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The drug left a pleasant sticky aftertaste in his mouth like good caramel candy, stretching out long and sweet. It wasn't like any of the things he'd been trained on, trained to resist, and it didn't feel like anything you'd want to resist. John didn't feel dazed or muffled or buzzing; he just felt meltingly good, like a thousand pounds of sorrow and regret had just been craned straight up and off his shoulders. He felt alive again, and better than that like he deserved to be alive, deserved to feel this way.
"John," Harold was saying, gasping.
"It's amazing," John said, and bit at the soft skin over Harold's hip as he got his belt open; Harold made a yelp and tried to get loose again. "God, this is so—" He couldn't find the words. His whole body was bright with urgent desire, with the need to share; he wanted to make Harold feel the same way. He nuzzled at Harold's belly and transferred Harold's wrist over to his other hand, so he had them both pinned against the rough brick wall with one. He dragged Harold's pants further down out of the way and nuzzled at him again.
"No," Harold said, sharply. "John. You're not going to do this. John."
"The thing is," John said cheerfully, "I can tell you don't really mind." He rubbed his cheek against Harold's cock, already hard in his boxers, but it was more than that; it was the perfect lack of fear, the hitch of pleasure in Harold's breath when John brushed his lips against bare skin, the way his body leaned in and not away. Harold wanted, he was just worrying about John, a worry that seemed about as relevant as butterflies.
Harold's breath caught again as John reached for the waistband of his boxers; he managed to drag his wrists over enough to catch at John's hand. "Ask me something," he said abruptly. "Anything—anything you want to know—"
John laughed out loud. "What's your address?" he said, grinning, and kissed Harold's thigh.
Harold swallowed. "132 West 75th Street," he said, almost inaudible.
John paused and looked up at him, hooked. "Really?" he said.
"Yes," Harold said. "We could go there right now if you like."
John wavered; but the concrete of the alleyway was wet and cold and hard under his knees, and at Harold's place there would be a bed, and probably a couch, and a shower, and all sorts of other nice options. It wasn't too far away. "That does sound good," he said. "Are you going to try and get away from me before we get there?"
"Given the likely futility of that option," Harold said, "I'm primarily relying on the hope that this compound will have a relatively short peak effect."
"Okay," John said. He pulled Harold's pants up.
Harold was quiet as they walked, and didn't do anything silly like try to run away. More for pleasure than because he was worried, John kept his hand on Harold's wrist, sliding his thumb happily across the jumping pulse, hearing Harold's quickened breath. It kept his own cock hard and aching all the way, but even that was good. He turned up his face to the misting rain and smiled at the smeared colorful blur of the lights all around them and lifted Harold's hand to his mouth, kissed his wrist, traced the lines of his palm with his tongue. Harold made a small desperate noise in the back of his throat and shuddered. "John," he said, his voice wobbling.
"We're almost there," John said dreamily, and laced their fingers together. Harold's hand felt good in his, warm and square and strong. After a moment, Harold gripped his hand back. John looked at him happily; Harold threw him a strained, worried look. But his clasp didn't have any doubts.
He crowded Harold a little at the door as he unlocked it, nuzzling eagerly at the back of his neck. The security system was pretty elaborate; Harold's hands hesitated over it. "Please don't set it off," John said. "You're just going to ruin a couple of rent-a-cops' night."
"Yes, I'm aware," Harold said. "I thought it might buy me ten minutes or so."
"Is that supposed to be funny?" John said, mildly offended. "One minute, tops."
"I suppose that's not worth it," Harold muttered, and opened the door.
He limped forward hurriedly, opening up a little space between them. John didn't bother rushing after him. He took off his coat and hung it up on the waiting hooks, took off his shoes and socks, left them on the low bench, then wandered barefoot after Harold, looking around the place.
The big living room just beyond the entryway had a grand piano, and an oversized, comfortable-looking couch. John tossed his jacket over the arm and pulled his tie loose as he wandered in, looking at all the books all around. Harold had retreated to the back of the room and was staring at the bookcases there, still in his overcoat.
John stepped up behind him and reached around to get the coat off. Harold swallowed as it slid off his shoulders, although he didn't fight. "Come to the couch," John said, and kissed the back of his neck. The bare skin was still cold and a little damp from the rain outside; John licked him.
Harold shivered again, but he didn't move. He jerkily reached out a hand to the bookshelf and took one of the books off; as John was about to take it away and lead him over, he opened it: there was a photograph inside, him smiling, standing next to Ingram in a tuxedo, a wedding picture: Ingram's wedding. He took out the photo and held it out over his shoulder.
John reached out and took it, stepping in close behind Harold's back, sliding his other hand around his waist. "I already knew you and Ingram were partners in IFT," he said, although it was still satisfying to see: any tiny piece of Harold's life felt like a treasure.
"That was his wedding to Olivia Davenham," Harold said. He was speaking quickly, nervously. "I imagine you've seen their son, William—"
"Yeah," John said. "He's still in Sudan." He tugged Harold's tie off, letting his fingers brush Harold's jaw and neck, and bit at his earlobe.
"He's—he's—I—yes," Harold said, his breath panting; he let John draw him a few steps towards the couch, then blurted, "Hasn't it ever seemed strange to you that he knows I'm alive, and Grace doesn't?"
John paused. He had wondered about that. He had a file on his personal laptop, full of lines and connections, scattered addresses and gaping questions: which Harolds were dead, which were alive; which were real and which were only a thin skim of superficial paperwork, uninhabited.
"Nathan was—Nathan always understood people, liked people," Harold said, still speaking fast. "He had many friends, many—relationships; I realized early on, after we started IFT—that he would inevitably spread knowledge of my real identity too widely."
"But Harold Wren isn't your real identity," John said. He turned Harold around to face him and started working on the button at his collar. Harold caught at his hands. John lifted a mildly longsuffering eyebrow. Harold had to know that wasn't going to work.
"No—no, it wasn't. But it was the only one I used at the time," Harold said. "I realized if I—if I continued to—I realized that—" His voice rose, wandering up and down as John kissed down over his jaw, to his throat.
"You can tell me later," John suggested. He got the collar open and started moving further down, button by button. Oh, look at that. Harold's nipples were hard. He rubbed one with the pad of his thumb, hard.
Harold dragged in a desperate noisy breath. "I sent Harold Wren into the insurance business, to distance him from Nathan's work," he said, pulling his shirt out of John's hands and clutching it closed. John let him, for the moment; he had to unbutton Harold's vest, anyway. "I created a new primary identity and started him working at IFT. That was the—the cubicle dweller you so unceremoniously chased off—"
"Who ran away, I would've said," John said, smiling.
"Later, I gave Grace a different—a different name," Harold said, squirming back from John's hands, but his vest was already hanging open. "Nathan never even knew of it; he never knew I was seeing her."
"Pretty extreme, Harold," John said.
"I'd—I'd already started building the Machine, by then," Harold said. "I already knew—" He stopped edging back, swallowed and looked away, unhappiness crossing his face. "I knew there might be reason to protect her," he finished. "And if I hadn't taken that precaution, if I hadn't kept my life with her separate—"
John felt a wave of affection and sympathy. "And since you gave her up," he murmured, "you've been alone."
"Yes," Harold said, low. Then his head jerked up, eyes widening; he hurriedly added, backing away again, "Which doesn't mean—mmrmph."
He'd backed up against the piano. John blocked him in, arms on either side, and kissed him, hard and sweet, trying to make clear to Harold that he wasn't alone anymore; he didn't have to be alone. "This is going to be good, Harold," he said softly against Harold's mouth, kissing him again. "Trust me. I'm going to make you feel very, very good."
"Oh, God," Harold said, his voice nearly breaking. John slid his thigh between Harold's legs, back and forth, a lazy stroke.
"Come on," John said. "Let's lie down."
"There's—the bed is upstairs," Harold said. "It's much larger—I'm sure it would be more comfortable—"
"This looks pretty good to me," John said. "But we can compare. We'll try up there after." He caught Harold by the belt and swung him around; Harold stumbled, but John steadied him enough to keep him on his feet, turned him the right way, and gave him a good push. Harold thumped down onto the couch with a gasp, falling against the back. He stared up at John helplessly, his shirt and vest and jacket hanging open over his bare chest.
John beamed at him. He was about to kneel when Harold said, "Why don't—you could undress first." He swallowed and added, "I'd enjoy—I'd very much enjoy watching you—"
"Would you," John said, amused, but he was pretty sure Harold was actually telling the truth about that. Anyway, he wasn't above showing off a little. He unbuttoned the cuffs and then the shirt, unhurriedly. Harold was trying to look elsewhere, but his eyes kept dragging back to John's chest. John unbuckled his belt and slid it out of the loops. He stepped in closer. "Why don't you open my pants?" he said.
Harold shut his eyes. He licked his lips. John was about to gently put Harold's hands on his waistband when Harold said, "My real name is—is—" He gulped. "Henry Canarvon."
John blinked. He would have given odds on Harold's real name being Harold and his last name being some kind of animal—not a bird, that would've been too obvious, but at least some kind of proper noun—A slow smile spread over his face. "You make most of your other aliases similar on purpose," he said. "So anyone trying to track back to the original one will assume—"
"Yes," Harold said.
John slid down to his knees, fascinated, to look more closely into Harold's face: Harold was staring at the floor. "You even gave up your first name," he said. "I'm impressed." It took weeks, sometimes months of interaction with other people to learn to react naturally to a new first name, time you usually didn't have undercover. You only did it if you had to, if you had a first name that was so unusual that it called attention to itself, that made you findable. Henry didn't qualify.
"My—my mother called me Harry," Harold said, stumbling over the words as John leaned in. "I told people at MIT that was my nickname, for some time, to—to smooth the transition."
"Did Nathan ever know?" John murmured. He licked Harold's lower lip.
"No," Harold said, a little squeakily. John felt a glow of private, selfish satisfaction. "Nathan thought—Nathan always believed my real name was Harold Wren. He—John, please."
"Shh, Harold, it's okay," John said. He kissed Harold's wrists again, reached for Harold's belt.
"Isn't there—there must be more," Harold said, trying to twist away. "There must be more you want to know. Ask me, John, please—"
"Right now I'd really like to know what you like better, blowjobs or handjobs," John said. "I'm pretty partial to blowjobs in general, but I've kind of got a thing about your hands, to be honest, so—"
"Don't you want to know more about the Machine?" Harold said desperately. "How it works, what it means—"
"Harold, are you sure you wouldn't rather just have sex with me?" John said.
"I would much rather have sex with you," Harold snapped, batting away John's hands. "But given that I am responsible for your being in this condition—"
"I like being in this condition," John said. "We wouldn't be doing this if I wasn't in this condition."
"Yes, that would be the main point of difficulty," Harold said half under his breath, still wrestling with John over the belt buckle.
"Don't get me wrong," John added, "I still get that I don't deserve this. But I realized, I'm pretty sure I can make it worth your while anyway."
"You don't—what?" Harold said, staring at him; John took the opportunity to finally tug his belt free and toss it aside. Harold jerked and looked after it in dismay. John swept a hand under Harold's legs and swung them up and onto the couch. Harold windmilled his arms as he toppled sideways and flat onto his back. John sat down on the couch, lifting one of Harold's legs up and over his lap, so he was between Harold's thighs: it was a good angle for unbuttoning his pants and making sure he didn't squirm away.
"John," Harold said, trying futilely anyway, "John, listen to me, if that's—if—I'd be more than—oh, God."
"So I'm thinking," John said, rubbing the heel of his hand up and down over Harold's cock, "blowjob first, and maybe you can jerk me off if you feel like it afterwards, and then we'll go upstairs—"
Harold caught John's hand with both of his, gripping painfully tight, and held it still. "John," he said quietly, and something about it made John hesitate and listen. "You are extraordinarily dear to me. I haven't—I haven't loved many people in my life. I've trusted even fewer. If you weren't drugged, if you were willingly consenting, I would enjoy having sex with you very much." He flushed slightly and looked away. "I would—I would consider it one of the great joys of my life." He swallowed and said softly, "John, I beg you not to—not to make this instead something I would have to forever regret."
John stared at Harold's hands, wrapped over his own. His head felt strange, too small; he was oddly light-headed. "Harold," he said softly, helplessly. His chest ached. He wanted—he wanted Harold's hands on him, he wanted to kiss him, he wanted Harold's cock in his mouth. He wanted to lie down with him in the bed upstairs, wanted to—
Harold took a deep breath. "Come here," he said, very softly. "Please, John."
John followed his tugging hands blindly, stretched out along the couch next to him. It was wide enough for them to lie together on their sides, curled into each other, legs tangled. Harold's hand gripped him by the back of the neck, holding on; their foreheads rested against each other. John trembled. Harold's body was warm and sweet against his. "Harold," he whispered, yearning.
Harold hesitated, then leaned in and kissed him softly on the cheek, very near the corner of his mouth.
#
John woke late and slowly, deeply groggy. There was a sharp bitter taste in his mouth. Sun was spilling in from the back windows of the room. Harold was tucked between him and the backrest of the couch, an arm wrapped around John's waist, holding him on. His eyes were shut; he'd taken off his glasses at some point during the night. His breath, a little sour with morning, puffed out against John's lips.
John didn't move. The sunlight kept inching across the floor towards them. Eventually it climbed the couch legs and onto Harold's face. John watched him frown and murmur a little, then he blinked awake and looked at him.
Neither of them spoke. Finally Harold cleared his throat and said, "How are you?"
"Fine," John said. "It's out of my system."
Harold nodded a little. Neither of them moved. John couldn't make anything come out of his mouth, terror and hope choking him; he couldn't make himself move. Harold had—he'd done what he had to, he'd said whatever he'd had to, trying to protect John. That was all it was, he knew that was all it had been, but—
Harold cleared his throat again and said with a voice slightly too loud for how close they were, "I—perhaps I should make clear that—that I meant—I promised you once I would never lie to you, John. I did not do so last night."
John still couldn't speak. Harold looked away and said abruptly, "Which is not to say—I hope I don't need to make it clear that I would never attempt to—" He was fumbling for the back of the couch, to pull himself upright; there was mottled color along his cheekbones, and John was sick abruptly at his own cowardice; he forced himself to move, to lean in and catch Harold's mouth with all the desperation he felt. It was almost impossible to speak; he whispered only, "Harold."
Harold stopped trying to pull away. They fell back to the couch in each other's arms.