"Are you eating?" asked Harris, eyes narrowing.
"The world doesn't stop because you pick up a phone, you know. Yes, and go on. Do you like him, or don't you?"
Harris swallowed. A loaded question; Lionel didn't know he was gay. He seemed to think of Harris as a rather sad, sexless case (true enough) who was simply awkward around women (also true, but not the whole story). He'd never felt the need to come out to Grim. Hadn't even contemplated it, to be honest. There had never been anyone special enough to be worth it, even when he was dating, and he liked things to stay the way they were, including him and Grim.
"I suppose we'll see if I like him or not," temporized Harris. His hand felt sweaty on the phone; he shifted it slightly. "But you didn't answer my question. Where did you find him? He doesn't even know how to make a decent cup of tea."
Grimsby snorted. "Who would, to your specifications? Give the shrimp a chance. He needs the work, and goodness knows you need looking after."
"You haven't answer—"
"All right, all right! I knew him when we were kids. When I came home from school in summer, he was one of the younger kids in the neighborhood. He was always following around the older kids, making a pest of himself, wanting to get into whatever mischief we did. He was accident-prone, always had scabby knees, and was never happier than when doing something dangerous. Happy?"
Harris took a deep breath. "And just what about that makes you think he's a good candidate for home care for an invalid, might I enquire?"
Grim barked a laugh. "High horse, Harr? Give him a chance. He's grown up a lot. Well, not in height, but in other ways. He just needs some work for a little while, and you need someone there with you in case you fall down and can't get up."
"I'm hardly likely to do that."
"Well, you can always send him away if he's not good enough, and I'll find somebody else. Just thought you'd prefer another guy to a pretty lady nurse. I know how self-conscious you are. Now call me again tomorrow if you still want to talk about it. Top Model is on."
Harris made a face. "I don't know how you can watch that show."
Grim gave a lascivious laugh. "I don't know how you can't!" And he hung up.
Harris held the phone a moment, weighing it in his hand. He thought of Archie not far away in the spare bedroom, industriously working to clean away dust and make the bed. He imagined Archie throwing open the windows, letting in burst of light and fresh air—the way he seemed to be doing here, even with his vague air of uselessness.
I'm doomed, Harris decided, and put down the phone and went to bed.
That night, he dreamed of leather trousers, and carefully slipping them off a wriggling, gleeful, slight-figured but very masculine form. Archie's smile gleamed up at him. In the dream, he had slender bare thighs and very flexible legs.
~
Living with Archie Freestone proved to be a long and bloody trench campaign, on several levels.
On the first level, he simply couldn't cook.
Harris entered the kitchen awkwardly on his crutches the next evening to find Archie waving away smoke and swearing profusely. Coffee or tea and toast seemed to be his limit, and sometimes he burned the toast. And the coffee.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he kept saying, opening windows and waving the air through, grimacing guiltily and hopping about as if more speed would take care of the problem in retrospect.
"Quite all right. Don't worry about it," said Harris grumpily, gritting his teeth to keep from saying something unpleasant. What had Grim been thinking?
"I'll go out for Chinese, is that all right?" Archie gave him a worried look, peering up to meet his gaze. Harris felt as if Archie was looking into his very soul; it startled him, and he blinked rapidly several times.
"Or... burgers?" asked Archie. He looked a bit scared now. "I'll pay for it, since it's my fault. If you'll just, er, point the way. Don't know quite where the Chinese place is... or the best fast food restaurant. Or whatever you'd like." He pointedly awkwardly towards the door, twisting his torso around, and brought his hand up to brush back hair from his face. "Sorry," he added again.
"Oh, never mind. Chinese sounds good. Here." Harris dug awkwardly into his jeans pocket for money. It seemed to take particularly long, especially since Archie's gaze followed his hand and now seemed to be staring in the vicinity of Harris's jeans. Not that there was anything to see, but still. "Here. Plenty of sweet and sour sauce. And it's just near the crossroads, and turn right."
Archie accepted the money with small, quick, nervous hands. "Yes. Thank you. Of course. Sorry!"
Still warm from the touch, Harris watched Archie beat a hasty retreat, almost dancing away in his elegant speed. He sighed.
That was the other war of attrition: Archie was damned gorgeous.
He was youthful-looking, expressive, and really rather pretty. Yet there were moments when his masculinity took Harris's breath away. Stripped to his t-shirt and jeans, bending over to work on his bike, the sight of him made Harris gulp and turn away, feeling hot and prickly inside.
He wanted to touch him more every minute that passed. He hated that Archie obviously felt nervous around him. Archie smiled a lot and tried to make jokes and ingratiate himself, which was as charming as any flirting could've been. Harris, awkward Harris, wanted to set him at ease, but he'd never been very good at that. His polite answers seemed to be murmured platitudes when held up against Archie's clever aliveness. And the thing he most wanted to do—reach out and touch him, offering comfort as if he were a nervous horse—would have been least acceptable of all.
Shortly, Archie brought home the Chinese food on his loud bike and dashed inside with it.
"That was quick," remarked Harris, smiling at him.
Archie gave him a shy, nervous smile—and then burned his tongue on his first bite, and made a dash for the sink to run cold water and splash it into his mouth.
The food was delicious, pungent and fresh, and the company delightful. Archie's animated tale of one of the mishaps of his radio work made Harris laugh aloud—twice.
He went to bed that night a contented but disturbed man. Because how, if he already felt this way, was he going to stand several weeks of close confinement with the witty, intoxicating, vulnerable, involuntarily delicious young man?
Thanks very much for that, Grim, he thought. And yet he already didn't want to trade this experience for anything else, even nervous as he was and full of doubts.
He dreamed of Archie again, and engine grease, and slowly stripping his leather clothing off. And that sweet smile.
~
Last of all, in the making-a-rod-for-his-own-back theme, there was the racket.
The sound of his bike engine replaced Harris's alarm clock the next day, only louder and sooner. Tender thoughts were the furthest thing from Harris's mind as he flung himself grumpily from bed, grimacing at the first ache of his leg, and swung his crutches clumsily until he reached the kitchen.
The sight and smell of a hot pot of tea mollified him, but only slightly. By the time he'd finished with the difficult and embarrassing parts of his toilette and sat down to a cup of it, he was fuming. Archie had no business waking him; he was not doing his job; and he still couldn't cook.
Archie pushed the kitchen door open and hurried inside, pulling off his helmet. His face was alight and his hair a mess. Harris had to take a drink of tea; his throat had suddenly gone dry. Archie looked... well he looked like someone's erotic dream just beginning. Slender and tough and incredibly masculine in those leathers, his face alive with excitement, his walk so... purposeful.
He walked to the table and flung down his helmet and a paper-wrapped package in a plastic bag.
"What's that?" asked Harris, perhaps just a bit breathlessly.
"Sausages. I bought some. I'll cook them for breakfast. How hard can sausages be?" So saying, he turned away and fetched a pan, without taking off his gloves.
"Um, aren't you forgetting something?" asked Harris, mesmerized.
"What's that?" Archie straightened up, and sadly, the show of his cute little bottom ceased as he turned to Harris. Ah, but now there was the gentle curve of his loins behind leather. Worse, far worse. Harris raised his cup in defense.
"Your leathers," said Harris awkwardly. Perhaps Archie would strip out of them right here, athletic and delightfully unselfconscious....
Archie smiled. "Nope, didn't forget. Thinking ahead." He flexed one gloved hand. "If hot grease hits me, I can just wipe these down. Don't have to worry about a burn." He beamed, utterly pleased with himself, as if he was the cleverest thing alive.
Harris managed—just—not to choke on his tea.
He watched the proceedings with incredulous interest. Archie dancing forward to poke at the angrily sizzling sausages, then dashing away from the loudly spitting grease. Hurrying to the toaster, stuffing two pieces of bread down with his gloved fingers, then racing back to the stove. Spearing a sausage and holding it up to his face, frowning darkly as he tried to decide if it was done or not—and dripping a stream of grease on the floor in the process.
"You're not terribly good at this, Arch," said Harris genially, his bad mood completely gone.
"Yeah. Sorry." Archie grimaced apologetically and put the sausage back into the pan, jumping back from the angry sizzling.
"Why don't you turn the heat down now and let them finish on a lower temperature? That way they won't be raw on the inside and burnt outside."
"Hey, that's a good idea." A quick, competent-looking flick of the wrist, and—he stared, frowning. "No, that's turned the heat off. Must be the other way. Hang on." He flicked his hair back with a shake of his head and leaned down to concentrate on lighting it again.
Harris tried not to stare at his bottom. His fingers twitched against the warm mug of tea. If this was all a play for his benefit, it couldn't have been more effective; but that was the difficulty. He was sure it wasn't. Archie was entirely unaware of the effect he was having. He was simply throwing himself at life unawares, his enthusiasm and good looks just another part of him. He probably would have been shocked, not to mention horrified, if he realized a rapidly-aging man on crutches was fancying him something rotten just now.
It made Harris feel so very low to imagine that disgusted, repugnant withdrawal on Archie's face—the excuses made, the leave taken—that he was quite able to contain his ardor for the rest of the morning.
The sausages actually turned out well.
~
Harris focused on breathing very, very faintly. He didn't want to do the smallest thing to interrupt the little bird perching on his hand, pecking seed from his palm. The chickadee was so light he could barely feel it balancing on his little finger. Just a ball of fluff. He felt a smile rising up inside him, but didn't allow it to make his face twitch.
The bird snatched up a seed and flew away to sit on a tree branch in the back yard to eat the seed, hesitated, and then came flitting back. Harris held very still again. Such a brave little bird.
There was a sound behind him, and the bird flitted away. "Harris, where do you keep the…" Archie stopped. "What…was that a bird?" He gaped, and his large eyes seemed to grow larger yet. "How did you--?" He reached up to scratch at his hair. His voice rose a little. "Are you a magician or something?"
Harris laughed. It came out awkward and very glad. "No, I've been training chickadees to eat from my hand for several months now. If I hold still enough, and they're hungry enough, they'll do it. I still feed the birds in the bird feeder, but I offer them food by hand first, when they're hungry." He withdrew his arm carefully, and dumped the seed back into the packet, then gave Archie a brief smile.
"That's… that's amazing." He walked over and looked at the seed, at the tree outside with its birdfeeder close to the window—and most of all, at Harris.
For a moment, Harris's skin was too tight. He felt uncomfortable and wonderful at the same time. It was so odd to be stared at as if for one moment he was the most amazing person in the world.
"It's not difficult," he explained. "Chickadees are relatively easy to tame. They're the bravest of the small birds." He droned on a bit, talking about his process.
Archie drank in his words, gaze never leaving his face, and smiled at him, warm and sweet. He clapped a hand on Harris's shoulder. "I still think you're a magician!"
~
Archie was revving his engine; revving, tinkering, revving. Even that sound was getting to Harris. He sat here at his desk behind an old manual typewriter, trying to write. Sat with his legs as far apart as he could make them under the desk.
Still he felt the uncomfortable bulge inside his pants. Archie Freestone was not leaving his thoughts—again. He was outdoors in close-fitted t-shirt and jeans, bending and peering and working with his wrenches and greasy rag. He looked delightfully disheveled. And Harris was Not Going To Watch.
Except it was just as bad not watching. He could picture Archie, and oh, sad older gentleman that he was, he was hard and aching from it. Randy old man, he told himself, stern and scolding. His gaze flicked to the tissues on his desk. Slowly, he reached for his zipper and pulled it down, quietly, quietly. He freed himself, reached inside with slightly trembling hand, and listened to his breath hitch and catch.
The engine revved, revved, and he closed his eyes, ashamed of himself for seeking this release.
~
"Did you want to go to the diner for lunch?" asked Archie, wiping his hands on the greasy rag.
He gave Harris a particularly blinding smile. His shirtfront and face were decorated with streaks of engine grease: more of a turn on than not for Harris. He forced himself to focus on the words and kept his gaze somewhere in the middle of Archie's forehead. Even that was gorgeous.
"The diner?" he repeatedly stupidly.
"Yeah. There's one near here. I could drive you there, drive you back." He mimed driving a car, and grinned. "I'd be careful. I wouldn't wreck it. And then I wouldn't have to cook, and you wouldn't have to eat what I cooked. Hm? What do you say?" He tilted his head slightly, eyes large and hopeful.
"That sounds good. Thanks," Harris found himself saying. "And then you'd get to drive the Nova," he realized aloud.
Archie nodded, grinning. He rubbed his hands together. "And I'd get to drive your '64 Nova SS!"
Harris shook his head slowly, unable to keep back a grin. "You really are hopeless."
"Oh, I am, I am." There was a bounce in his step as he went to get the car. It had been Harris's father's car, and Harris took good care of it, normally wouldn't have let anyone drive it, even Grim, without being severely worried. But somehow, he trusted it to Archie….
Archie opened the door for him like a chauffeur, sweeping a grand but silly bow, and helped him get in. Then he drove with tender care and obvious delight.
He looked so cute behind the wheel. Harris hoped this wasn't going to be another kink. He was starting to think everything Archie did turned him on….
The diner wasn't too crowded, and it was a pleasure to get out of the house. He greeted a few acquaintances, introduced Archie to anyone who asked, and enjoyed watching the young man devour his French fries. He had such large eyes: more bush baby eyes than human eyes, Harris decided. It made his every emotion seem to shine clear through.
Harris may have fallen asleep briefly on the way home, the meal warm and pleasant inside him, the car humming gently around him, and Archie driving with concentration, so smooth and careful, as if it was the greatest pleasure in the world to have his hands on the Nova's wheel. He awoke when they pulled into the drive, the slightly different sound of the tires alerting him to a change. He opened his bleary eyes and saw home, like a revelation, and Archie beside him, so very pleased to be driving.
Harris felt oddly reverential as he wiped at the sleep in his eyes, and yawned: this moment felt so melancholy and full of meaning. Even though he knew it wasn't true, he clung to the impression for several long, pleasant moments as he made his way inside, Archie's han
d gentle on his arm, to steady him.
~
"Will you hand me the smallest wrench?"
"Here." Archie passed it. He propped his elbows back on the table, following everything Harris did avidly. "Do you want some tea?" he asked after bit.
"Yes, please. That sounds very nice." He glanced up and smiled at Archie.
Archie ducked his head as though embarrassed. He hopped up just a little too quickly, catching his shin on the table leg. The tools jumped.
"Ow," Archie mouthed, grimacing, holding onto his leg and hopping in place. "Sorry. I didn't mean to jar the table."
"The table's fine. Arch—" He reached out and put a hand on Archie's arm. Why do you keep hurting yourself? he wanted to ask. Instead, he found himself tenderly squeezing Archie's arm. "All right?"
"I'm such an idiot," said Archie with a little catch in his voice. "I keep doing that!"
"It's not your fault you're a clumsy oaf."
And that made Archie smile, and the distressed look began to leave his face. He rubbed his shin once more, and then straightened up. He looked at Harris, his chocolate eyes full of such hidden depths and emotions—gladness, wistfulness, and more. He just stood there, looking at Harris.
Harris startled. "Sorry. Don't let me keep you." He released Archie quickly. Hadn't realized he'd still been holding onto him.
"Oh, I think you could," said Archie quietly as he moved away.
"Pardon?"
"Nothing. I'll fix that tea." He moved to the stove.
A few moments later, he was whistling off-key and waiting for the kettle to boil. Harris stayed bent over the pieces of his toaster oven, focusing carefully on it, like a giant puzzle that could be put completely to rights if he just concentrated hard enough. If he just thought about that, and not how much he wanted Archie.
Falling for Archie (sweet gay romance) Page 2