept him busy, and frankly, he was a terrible nurse. When he said, "I'll get you someone to help you while you recover," Harris Lark groaned and protested. He knew Grim meant it only for the best, much as the intrusion irritated him; he also knew Grim wouldn't be dissuaded.
Sure enough, by the next day, instead of hobbling around on his crutches at his home alone, or dealing with Grim, he had to hobble around on his crutches and deal with an unwanted stranger.
It started with the arrival of a motorcycle louder than hell. Harris grimaced, hoping it would go past.
It didn't.
He held his breath, pressing nails into his palms. It would be just like Grim to send him some punk on a bike. Probably a greasy-haired, sullen little jerk. Some joke, Grimmy. Lionel would never think about how awkward it would make Harris feel, having to deal with someone so outside his own experience; he'd only pat himself on the back for a job well done. "You like motorcycles, Harris. I don't see what the problem is." Harris could almost hear him saying it now.
The engine stopped. Footsteps walked quickly and precisely towards his door, and then hesitated. Finally, someone knocked.
Harris waited till the person had knocked again, then grimaced and hauled himself to his crutches. His leg and foot still twinged unpleasantly if he jarred them.
"It's the world's least heroic injury," he'd complained to Grim when feeling low and out of sorts.
"I wouldn't say that. I once saw a man who'd broken his middle finger—you know—" He gestured, and a passing nurse dropped her bedpan. Fortunately, it was empty. "It was a dare," continued Grim, blithely unaware, as he always was, of the destruction that rained down around him. "And then he had to walk around with a cast, giving everyone the finger till it healed." Grim grinned, relishing that idea. Harris had rolled his eyes.
Now, he took his time walking to the door, thinking of that man. It would be a good excuse to be quite rude, actually. He used the key and opened the door carefully. He always kept his doors locked, even though he lived at the end of a safe, quiet lane and there was really no need. He liked to keep things neat and tidy, just as they ought to be, and that included locking doors.
He pulled the heavy door open, struggling with his crutches. They made everything so much harder, even this.
"Hello." The young man at the door was almost a head shorter, even hunched as Harris was over the crutches.
The young man smiled a bright, nervous smile. He stood with his legs far apart, his hands clasped behind his back, and he bounced a little on his black cowboy boots. He wore a motorcyclist's leather trousers and leather jacket, and he was grubby with oil stains. Pushed up on his head, riding goggles had left clean white circles round his eyes.
Past him, Harris glimpsed the smooth lines of a rather ancient motorcycle, a beautiful beast, but difficult to maintain. He knew from its manual.
The young man was standing as tall as he could. He pulled off one of his leather gloves and held a hand out, still smiling a bit nervously. "I'm Archie Freestone. Sorry about the noise. I hope I'm not too late for the interview?"
"Interview," said Harris stupidly.
"Yes, Lionel Grimsby said specifically you had to approve me. I hope I'm not too late."
"And did Lionel say what your duties would be?" Harris found himself trying not to notice the young man's soft-looking skin and full lips. He had no business noticing that. What the hell was Lionel thinking, sending him this youth?
The young man shrugged. "Helping round the house, gardening, doing the dishes and cooking."
"How old are you?" Harris found himself asking, feeling older and feebler yet with his crutches and his ever-so-slight-but-no-denying-it-was-there beer gut.
"Twenty-eight," said Archie, standing straighter indignantly. "I'm really not as young as I look!"
But he did look young—young and gorgeous. His eyes were big and chocolate-brown, his hair the color of light brown sugar. It was flyaway and soft-looking: the choppy, unruly touchable-looking hair of a fashionable young man, in contrast to Harris's shaggy haircut that was inclined to do exactly as it wished, and had recently decided to start going gray.
Lionel cleared his throat. "Hmm. Have you any experience as live-in help?"
"Not a bit," said Freestone. "But Grim said you needed someone who could help you around if needed but otherwise stay out of your way." Archie shifted from foot to foot, his eyes large and uncertain.
"Naturally," said Harris, feeling light-hearted and foolish. "Did he mention what your wages would be?"
"Oh, he said he'd pay them." He waved a hand vaguely. "We already settled that part. But only if you approved me. Would you like to think about it? I can go away for a bit. Or no, I know, you can try me on approval for a day. Or two. Three...?"
"Why don't you come in, and I'll make some tea?" suggested Harris. "Perhaps you can tell me how you met Grim and why he suggested you work for me." Harris's mother had been English; he'd acquired her habit of drinking tea whenever possible.
"Thanks." Archie stepped over the threshold and watched Harris maneuver with the crutches. Harris felt uncomfortable inside his skin being watched using them. His shaggy hair fell forward as he walked awkwardly.
"Or I can make the tea?" suggested Archie Freestone. His voice was deeper than his size and oh-so-pleasant to listen to.
Harris nodded, one quick bob of his head. "Yes. The kettle is on the stove, just there. Mugs are in the cupboard to your left," he said, only a little breathless. He got himself seated, feeling rumpled and ruffled and hot, and particularly shabby in his favorite brown sweater with the hole in it and old jeans with half a leg cut off to accommodate his cast.
He watched as Archie moved nimbly around the kitchen. He had the contained, nervous energy of someone who couldn't stand to be still. He moved beautifully, with a quickness and a light, youthful energy that made him seem younger even than his face looked. Harris never would've guessed twenty-eight. Harris was ten years older, but sitting here, disheveled and in a cast, he felt older yet.
Archie washed his hands thoroughly at the sink, then took off his jacket and his goggles and washed his face as well, splashing water. He barely had to lean down over the sink, since it was a tall one; he had to reach far to turn on the water.
Under his leather jacket, Archie wore a simple, white t-shirt that clung and showed muscles in a well-shaped masculine body. He was trim and not terribly large, but those were definitely muscles. His leather trousers fitted tightly, making him look slim and dangerous, down to his black leather boots, which even with the heel on them didn't make him look anything but short.
You just wanted to gather him up and put him in
your pocket, thought Harris, and then wished he hadn't. He drummed his fingers on the table, and stared down at the comfortingly familiar wood grain. It was clean, it was his, it was always the same. No disturbing thoughts of young men entered into it. He'd thought he was past the time of life when you noticed, when you thought about sex. At almost forty he should be, he told himself severely.
"How did you meet Grim?" asked Harris again.
"Oh, he used to be my neighbor." The water ran. The kettle made a metallic sound as though being beaten steadily by the water, then as it filled, only the sloppy sounds of water could be heard. The taps squeaked as Archie turned them off.
He walked to the stove, stared at it a moment, and then fumbled for a kitchen towel. He dried off the outside of the kettle before settling it on a burner and flicking it on. The blue flames made a small, hot, jetting sound rather like wind. It was a sound Harris liked, replacing the ticking as the knob turned and the silence in the kitchen. Archie stood back and stared at it, his head cocked slightly to the side, and then moved to the cupboard and shortly emerged with two mugs.
"Where do you, um, keep the tea?" He brushed a piece of hair out of his face self-consciously. His eyes still looked hesitant, not the breezy, confident young man he tried to portray, nor the rough lout Harris had thought of when he first heard the motorcycle.
"Above the mugs," said Harris.
"Oh. Oh, of course it is. How stupid of me." He fumbled with the tea.
"The kettle will be a minute. Why don't you sit down and talk?" Harris motioned to a chair at the table, and Archie walked over and seated himself. There was still something so very boyish about him, you almost expected to see him playing with a toy train any minute.
Harris still had all his toy trains and their owner's manuals; still loved them.
Archie drew one of his knees up towards his body and rocked a little as he caught an arm round it. His gaze travelled here and there around the room, before finally settling on Harris.
"I'm sort of freelance and between jobs at the moment. I usually work in radio as a DJ." Archie ran a hand back through his lovely hair self-consciously. "To be honest, bills have gotten ahead of me. Been staying with my mom and desperate for a change. Grim said I'd like you, said it wouldn't be for too long—just till you're back on your feet, a bit more literally." He gestured to the crutches (and somewhat near Harris's beer gut, Harris thought uncomfortably). Even this motion was beautiful. Archie had fine, delicate wrists and expressive, elegant hands.
Damn.
"And do you?" Harris couldn't resist asking.
"What's that?" Archie blinked, his gaze coming back to Harris's face nervously.
"Like me." He couldn't help grinning, enjoying teasing the nervous young man.
"Oh." Archie blinked rapidly several times. "I-I think so. Don't know you well enough yet to be sure. But I think so." He grinned suddenly. "Anyone Grim calls friend is all right by me." He held out a hand, and Harris accepted it. They gave each other a mock-serious handshake.
And then it did feel serious, at least to Harris. He returned the smile. "In that case, I hope you'll stay on and see how we fare."
"Thank you," said Archie. His eyes gleamed and his whole being seemed to relax.
Harris wished he could earn that expression again in the near future; it made him feel ridiculously good. "You're welcome."
Then the kettle whistled, and Archie jumped up and made the tea.
Harris had to tell him how, and he nearly burned himself in the process, but aside from those minor flaws, he did quite well.
~
"It's a lovely bike," agreed Harris, leaning on his crutches, running his gaze up and down the machine's smooth lines. "In good condition, too."
"Thanks." Archie's chest puffed out and his smile broadened. He regarded the bike lovingly. "It's a great little bike. Still needs a bit of work, but it's coming along well." He hooked his thumbs through his belt loops and bounced a little on the balls of his feet.
"Indeed," agreed Harris. He wished he could move nearer and touch the bike, but he didn't want to fall over. He shifted, already hurting under his armpits. When did one get used to crutches? "I believe I have the manual for it," he said. And then realized what he'd admitted.
Archie stared at him. His mouth dropped open. "Really? You have one?"
"No. Just the manual." He let his head drop, his hair sweeping in front of his face, obscuring him. "I have a lot of manuals. Grim may have mentioned it's my job?"
"Oh, yeah, yeah. He said something about you writing owner's manuals, but I thought it was for toasters and things, not…not bikes. Wow."
Harris felt the faintest of flushes creeping up his cheeks. Nobody had ever been impressed by his job before. He was tempted to let the illusion slide. But no. What was the point of that? "Actually, I mostly do small appliances, but I keep a lot of different manuals. They're good research material—see what was written clearly or unclearly. You'd be amazed at the poor instructions that are passed off on the unsuspecting public at times."
Archie was nodding along. "Actually, I wouldn't. I tried to put a shelf together for my mom recently. Should've heard me swearing like a sailor." He shook his head. "I think it wasn't really in English at all."
"That's the way of it," said Harris. "Would you like to see your bedroom now? I'm afraid you'll have to put the sheets on yourself, as I'm not in the condition to do so."
"Oh! Sorry! Of course." He shot upright guiltily. "Do you need any help going inside?" he asked, tilting his head slightly sideways. "I might not be very big, but I'm stronger than I look. You could lean on me."
Harris suppressed a smile. "You look perfectly fine. But I'm managing with the crutches." As if to make him a liar, he stumbled on an uneven spot in the sidewalk.
"Careful!" Archie was by his side in an instant, sliding an arm around behind him for support.
"I…thank you," said Harris rather breathlessly. His heart was pounding—and not merely from almost falling. Archie was such a warm, muscular presence beside him. He wasn't very large, it was true, but he seemed to pack a great deal of masculinity in his small frame. For a moment, Harris felt quite dizzy. He had to bite his lip and move away as discretely as possible before he embarrassed himself by getting turned on very visibly right now.
At last they made it inside, Harris under Archie's watchful gaze. He hobbled to a guest bedroom, talking on the way to cover his nerves. It felt very strange to be showing a beautiful man to a bed.
He'd never needed any help around the house before. He'd inherited the large, rambling home from his parents. His owner's manuals kept him occupied, but he found time to keep things more or less clean. Most of the rooms were locked away under dust cloths anyway. Some held only books or manuals and pieces of machinery.
He'd never changed things or even painted a room since his parents died. He always kept all of his kitchen knives lined up precisely and his old manuals (both the ones he'd written and the others he kept to read) organized by type and year.
The fact that he hadn't been on a date since 1997 may have been related to this facet of his personality. He didn't think about it much.
They passed the open door of a room filled with bookcases. "This is the library. I keep all my books and manuals on the shelves. There is also a television, and you're welcome to use it when you wish to. Most days I don't watch much."
"Those are all owner's manuals?" Archie pointed to the shelves, his eyebrows rising incredulously.
"No, hardly. There are a great many books as well. I use the next two rooms as workshops, of a sort. There are partial machines, broken toasters, engines, and such. Some for my work and some for my hobby. I like to tinker."
"Can I peek?" Archie gave him a look of suppressed excitement.
"Go ahead."
Archie eased forward and opened the door. It gave Harris a good look at his back, his slender neck, and his perfectly shaped bottom. Harris bit his lip and tried to concentrate elsewhere.
>
"Wow!" Archie turned back to him, eyes much rounder after he peered into the first room. "You must know a lot about machinery!"
"Thank you," said Harris. Nobody had ever seemed even faintly impressed with all his esoteric knowledge before.
"And the bedroom is down here," said Harris, moving on at last. Archie followed him slowly, glancing back at the rooms. "I'm afraid you'll have to move the dust covers. Will you open the door, please?" He stood back and waited.
"Sure. Sorry. I'm just—I never met anybody with an inventing room before!"
"It's not an inventing room. I tinker," said Harris modestly. It was true; he'd never invented anything useful. Those who can't invent write owner's manuals, I suppose. At any rate, it was a surprise to meet anyone who thought he was impressive.
They entered the room. It was covered in dust and white sheets. Faded curtains and wallpaper rounded out the sad exterior.
"Oh," said Archie, and it wasn't an awed sound now.
Harris cleared his throat. "Sorry about the mess. You can fix it up however you like, of course. Perhaps new curtains, or some paint… but for now, if you remove those cloths, you'll find clean sheets in the drawers there. And I'll leave you to it, I'm afraid. I'm allergic to dust." He began to reverse gear slowly on his crutches.
"It'll be good. Thank you. Thank you for everything!" Archie flashed him a quick, gleaming grin before turning back to the bed and squaring his shoulders.
Harris went to his room, considerably discomposed. He'd enjoyed that far too much, and this was just the beginning. It was already difficult not to think about the handsome man who'd ridden into his life on a motorcycle. How would he possibly manage until his cast was off? And then, how would he manage when this burst of sunshine, who thought his tinkering rooms were wonderful, left again?
There was only one thing to do. He went to his room, sat down, and called Grim. "Where on earth did you find him?"
"Is that a good 'Where on earth did you find him' or a bad 'Where on earth did you find him?'" enquired Lionel Grimsby. He sounded like he was chewing something.
Falling for Archie (sweet gay romance) Page 1