#even tho i used goomt ~influences~

[partyinthemysterymachine]

On Purpose

Harry wiped his hands on the dish towel. He leaned back on the kitchen counter and took his time rubbing his fingers dry, pushing the damp terrycloth fabric into the webbing, and rotating it over his knuckles. There was a man seated at the table that he wanted to watch fiddle with his smartphone. It’s been three years since they got home, took off their jackets, and packed them away into a box that went directly into the furthest corner of the closet. Those three years have been a hell of a bumpy hayride for the Mason family of two and the Sunderland of one. Honestly, Harry wouldn’t trade it for anything.

His hands were clean and dry. He tossed the bunched up towel back and forth, and inclined his head. “You good over there, babe?”

The wrinkle of his nostril answered that question. Harry smiled wide and warm. “What’s got you in a tizzy now?”

“I think I deleted my email,” James mumbled, distracted. “I dunno what I did.”

“You deleted your email,” the aging patriarch repeated, dumping the terrycloth on the granite top island. “From your phone or from forever?”

“Phone first, forever second,” he replied, the frown wrinkling his brow deepening. Harry strolled over and bent over the back of the chair, laying his arms around James’s neck. He tucked his dark head against the side of the one of blond and snuggled into his lover’s pale, and perpetually cold skin. James’s head was forced to tip to the side by the enthusiasm of his partner’s lion-like nuzzle, yet he had no intent to fight it. From there, Harry observed his frustrated swiping and fumbling.

He pressed a little kiss to James’s cheek and extended his arm, pointing at the phone. “Hold up, stop stop,” Harry spoke against him. “Go into setti— no, babe, go back. .. go back.. okay. Scroll down to ‘Mail.’” James felt the little frown pressed into his face. It caused his own to bear a soft smile. “Uh.. scroll back up. .. scroll down? Uh.. okay, what the hell did you do with— hang on.”

James patiently did as he was told while Harry patted his legs, then maneuvered his phone out of his pocket. All the while, he chose to tuck his face into James’s neck. Then he sighed and nuzzled up on his partner’s cheek again, wrapping his arms around him to hold the device out for both of them to see. “Okay. Let’s see here.”

He wasn’t so sure if he’d get over the strange initial discomfort he got when Harry unlocked his phone to a picture of Heather trapping James in a bear hug. She got caught mid-laugh, and he noticeably embarrassed, though his shy smile and the affectionate way he looked up over the camera at the person behind it always settled that discomfort pretty quickly. James liked that memory a lot, though getting to have it as a visual memory meant even more. He wondered, as he often did, if Harry knew what he’d captured.

It’s the little things that mean the most.

The picture was only there for a second, the settings menu being all there was to see now. Harry lifted his chin a little off his shoulder, moving the phone a little further down. “Maybe I should have my reading glasses for this.”

“Then go get them.”

“No. I don’t wanna move.”

“Put your accessibility settings at AARP member.”

Harry incredulously inclined his head, staring at his boyfriend’s profile. “Excuse me?” he inquired a younger man whose deadpan wasn’t holding up like it used to. James tried to withhold his smile, but it was no use; the only thing he could hold back was his laugh. A partial grin crept onto Harry’s face. “That voice sounds like James, but what I’m really hearing is Heather.”

It was war to keep the smile from becoming a full blown grin, but there’d be no sure victory from trying to keep it out of his words. “You might want to call an audiologist, then. Or tell your psych. You saying that worries me a little, Harry.”

James flinched and uttered an ‘ow!’ from the righteous flick at his ear. “Stop hanging out with Heather. She’s a bad influence on you.”

He leaned slightly to the side to look at handsome tyrant-in-training at his shoulder. “Why? She just says what we’re all thinking.”

“You’re a brat,” Harry told him matter-of-factly. “And she’s a brat. And he’s a brat - we’re all brats, hey!” he chanted under his breath at his ear, making James shake his head and return his attention to their little project. There were many reasons why he and Heather liked to complain about Harry, and this ranked in the top twenty of the endless list. “Okay, so,” the middle aged annoyance continued, “you should have ‘mail’ here under ‘passwords and accounts,’ and that kind of shit just doesn’t up and disappear, so.. what’d you do with it?”

“I don’t know, Harry,” James replied. “I thought it’d be a fun prank to see what I could delete from this phone and forgot to consider that I might not be able to get it back.”

“Look at you, Mister Technology Wiz,” Harry mocked. “I knew you were smarter than you let on.”

“I like to keep you guessing. It gives me a sense of superiority.”

“Wow, no shit?” He smiled at the soft chuckle from the former conduit and pecked another kiss on his cheek. “Okay. Restart your phone. If it’s still fucked up we can take it in to the Apple store and get it checked out. If you somehow unintentionally jailbreaked your phone, I’m gonna fucking die laughing.”

James held the appropriate buttons and watched the screen blacken. “Okay. Still want the cookie jar, or did you change your mind?”

“Nah, still married to the cookie jar idea,” he confirmed. “Just put it on somewhere on the counter to horrify guests when they come over.”

The phone lit up and James punched in his passcode. “We’ll keep it unsealed and put some cookies in for you to munch on in the afterlife.”

“Oh, James,” Harry sighed dramatically, smiling down at the picture he’d chosen as his wallpaper. It was a simple snapshot of Harry’s work desk. The yellow lamp light illuminated his spread of books, papers, and his open, but dark laptop, and cast dark yet peaceful shadows where they were meant to be. He’d known about that picture for a while. James has had it since he learned how to set a custom wallpaper on the same day he got the phone. Every time Harry saw it since, he nearly burst with the strain of resisting the urge to drown his boyfriend in kisses. “It’s like you know me.”

It’s the little things that mean the most.

“Not willingly.”

“Preaching to the choir. Okay, let’s see what you’ve got now.”

James leaned his head on Harry’s for the rest of their futile tinkering. Eventually he checked out of the the whole business and nudged his forehead to Harry’s warmth. He smiled ever so softly at the gentle caress on his neck from Harry’s heavy hand, and the kiss planted on his brow that followed. His eyes slid closed when it became evident that Harry had decided to work with one hand and left the other where it’d landed, lazily brushing sweet touches over his throat and behind his ear.

There was no solution to the email problem, and they’d both lost interest in it awhile ago. Now Harry folded his left arm across James’s chest, holding the sleeping phone to his shoulder as he combed his fingers up through blond hair that no longer smelled of lake water. He nestled his nose into the plainly styled cut and closed his eyes. James, in general, was a plain young man; always had been, always will be.

He loved that about him.

The dull thunk of the smartphone being set on the table didn’t affect him. In fact, he smiled so blissfully when James’s cool hands loosely found a place clasping his arm and hand that nearly all the lines of age on his face deeply creased. James felt it in his hair how happy that smile was. He loved to see it. He loved to feel it. It made his heart do Olympic gold medalist acrobatics, as it did now knowing it was there at all.

But lately within the last year, while his heart still leapt with joy to see that genuinely adoring smile on a daily basis (truly, he couldn’t recall a day where he didn’t see Harry beam like that at some point), he’d realized how many more lines there were. February had passed a few months ago. Harry’d turned fifty-three this year. And no, it wasn’t that he thought fifty-three was anywhere near being a senior. James had trouble explaining it to himself. All he knew is that his heart had begun to hurt while it celebrated seeing that look on Harry’s face.

The hurt was different than the way it hurt because he was loved, and because James loved him, too.

He idly stroked his thumb back and forth on Harry’s hand. The pressure against his head meant another kiss. James reached up and took Harry by the back of the neck, pulling him down as he tilted his head to get a proper kiss out of him for once.

You can’t say that to me, Harry! James had angrily spat at him at the time. I don’t want to hear it! Okay?! Just don’t— even start to even fucking think it—

Why? implored the distraught, heartbroken man. Why can’t I say I love you? I’ve said it before, James, and if you really want me to I won’t say it again, but I’m just— I’m trying to— I just want to understand why—

Because I can’t fucking hear it. I can’t fucking hear it from you. It drives me fucking insane.

But.. why?

His shivering, barely beating heart had sunk like an anchor from the pure agony that dripped from that simple word. Why? Why, he’d dare to ask? Why? James had hated that question from Harry Mason since day one. Today, that goddamn question made him burn so red hot that he wished that Red Pyramid Thing would come along and skewer him right through.

Because I don’t want to fucking hear it, Harry!

James had suddenly lost all that fury in a single breath. In one swift blow, he’d murdered a tired man who he’d caught smiling at him countless times already; who liked to take his hand and kiss his fingers; who liked to talk to him even though he had no obligation to respond; who fought with him, for him, and had almost given his far more precious life for his safety; a man that held him just because he wanted to.

I just.. I can’t take how sincere you are when you say it, he’d tried to explain, as weak and deflated as Harry looked. It’s like you really mean it, and—

I do really mean it. I love you. I don’t think I can even apologize for it.

But you shouldn’t, Harry, James had protested. You really, really shouldn’t. I can’t have it. I can’t deal with it.

Why shouldn’t I? the grief-stricken author had asked. Is it because of what you are? Is it because of what you did? Because of how depressed and hopeless you are, how sometimes you’re barely functional and a drag and kind of a shitty person and you hate yourself so goddamn fucking much that you can’t imagine why anyone would even care enough about you to pick a piece of lint off your shoulder? Is that why?

The had words hit home, and from Harry, wounded and shamed him to the point that he’d pathetically hung his head and stared at the floor.

“Sorry we couldn’t figure out the case of the missing mail,” Harry slurred on James’s parted lips. “Maybe we can ask Heather to figure it out later.”

A smile and a light breath from the other man was caught between another slow kiss. “You find a new way to disappoint me every day.”

“I have to get creative.” Harry’s palm pressed firmly into the back of his lover’s head to briefly strengthen their kiss. “Because I know you like it.” His nose was often described as a beak for the way it curved, and James thought it handsome, especially when it touched his own sloped one in what was known as an Eskimo kiss. “And what sort of bullshit would that be to disappoint you for me being unable to find a new way to disappoint you?”

That’s just too fucking bad, James. I’d say sorry to disappoint you, but I’m really not fucking sorry at all.

“Mm. But wouldn’t that have been a new way to disappointment me?”

“Oh, shit.”

What do you think this is? Tell me honestly, really, I’m very interested to know what you think. Because I’m going to tell you my side of things, so listen up, okay? This is not going the first or last time I’m gonna tell you this, either. I’ll say it every goddamn hour and every fucking day for the rest of my life even if you ever start to believe me. I’ll say it until the sun goes down for the last time and even then I’ll figure out a way to keep saying it to you.

Are you listening?

“Mmhmm.”

I love you. I am choosing to love you, because loving you is something I want to experience no matter the outcome. That’s it. Full stop. I know what you are. I know what you’ve done. I know who you are, even just a little bit, and I swear to fucking god, James, I love you. I’m not brushing off all the bad shit you’ve done or what kind of monster you think you are. You’ve done some pretty terrible stuff. I’m not forgetting that.

But even knowing that, even despite that, I have seen it for myself that you want to hear me say it. I hear it when you say my name. I feel it when you do something as little and thoughtless like grabbing my sleeve, Harry’s voice then broke and thickened, trembled with the beginning sobs of a desperate, begging heart. James covered his eyes behind his hand and had tried to clench his jaw to beat back an intense, once-foreign feeling that wouldn’t allow itself to be repressed any longer.

Harry loudly hummed and encased James in a strong bear hug about his shoulders as best he could from behind him. James’s exaggerated groan that sounded a lot more irritable than he actually was, which was not at all, got somewhat stifled against the author’s hairy, meaty forearm. His older boyfriend then transformed his hum’s pitch to match his groan, and together they raised their voices, swiftly building a challenging crescendo, a duel of lung capacity and stamina.

You never have to say it aloud, James. I know. You tell me all the time. You tell me all the time and yet you still think you don’t deserve to feel that way or have anyone give a rat’s ass about you. I love you because you’re you. I’m aware of everything you are and did and all that crap, and I love you.

Do you fucking understand me, James Sunderland?

James won the battle.

Harry forfeited with grace and maturity. Of course, that meant that when James decided he’d like to get up, the Mason patriarch used his bulky weight and strength to try to keep him in the chair and make it as difficult as possible for James to escape.

“Get— ugh, Harry! Get off me. Come on, don’t be a sore loser.” That groan he emitted at Harry’s decision to tighten his arms was a mite more sincerely annoyed than the last time. “God, come on. Why are you such a pain in the fucking ass—“

“Do unto others as you would have done unto you.”

Disgust distorted his face as the fact sank in that such a well-respected piece of ancient wisdom got turned into a crude double entendre. “Oh, aw, what the fuck— that’s gross, Harry. And blasphemous. And before you say it, yeah yeah, pot calling kettle black, whatever, don’t wanna hear it, I know, now let me up, old man.”

“Mm, mean, but not yet,” Harry both scolded and vetoed with a kiss to his ear. James sighed and sank his bodyweight onto the chair, still holding his boyfriend’s arm in both hands. He dropped his head the slightest bit back onto Harry’s soft shoulder.

He was wearing that cable knit sweater he’d gotten him last Christmas. It was a handsome, rusty orange, like if autumn were a color. Heather had laughed and called it a ‘dad sweater.’ Even though Harry agreed with her, and James sheepishly acknowledged the accuracy though he hadn’t intentionally chosen it with that in mind, he had actually blushed when Harry pulled off the navy blue he wore and donned himself in knitted fall.

Do you fucking understand me?

Harry wore that sweater often.

James smiled.

He didn’t reply.

“Hey. Harry.”

Listen to me again, James:

“Mm?” he mumbled on his pretty, pale neck.

I am choosing to love you. Because loving you is something I want to experience no matter the outcome. You need to internalize that. Someday, I want you to believe it.

“I love you.”

I want you to believe that you are so goddamn worthy and deserving of my love. I’m going to love you, or die trying.

James closed his eyes to soak in the emotional, radiant smile against his skin, and tightly squeezed Harry’s forearm to try to replicate the fiercely adoring way he wrapped him up in his embrace, even though the couldn’t at the moment hold him like he wanted to.

Everything I do, James - protecting you, caring for you, loving you, I do it all, and I do it fucking all--

“On purpose?”

His eyes opened, his head turned, and lake greens met deep, earthy browns. James loved the color of Harry’s eyes; perhaps even more than Harry claimed to love the color of his, too.

It’s the little things that mean the most.

“On purpose.”