Time always seemed to fly when he was working on machines for his owner's manual writing while talking to Archie. It was interesting, and rather flattering, that the restless Archie could be still for so long to talk, listen, and help. And Harris enjoyed having an audience more than he would have thought possible. Concentrating on the tasks gave them time together that didn't have the pressure of other interaction, and removed some of the tension of his involuntary, intense focus on Archie's beautiful body.
When he wrote or sketched instructions for his manuals, he could lose himself in the work and forget about his cast, how little he could do, and how much his leg itched where he couldn't scratch.
Although Archie hadn't since ridden his bike so early in the morning after Harris talked to him about it, Archie's restless energy hadn't abated. He worked hard around the place, chopping and stacking wood, raking the last of the leaves, cleaning, cooking, and doing the shopping. He ran nearly every day, returning bright-eyed and sweaty.
He found ways to do foolish stunts, too. One morning as Harris was getting out of bed, he heard a squealing, squeaking sort of sound, a thump, and a whimpered sort of yelp. He hurried from his ground-floor room to see Archie at the bottom of the tall staircase, bending forward and holding his crotch, his face a mask of pain.
"What happened?" Harris swung forward on his crutches.
"Slid... down... ugh."
Harris glanced at the stair's banister. "That was foolish." He resisted the urge to move forward and try to comfort him, this time. But only barely.
If Archie was sometimes foolish and uncoordinated, Harris was worse. Embarrassingly, he was still unsteady on his crutches. Any normal person would've been swinging away adeptly on them by now instead of wobbling about.
Archie helped him with them, sometimes; helped him up from a seat, his gaze momentarily sober and watchful. Harris relished the contact in his most secret heart.
Sometimes he felt Archie's gaze on him, watching him. (Doubtful? Worried? What?) He usually ended up lowering his head so his hair fell forward and hid his face. He sometimes ended up talking rather a lot, and too quickly, to get the attention off himself, to remove it anywhere, anywhere else.
Sometimes it almost broke his heart how gentle Archie was with him.
If he knew how I feel about him, he'd probably hate me.
But oh, when Archie brought him a mug of tea made just perfectly, without even being asked, how his heart melted.
And the dreams hadn't stopped. They weren't always sexual. Sometimes they involved nothing more than a chaste kiss. But Archie was always there. And always, always Harris loved him and wanted him.
~
Seated on the porch next to Harris, Grim swirled his drink and observed as Archie was polishing the Nova. He had a happy look on his face and a skip in his step. Watching him, Harris was so often reminded of a dancer or an overeager child. His enthusiasm showed itself in a gorgeous gracefulness—when he wasn't being clumsy.
"You've been good for him," observed Grim.
He and Harris relaxed on chairs on the porch, drinking in a civilized manner while Archie drooled over the car.
Grim laughed. "I think somebody's fallen in love with the Nova! I'm surprised you let him touch it, to be honest. Aren't you afraid he'll bust a headlight or dent the door?"
"No, he's good with cars," said Harris quietly. "What did you mean, I've been good for him?" He turned to look at his friend.
"Well, he had a rough time of it at his last job." Grim finished his drink and reached for the bottle of wine with one of his long arms, helping himself without self-consciousness, the way one could with old friends: or no one, if you were Harris, or everyone, if you were Grim.
"What sort of rough time?" Harris stared at him.
"He left his last job under a bit of a cloud. Nasty rumors," he said vaguely, waving a large hand. He sat back, stretching his legs out, adjusting himself with all the comfort and ease of a man who didn't have to watch himself around other men, or anyone. Simply utterly free to be himself. In that moment, Harris resented him for being so comfortable.
"I'm sorry to hear that," he found himself saying quietly.
"Ah, he can handle himself. Don't believe the delicate looks." He waved a hand towards Archie and sipped his wine. "He's actually a tough little guy. I've seen him in bar fights. Broke a man's teeth once and only got a black eye in return. Should've seen how pleased he looked with himself."
Harris felt a chill. Not so much at the thought of Archie being tougher than he looked (he'd been rather pleasantly aware of that already), but at the thought of him in a fight and getting hurt, however slightly. Damn it, pull yourself together! he berated himself.
"The rumors and backbiting got to him, though. He seemed pretty beat down towards the end. Don't think I've ever seen him so low before that. He needed a break, and you've given it to him. He's doing well here, got that happy puppy look back." He swigged his drink. "You seem happy, too."
"I am," said Harris quietly. Then, fearing he'd perhaps said too much, he changed the subject.
A moment later, Archie came over. "Got a drink for me?" He stood as tall as he could, stretching a little, one hand in his back. Harris tried (and failed) not to noticed the gentle bulge of his groin.
"Get it yourself," said Grim.
Archie laughed, and did. He moved over to sit beside Harris, perching on the arm of his chair, and clinked his glass against Harris's. It made a nice sound.
"What are you talking about?" he asked, shaking his hair back and taking a sip. He peered at Grim cautiously over the edge of his glass. It looked larger in his small hands. He sat close enough that Harris could feel the warmth of his body on this cool day.
"You, you little asshole," said Grim outrageously, grinning at him with mock indignation.
Archie almost choked on his mouthful of wine, he laughed so hard. Harris reached up automatically, putting a hand in the middle of his back to steady him. "Don't fall," he said.
Archie felt so warm and alive under his fingers, he never wanted to let go. But he did, of course.
~
Harris looked up from his mug of tea at the sound of a throat being cleared. "Yes?"
Archie stood as tall as he could in the middle of the kitchen floor, holding an old record player with some records balanced on top of it. Harris recognized them from the spare room.
"I thought you might like to hear me DJ." Archie's eyes gleamed.
Harris put down his tea and cleared his throat. "I'd love to."
"Good!" He gave Harris a quick, boyish grin. Soon, he had the record player set up.
As he put the first record on to play, Archie read off the song's title and artist and described it with a deepened voice that really did sound like a radio announcer's. Harris didn't know why he was surprised, except that Archie always acted like he wasn't good at anything. He clearly was quite good at this.
As the old records played, the music tugged at Harris's heartstrings, making him remember listening to them with his parents. He'd always been a homebody, a boring man who enjoyed things others found boring, liked music from the wrong era, and preferred being alone, because loneliness was easier to handle than mockery or trying to fit others' confusing and often changing standards.
This sweet, silly man with his surprising skill made Harris smile despite everything. Archie brought the old songs back to life for him more than he'd ever thought possible, yet made them all seem new again, too.
"You should dance," said Archie, standing up and moving towards him with a little wiggle of his hips, hands stretching out for his, smile warm and bright. "How can you sit still for this song?"
Harris grinned. "I have to. Crutches, remember?" He pointed to them.
"Oh! I forgot!" Archie smacked his forehead, his cheeks' hue deepening. "Well, then, I'll have to dance for both of us." He moved away quickly, flinging himself into wild movements that somehow fit the music perfectly. Harris could only watch in rapt admirati
on.
After they'd played all the records at least once, they sat up late, shared a drink, and talked about all the things they loved and hated about music. And Harris wondered why he'd ever wanted to be alone.
~
Sometimes, Harris didn't want to share a drink with Archie. He didn't want to be tempted by Archie as he got more and more beautiful. As he listened and nodded to what Harris said, and then pointed out something, with his hands moving as if they were subtitling everything he said in sign language. Sometimes, the urge to wrap him up in his arms and kiss him almost overcame Harris, and with alcohol... well it was far better to resist it and Archie together. So he only rarely shared a drink with Arch at home.
But some evenings, Archie went out for a drink by himself. It didn't surprise Harris that a buoyant, lively young man should want to go to a bar sometimes. But it gnawed at him and made him long for Archie to return—and wonder who attracted Archie's attention. But he never wondered who would notice Archie; that would be anyone with eyes, surely.
Archie usually ran there and walked back, claiming the exercise did him good. Sometimes he was whistling on the way back. Harris knew; he always waited up, or stayed awake in bed, to be sure Archie returned safely. He was ashamed of the need to do so, but somehow, he couldn't sleep until he knew Archie was home safe.
Home? It felt more than ever like home with Archie here, even though he was so very aware of Archie being a guest, a semi-employee, and a whirlwind who could not be contained or belong to anyone. After his parents died, this had been a place to live, but it hadn't often felt like home.
One evening, Harris sat up pretending there was a book he wanted to read. But his leg ached, and he wanted to sleep. His eyelids grew heavier and heavier, and it was only when the key scratched at the door that he jerked awake and realized he'd begun to drift, his book had started to fall forward.
Archie came inside, but it was slower than usual. Harris tensed and listened. Something about the way Archie was moving in the kitchen sounded unfamiliar, wrong, and worrisome. He got into the freezer; ice cubes clunked.
"Arch?" Harris called.
"You up?" Archie walked into the room, holding a bulging towel against his right eye. He was wincing and walking carefully, but trying to pretend he wasn't; he had his usual strut in his walk, but exaggerated, as if to cover pain.
"Ice? A black eye?" asked Harris as his brain caught up with what his eyes saw. He put down his book and started to struggle to his feet, reaching for the crutches, awkward and uncomfortable and feeling again a dull ache in his leg.
Archie stepped forward and held out his free hand. Harris accepted it and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet by Archie's corded muscles, his slender, tough strength.
"You got in a fight?" Harris leaned on his crutches, surveying Archie with concern.
"Uh, yeah. Didn't walk into the door. Can I have a drink?" Without waiting for an answer, he walked to the drinks cabinet.
"Haven't you had enough? What happened, Arch?"
"Nothing major. An argument." Elegant shoulders gave a smooth shrug, and Archie socked back the drink he'd poured.
Harris eyed him, looking for further damage. He didn't spot any, but Archie was obviously in pain. "Do you need to go to the hospital?" he ventured.
"No, of course not." Archie closed his eyes for a moment, shoulders sagging. He rested one hand on the cabinet, his head bowed. "Did I ever say thank you, Harris?"
"What?" The change in subject flummoxed him.
"Thank you. For letting me stay, even though I can't cook and I'm a crap employee." He put down the glass and moved towards Harris like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Now he stood close, so close, and then he was leaning his head against Harris's shoulder. Resting there, as if full of defeat.
Harris shifted his crutch and reached up around Archie awkwardly, carefully. He pressed his palm against Archie's warm, muscular back and gently rubbed. "No need. You've been very welcome here, I'm sure you know. And you're getting better at cooking."
Archie snorted. "I'm a terrible cook." His hand with the ice pack in it shifted, and he raised it again to his eye, withdrawing from the embrace. His good eye met Harris's gaze frankly, with that peculiarly endearing mix of self-deprecation, humor, and spirited toughness. "You know it's true."
"Oh, well, there's more to life than cooking," said Harris with an awkward bob of his head. He felt the heat in his cheeks; Archie was so very close.
Archie smiled with an oddly intense, wistful look. "I know."
Harris cleared his throat, looking away. "Ahem. You should go to bed, Arch. Did you take any aspirin?"
"No. I will." He sighed heavily and trailed out to the kitchen.
Harris watched him walk away, feeling as though he'd lost something, or failed a test, or messed up something and he'd never know what.
~
Christmas, and Archie was gone.
"Just a short visit to my mother," he'd said cheerily, tossing a long scarf round his neck. For a moment, Harris thought of WW1 fighter pilots, so brave and debonair. He had to clench his fingernails into his palms to keep from making a sound in his throat. Lately, he couldn't look at Archie without noticing him physically, and going soft inside. Perhaps he should be glad for the break from Archie's presence. Perhaps, but he wasn't.
He could hardly bear to watch Archie wave and then ride off on his motorcycle. He'd turned back disconsolately to his kettle, to make tea. It would be a lot of tea before Archie returned.
But on Christmas day, an unexpectedly large storm blew up. The snow swirled harder and harder, and Archie was still gone. Harris kept the radio tuned to a local news channel, and the television as well. In the kitchen, he made himself cocoa. When he remembered to sip it, he barely tasted it. Archie wasn't home. Archie wasn't home, and the storm grew worse by the minute.
"This should be the whitest Christmas in years," said the newscaster, bundled in a warm coat and hat. "Many power lines are down, and we'll continue to update our list of roads closed. Remember, stay warm, and don't venture out unless you absolutely have to. If you're on the road, get off it as soon as possible. This storm is brutal."
Brutal. Harris clenched and unclenched his hands. Archie. You'd better have stayed home with your mother!
He imagined Archie's cheerful face turning blue and Archie shivering inside his leather riding clothes, trapped on a road somewhere with no more protection than his motorcycle as the snow swirled deeper and deeper. Oh, Arch…
He turned back disconsolately to the fireplace, which he'd been stoking up since the storm started. If the lights did go out, they'd be likely to stay out for some time here at the end of a quiet, country road.
He had a few old oil lamps lined up in the kitchen, as well as flashlights and batteries. His family had used the oil lamps since he was a small boy. He remembered how they used to shine when his father polished their copper sides. How they used to shine…
He looked around the old house and suddenly felt suffocating panic. He'd let things go to pot since his parents died. I was so focused on just surviving, keeping everything the same, but I didn't even polish the lamps!
A gust of wind rattled the windows on the whole eastern side of the house. He suddenly felt as if he was going to start crying.
He looked over at the Christmas tree Arch had set up. He'd worked so cheerfully, ever hopeful of things turning out perfectly. In the process, he'd broken a red bulb and promptly cut his hand on it. Once fully bandaged and back at it, he'd fallen off the chair while trying to put the star on top of the tree, and then nearly electrocuted himself getting the electric train set up.
It was more Marx brothers than Home and Garden. Harris had sat and given directions, offered advice, and called "Be careful!" and winced at key moments. But even with the perils and pratfalls, Archie was so wonderfully present he made the house feel alive.
Harris felt pathetic for thinking that way, but he couldn't change his feelings. He stared at t
he tree with its crooked star and faintly twinkling colored lights.
As if on cue, another gust of wind hit the house, rattling windows and walls alike. The lights cut out, plunging the house into darkness. He blinked and his eyes adjusted. The light from the fire gleamed low and orange, sending shadows dancing around the now dimly lit room.
Harris struggled to his feet and limped on his crutches back into the kitchen. The house was silent without the constant blast and chatter of radio and television. Only the wind screamed and shrieked now. He scratched a match. Its light gleamed, shining on the glass of the lamps. Placing it to the wick, he watched the fire slowly catch, then leap and grow, lighting the whole room.
There was a knock at the door.
Harris stared. Could something be blowing—
No, there it was again. A definite knock, louder and more assuredly human than ever.
He stood slowly, pulling himself up on his crutches, and moved to the door. Whoever it was, he'd give them shelter. No one should be out on a night like this.
Archie, he thought, with a fresh pang. No, don't be so silly. He won't be out. He'll have stayed home.
Harris opened the door.
A short, dark-clad man who was leaning against the door almost fell inside. He stumbled in, clad in leather, with a frozen scarf wrapped round him.
"Arch!" Harris reached out to catch him and nearly fell himself.
"I'm sorry," mumbled Archie. He got indoors on his own feet, turned, and shut the door, closing out the swirling snow and howling wind. Archie smiled wearily. His face was pale and strained, and he looked older, nearly his age.
Harris felt hot and cold at the same time. "You little fool. Why didn't you stay home?" he snapped.
"I didn't know it would be this bad." He leaned against the stove and closed his eyes a moment. The light from the oil lantern threw strange shadows on his exhausted face. He reached up and slowly began to unwind his frozen scarf. "And don't call me little."
Falling for Archie (sweet gay romance) Page 3