No Return

His head spins and he tries to concentrate on the motion of his pumping while trying to conceive of how they had gone from sipping a couple of beers of Perry's couch, watching some shitty movie HBO to downing shots of something much stronger while toasting the assholes that were their fathers. He thinks it might be rum he tastes on his tonsils along with the hot and salty precum that's sloshing along his tongue as Perry thrusts himself faster and he quickens the motion of his head to keep up. Thinks it's rum, but he doesn't know. Doesn't care.

His head spins even more as he tries to figure out how this happened while answering to Perry's pleas. He remembers curses and bitter laughter as they slurred complaints about the dads they hated, their confessions detached and mumbled with somewhat forced bravado…and then, somehow they'd taken the plunge. No. He'd taken it. He's seen Perry drunker than this, much drunker, though it hardly seems possible, and his hands have never wandered before. In fact, he had had more than enough insults and exasperated chastisements from the man to be assured that any interest he might have in him reached a percent of .0005, at best.

It was all Harry. He initiated it, for whatever reason, whatever insanity the mutual understanding, the expression of a common struggle had unearthed within him at that moment. And just like how he talked himself into corners, and fucked up every situation with his inability to just stop, once his hands reached Perry's belt buckle he had lost the ability to stop.

In every situation, once he got started, he couldn't stop until Perry made him, with a smack or an irritated warning and none had come. There was a brief moment where Perry tensed up, stiff as a bored and slur-whispered something like "what the fuck?" but then he slackened again and helped with the tugging down of pants and laughed softly when Harry mumbled that this would be a lot easier if he wasn't so gay and his pants weren't so tight.

And now they are here, with Harry crouched over him on one end of the couch, the only time he's ever been above the man in any sense of the word, and with a final throaty grunt of satisfaction, Perry lets go and Harry feels come that isn't his own for the first time. He's too distracted by the words "I guess this makes it your turn" to think about whether he likes the sensation or not.

Perry gets up to shift positions, still breathing hard, their mouths crash together and they explore each other softly and timidly and briefly. Too quickly, Perry pulls his mouth away and slides down on the couch and begins fumbling with Harry's belt and Harry feels something like disappointment. He quickly concludes that that has to be the single craziest thing he's thought all night and hopes that if he can only forget one thing about tonight that it's the urge he has to grab Perry by the collar and bring him back here for just another minute.

He feels the thick, hard cock between his lips, feels it pushing deeper into his throat, making him gasp for air, the struggle only increasing his fire for it, his frenzy to take as much of it in as he can. Two firm hands tug at his hair and their owner's groans are so deep that they seem to vibrate down through his arms, into those hands and into Harry's hair, making him groan just as deeply, if more muffled and he can't think (or maybe he just doesn't want to). He can't make himself rationalize, wake up, do what it takes to pull himself away, to sputter in disgust and horror and slip away and hope that neither of them remembers this in the morning.

Every morning for the past few weeks Harry had been bringing him coffee. Ever since the coffee pot had run dry and he allowed himself the privilege of swiping the cup out of Harry's hand- an easy task, he'd gloated, when his victim was missing half a finger on that hand. Not that he couldn't have nabbed it if it had been in his good hand. He totally could have. Harry was…a bit of a pansy, to put things gently-which he never did so why was he bothering now? He could take Harry out with a pinky.

Anyway, upon tasting that heavenly goodness (which he never referred to it as out loud, obviously, because Harry was fond of pointing it out when he did something uncharacteristically flamboyant), he'd remarked with surprise how much better it was than the shitty homemade stuff he had to suffer through every day and brought it back to his desk with him. He'd only planned on taking a sip, really, but he wasn't expecting it to be so damn good.

Then the next morning Harry showed up with two little Styrofoam cups that said Martha's Coffeehouse on them and set one down on Perry's desk. He was pretty sure he'd meant to slosh some on his paper, or maybe even his hand but it landed gracefully and Perry had to chuckle because really, only Harry could fail at spilling something. Throughout the next hour, Harry made a show of glaring across his desk at Perry suspiciously and guarding his coffee deftly and Perry made sure to eye it hungrily to save Harry the embarrassment of knowing he knew that he brought it, not out of a selfish desire to keep his own coffee but because he was just…nice that way. Because Perry said he liked it.

Eventually they gave up the game but the coffee kept coming and it really was fucking amazing. This morning though, Harry comes in empty-handed, mutters a quick hello and beelines for his desk and Perry immediately knows that he remembers what happened just as well as he does and he wants to curse because he was depending on Harry's previously infamous inability to remember anything after his fourth drink. On any other day, there would have been a rude comment from Perry and Harry would have glared at him hard, only to break into a badly disguised grin five minutes later when he thought Perry wasn't looking. But he'd left no time for comments because he remembered and now it's gonna be hell.

And then he thinks, maybe he's just a little bit glad that Harry remembers too even though the only possible outcomes of it range from unimaginable awkwardness to apocalyptic disaster, because even though the night is a bit of a blur, it's a good blur, and maybe he doesn't want to let it slip away forever. Perry almost wants to tease him, to ask if he's sure he's never done it before because he's been with some pretty well practiced guys who've never made him feel like that. Phrased less like a love struck schoolgirl and more like the snarky asshole he is, of course.

But the way Harry's staring blankly at his monitor with unmoving eyes, his breathing sporadic quells the urge to joke. Most of the time he's with him he either wants to slap him across the back of the head or verbally express his utter disdain for his idiocy but on those rare occasions when he doesn't, he usually has this crazy urge to just hug the pathetic away. The fact that now is one of those times irritates him and he turns away from Harry, who Perry knows is fighting the urge to glance past his screen to his desk and starts to look for a file that doesn't exist, wanting to grumbling but knowing that the sound will travel across this painful silence.

He's always been so careful not to get involved with shit like this. When he's got the need it's strictly party boys with no qualms about anonymous sex and no doubts about their identity. It's the boys who call themselves a cab as soon as the deed is done and never fall asleep in his bed. Or on his couch, as it happened. Perry hated messy and so he steered clear of timid first timers who were afraid to be who they were, racked with the fear of what would happen if anyone at the office knew. Or worse, mom and dad.

Some guys got off on converting the unsure and helping others along in the fight to be true to themselves but he had neither the nobility nor the fetish so he put as much distance as he could between himself and the kind of guys who got that tortured look on their faces in the morning as they talked about shame and guilt and parents and expected sympathy and a pep talk. He was just never that guy and his stomach churned unpleasantly as he looked over at his friend struggling to pry out a misstapled staple from a stack of papers, looking so frustrated with the task that an idiot could see that it wasn't the task that had him like this.

He still had trouble believing the memories that told him it was Harry who did this. It was Harry who had reached for him so desperately as late night television played on a volume so low that it couldn't be heard over their rapid breaths. But he knew he had nothing to do with it, had never given any indication that he looked at Harry like that- because he hadn't. He'd witnessed the number Harmony had done on the guy when she left. He had taken on the job of balancing time between damning her to hell and offering him foundation to cover up those dark circles under his eyes, even pretending it hurt when Harry punched him half heartedly on his upper arm. He'd never gotten a bi vibe from the guy and wasn't one to waste time on impossibilities.

Not that he would have wanted Harry- nosy, babbly, awkward even if he'd thought….No, he wouldn't have let himself. Sex was something fun and temporary that worked best with people you never planned to see again and as nosy and babbly and awkward as he was, he planned on keeping Harry in his life for a bit longer. What was going through Harry's drunken mind to make him jump him like that, Perry didn't know. But obviously it was screwing with him pretty seriously- enough to make him forget the coffee, for one thing and now Perry was stuck in that awful position of trying to figure out, without any leads but nervous silence and a lack of eye contact, what his partner (in the career-oriented sense of the word) needed right now. Should he acknowledge it or completely ignore it until Harry was ready? If he acted like nothing had happened, would Harry think he'd forgotten and wallow in silent torment forever?

Fuck this, fuck this, fuck this, was all Perry could think over and over and over again. He wasn't the kind of guy who battled over what was polite and what was nice. He said what he wanted, when he wanted and didn't give a shit who it affected. He should just march over there and tell him to suck it up like he always did when Harry made too big a deal out of an issue. Since when did he have a problem being mean to Harry? He reveled in it, adored it, devoted his life to it. And it bounced off so easily. Maybe it was the only way to fix this. He still couldn't fucking do it though.

He decided that pressing on was the best course, because while he considered Harry to be a lot of not so positive things he never once thought of him as fragile but he couldn't think of a better word to describe how bringing it up might break him. It was almost ten o'clock now. Neither of them were morning people and aside from a few words when they first got in they usually spent the first hour of the day in relative silence. At ten, Perry always headed over to his desk and they talked about whatever cases they were on. Harry had broken routine by not bringing the coffee but he could fix it before it got too broken.

"Alright," he said, casually pulling up a chair and putting his shoes up on Harry's desk- as he always did, proud to exploit the double standard of the boss being allowed to do it to his employee (only called his partner in his head, thanks) but not vice versa. Right now, it seemed sort of petty but he was aiming for making Harry comfortable and he'd become comfortable with being treated like crap. It was a healthy relationship. Really.

"So, I went to see Mrs. Farley last night. Apparently she couldn't wait until Monday to here what we'd found and the woman just knows how to talk an ear off and I couldn't deal so I drove on over. I told her what we found" God, this is so stilted. So obvious. "I told her there was no way old Jimbo could have been cheating on her. That he'd just been sneaking off to take French lessons with that Jacques guy and unless he's secretly g-" Fuck. Fuck. He's the one who's supposed to back himself into corners. I'm smooth. Oh, fuck. His eyes are bulging out of his skull. "going to leave her and run away to France, and you know the woman as well as I do and I couldn't fucking blame the guy if he decided to move to the Democratic Republic of Congo to get away from that clingy bitch, she has nothing to worry about." Save? Ugh. No Save. Beads of sweat on his forehead. Nothing to do but press on. Don't draw attention to the fact that you suck. Not like that. Especially not like that. " He probably just wants to keep the passion alive by adding some French romance to it. You know the type. Lapped it right up. And it's probably true anyway. He seems like the type to fall for crazy."

"Yeah…he was, uh…pushover."

Perry really wants to scream it now. Blowjobs were exchanged. Really nice blowjobs were exchanged. But it's never been like that with them before and it never has to be again and if he doesn't snap out of it and say something annoying soon Perry's going to bash his head in. Instead he cracks a weak grin and says,

"Well, you know the cheating-spouse types we like? The types that are so happy there's no cheating going on that they tip big instead of feeling there was no point in hiring us in the first place and giving up nothing? Farley, as screechy as she is, happens to be the nice type. So, big bonuses. Well, not big. But not small. Just, here," he says and thrusts a check into Harry's hand, making sure no fingers touch.

Normally when stuff like this happens, they go out for a few rounds of celebratory drinks. But he has a feeling it's gonna be a long time before Harry drinks anything but 7up in his presence. Psssh. 7up. Like he hasn't told him a million times that Sprite is the way to go. Who the fuck drinks 7up anymore? And why is he thinking about this now?

The tension between them is so thick you could cut it with a knife and the air around them is starting to smother Perry so he straightens up and says,

"So as you can see business is crawling just a bit today, so I want you to call a couple of papers and get them to put in an ad. You can write something up. Make us sound amazing. I trust you."

I trust you? What the fuck was that?

Perry sits at his desk for hours that feel like years. Normally when he's this bored he starts shooting spitballs across the room, but he feels Harry just may have had enough of his spit on his body two nights ago and doodles. Just after lunch, which they spend opposite ends of the neighborhood they get a walk-in but she's clearly someone with too much money and too much time, fabricating problems to make her life more interesting, and neither of them are up for dealing with that right now, even if they can do with the money. Their first real eye contact is made all day and a look is all it takes for them to get that they're on the same page with this one.

"Listen, Christy-"


"Yeah, whate-"

"Sorry. Christa," Harry says. "We're sorry. This stalker of yours sounds absolutely horrible, honey, but we're actually dealing with two other cases right now, and due to the uh, severity of your problem, it just wouldn't be right to take this on when we can't devote our full attention to it. But it's L.A. and I'm sure there are plenty of other places you can go."

"Yes but-"

"We're sorry. We really are. If it's still an issue in a few weeks, maybe we'll be able to deal with it, but a girl like you deserves the very best, and we just can't give it to you at the moment. Good luck, though and keep safe," he says, holding out a hand. She smiles gratefully and takes it and Perry has to turn away for a moment to fight back a grin. He may be incompetent in almost every way, but he has a charm about him that works and he sees in action why the cash flow's increased so much since Harry joined up. He won't go so far as to call it pride, but he certainly…appreciates how Harry handled it. He turns back to Christy and shakes her hand too and he's aware that the smile she gives to him is a little bit less warm.

She leaves and on comes the part where Perry would normally start dissecting ever aspect of why people like that made him want to hurt things, in his own humorous, he liked to think, and entertaining way, but Harry's eyeing his desk with longing, puppy eyes so Perry just says,

"Fucking weirdo," and goes back to his own desk and watches the clock on his computer like a hawk. He feels Harry's eyes burning through him but he decides not to look up because he must be looking for a reason, whatever it is, and if he looks up Harry's eyes will snap back down and they won't look up again until it's time to leave for the day. He feels way too much like a rancher trying to earn the trust of some abused horse. But there's been no abuse and Harry's the one who started this and he'll be more than happy to move past this and forget it ever happened if that's what Harry wants (it's what he wants too, of course) just so long as this silence ends.

And then a shadow falls over him and Harry clears his throat and he looks up into a face boiling over with uncertainty with just a dash of determination and suddenly he's the one who's afraid of where this is going and in an instant he hears Harry telling him a thousand things, that he's quitting, that he's furious, that he's sorry, that he has no idea why Perry's been acting so weird all day, that he wants to go for another roun-

"So. I guess it's time we talk about this, huh?"

Perry wants to agree verbally but his voice catches in his throat so he just nods, but he's never at a loss for words and he's sort of angry at Harry for doing this to him. Not in that usual sure-you-make-me-want-to-bludgeon-small-animals-and/or-you-with-a-club-but-deep-down-you-make-life-interesting-so-I'm-glad way. Real anger. He hates not knowing where he stands and he wants to change that for better or for worse. Seriously, he does. It's just, in all the times he's had a gun pointed at his head or his life threatened in some way, he's never had to silently coach himself into not shaking like this before.

Harry looks like he's expecting Perry to start, but that's not gonna happen. He waves his hand in a mildly condescending 'after you' motion and commends himself for finally doing something assholish. Not bad. Harry looks sort of green but maybe his vision just failing due to the sleep he'd lost over the past two nights. Not because he's been worried or anything, because that would make him…not Perry. There was a car alarm. A really obnoxious car alarm whose tires he vowed to puncture next time it happened.

"So, um," Harry coughs. "About Friday. I, uh, know I was pretty wasted-" Pretty wasted? You sang along to 'Ray of light.' Off key. It was painful. And just a little adorab- "Maybe you don't remember what happened-" Remember the panting, the gasping, the grasping, the sucking…nah. Not really. Just bare- "But then, I never remember shit when I drink, but I remember, so you probably do too-" Alright, fine. I remember. So what?

"Anyway, I know I started it and I honestly have no idea why but it was completely-" hot. "Crazy. Just…I don't know. Harry and liquor don't mix. You've known that for a long time-" Since the night I had to pat you like a big awkward dumbass while you cried about Harmony- "So, um. It happened. But, uh, I guess now we should just…y'know. Carry on like always. Because I'm not-"
"Of course you're not," Perry finally says, clapping him on the shoulder, hoping it doesn't sound as forced as it is. "You match about as good as a leopard in plaid." Then, in order to assure Harry more, in what he tells himself is a favor but he knows is really a cruel act of self preservation, he half chuckles, "Believe me. You're not. A guy can tell. It was very…well, you're just not. We'll leave it at that."

He tells himself that what he sees in Harry's eyes is relief and not hurt because it'll be easiest on both of them this way and he claps him on the shoulder once more and says,

"Your turn to lock up tonight, buddy."


So, he gave a bad blow job. Big whoop. It's not like he ever planned on using the skill again. If the remark unsettled him, it was only because human beings had in in their nature to strive for perfection and being told that he more or less sucked at…well, sucked at sucking was just an inescapable blow to his pride.

He thought he could recall the night pretty well, but perhaps it's hazier than he remembers. He thought they were both…oh God…enjoying it and now facing the idea that Perry may have been faking despite his intoxication in order to spare Harry's feelings adds even more to his burning shame. He remembers the groaning and the feel of Perry's fingers clinging tightly to his hair and it's difficult but he accepts that bad sex is still sex so it's probably true but it doesn't matter because he's not supposed to be good at it.

He throws himself onto the bed with a sigh of misery and picks up a framed photo of Harmony, Perry and himself. He had been keeping it there for months, ever since she walked out on him so that he could further torture himself in extreme moments of self-loathing by looking at her grinning face and her arm around him. But with the slow passage of time she had faded into something of a blur and now she's practically a shadow though her top is low-cut and bright red and her earrings are loud and dangly. Instead, what he sees is Perry, who sits on Harmony's other side, seeming to pop out of the 2d image, frozen in that bar, eyeing the camera…or the photographer with that fuck-me-grin.

Of course, Perry actually had ended up fucking the photographer. At least, he thought so, but he never exactly asked for details on that sort of thing. But after he'd taken the photograph, Perry had invited the lone drinker over to their booth and they'd shared a couple of rounds, forcing him to bear witness to Perry's subtle methods of flirtation awkwardly. The man's blue eyes seemed to sparkle every time Perry made a joke and Harry played footsie with Harmony under the table to distract himself a little.

When they'd split for the night, Perry asked the guy- Mark, was it- and once he answered they agreed to share a cab in an exchange that included a scary amount of eye-contact. Harmony had tried to catch Harry's eye as it happened to give a suggestive grin but he felt just a little uncomfortable and he'd avoided it. The next day Perry came into the office with that cool stride he often did and Harry wondered if he did that every time he got laid. Or did the laying. He had no idea how it worked and had no desire to find out.

With a quickness that startles him, he rips himself out of those thoughts and slams the photograph face down onto the bedside table, tugs off the light and rolls over to go to sleep. He's down for all of five seconds when he realizes it isn't working, so he opens a drawer and rummages around for a few seconds until he finds the small canister he's looking for. He pops a couple of sleeping pills into his mouth and washes them down with an old bottle of Sprite Perry had given him ages ago, informing him with a mischievous gleam in his eyes that the deli was all out of 7Up.

He then switches on the TV and lets is blare loudly enough to drown out the thoughts that keep entering his head, loudly enough for him to stop replaying the memory of Perry taking a bullet for him, rolling into his hospital room in a wheel chair, cracking jokes about some random thing or another. He watches it until he feels sleep is finally just moments away and then clicks it off. As he lies in sudden silence and drifts off, he gets a sudden jolt of memory, a brief flash of what Perry tastes like. It's sort of diluted, like the diet version of a soda, a cheap imitation of how good the real thing tastes on your tongue that reminds you of how there's something better out there and makes you crave it even more. He feels a wave of self disgust and then he's out like a light, but his dreams keep him restless throughout the night.


He's already missed three in a row. Out of practice. He launches a fourth that hits Harry smack in the middle of his forehead. He jumps, clearly having been in his own little world. He looks over at Perry and he grins, shaking his head. Perry knows it's the first genuine one he's gotten in two weeks and he puts his straw down, feeling something indefinable. He returns the grin, thrusting his fist into the air victoriously.

They grin at each other for a minute, Harry still wiping non-existent spit off his forehead, but then the grins fade away and they're left staring at each other from across the room with nothing to say and a wave of Awkward sweeps over them and their eyes snap downward. Determined not to take another step back, Perry busies himself with preparing another spitball and Harry warns him not to do it and starts to build a fort out of manila folders.

It's getting better, he thinks. It's not perfect and he's not sure it ever will be but he's called him and idiot six times today, which is only a little bit behind his before-the-blowing average. He's done a good job of distracting himself lately, and it helps to play it cool with Harry. He responds well to playing it cool.

Okay, maybe the distracting thing isn't working so well. He's able to maintain a cool persona, sure, but he is way less distracted than he'd like to be. He's been out every night since it happened and he's gotten lucky on almost each one. They've been hot too. Seriously. Sizzling. Hotter than Harry. Which is why it makes no sense that during the moments when he has the least amount of control over what he allows himself to think, when he's reaching his limit while some buff, blonde and much younger man is sucking him off, his face is suddenly replaced by Harry's, and when it's over and he's still recovering, all he can think is that, sure, it was fine but his lips weren't as soft and gentle as Harry's, his moans aren't nearly as arousing and his eyes never have that look. That mix of fear and excitement and hope to please that is one of the clearest things he remembers from that night.

Then he pushes that night's John Doe onto the couch and returns the favor with indifference and feels infuriated by the fact that while he's never been one two remember details such as size or shape or feel, all he can do is compare the dick he's sucking to Harry's, and it's never hard enough, or thick enough, or big enough, and then with that one guys it's too big and he feels like he's starring in Goldilocks and the Three Fucking Bears, and he's repulsed by this attachment he swore he'd never feel.

And even though he hates it and he's fully aware of why it's so fucking pathetic, he refuses to go any further and though he refuses to dwell on the notion, he may have briefly considered once that maybe it's because he and Harry never got any further. Whatever. It's just a phase- a weird, disturbing phase- that he's going though and there's no point in trying to fight it. He'll just have to wait it out and try to fill this weird hole with more and more sex until it goes away.

Suddenly, he's snapped out of his thoughts when a large spitball hits him right on the eyelid. He lets out a small noise of surprise and glares at a face that smirks back at him before ducking behind it's fort. He picks up a paperback that a client left on his desk, insisting that it could be useful in his case, and flings it at the wall of folders, toppling it over. Harry laughs and tosses it back softly, not even really intending to hit Perry, but he's so distracted by the sound of Harry laughing- not because it's pretty or anything- he just hasn't heard it in a while- that he forgets to catch it and it hits him on the nose. His eyes water but he refuses to bring a hand up to it. Instead he casually flips open to a random page and starts to read it. A few lines in, he laughs out loud.

"Whoa. No wonder the poor bastard thinks she's cheating. If she's so desperate that she has to read this crap. Listen to this: "Oh Antonio," Larissa cried, bringing his long-haired, dashing head to her heaving bosom. "I don't care who knows of our love any more. I'll should it from the mountaintops and if they don't accept it, we'll run away from Rome this very night! But first, my darling, I want you to take me!" She grabbed his hard member in her palm and in a wave of burning passion they fell onto the rose petal covered bed, wrapped in each other's-"

"Oh God, stop! Christ, I get the message. Who writes that garbage? Actually, come to think of it, I think my aunt Beth used to write them, because she was a writer but my mother used to stutter and get all clammy whenever I asked her if she could read me…"

Harry started rambling in that way he so often did, with that frantic look on his face that said he wasn't even enjoying talking about it, he just couldn't make himself shut up. Normally it's Perry's job to make him, but right now he's just so glad to have him back that he can't do anything but grin like an idiot.

Finally Harry finishes his rant with a retelling of a trip to the circus during which the erotica writing aunt nearly got killed by a flaming hula hoop.

"Right. Gotta love those firefighting clowns. Ew. Actually, you really don't. But good thing they saved her. God knows the world would be a far lesser place without these books. But we gotta go. Casey said Haverford is making the deal in that old warehouse behind McDonalds tomorrow night. We need to go check it out and scope out a place to hide. If there's nowhere good we're gonna have to bug it and we can't really afford that this month. Come on," he says, taking Harry's jacket off its hook and tossing it towards him.

The dark and grimy warehouse is huge and filled with mostly empty crates. A few rats scurry over to the other end of the massive room, turning back to sneer at them,

"Yeah, yeah, fuck you too," Perry mutters and Harry gives him an amused sidelong glance. He seems to realize he's just cursed at a rat and looks mildly embarrassed, but if he didn't do weird stuff like that, he just wouldn't be Perry.

They walk in separate directions and cover the full room checking in closets and behind crates for a suitable place, occasionally making eye contact with grim expressions. This didn't look good. Way too open.

Just as they're meeting in the middle, they hear voices approaching, the words muffled by the dense wooden doors that the speakers stand right behind. They cast each other panicked looks and Harry's the one who recovers first, He grabs Perry by the sleeve of his jacket and pulls him toward a closet in the corner, nearly ripping his arm out of its socket. Perry flings open the door and they stumble in, slamming it shut behind them just as the door bursts open and they stand pressed against each other in the tiny closet, panting hard, one of Perry's hot new shoes in a bucket of water that must have been there for weeks.

"I thought you said they were coming tomorrow night," Harry hisses and Perry feels hot breath tingling on his neck.

"I did," he says through gritted teeth. "Because that's what my guy said."

"Well, clearly he said wrong," Harry says with no shortage of irritation.

Perry hit's the back of his head with some difficulty because of the close quarters and hisses,

"Detective rule #1: Never jump to conclusions-"

"I thought detective #1 was 'examine all the evide-"

"They go hand in hand, dipshit. They could just be maintenance or something," Perry says, feeling the wall for a light switch.

"Yeah, because janitors break through doors for fun," Harry says.

"Just shut the fuck up for a minute so we can figure out what the hell is going down," Perry says, seizing him by the collar with both hands. It's pitch black in the tiny closet, but Harry knows Perry's unsettled and decides to listen. He busies himself with rubbing the spot where Perry hit him and trying to press himself tight against the wall, trying to distance himself from Perry's musky scent that's filling the small space completely, trying to put some distance between their chests, which are still only heaving from the mad dash to the closet. Nothing else. He manages to put an inch or two between them and thanks everything that Perry still hasn't found a light, because now his mouth is hanging open as he realizes he's getting harder ever second and no thought of his parents naked or getting his balls zapped is enough to scare it away. He sucks in as much as he can, curses both what's happening and the timing and tries to focus on what the voices are saying.

Perry's unable to ignore the desperate movements Harry's making to distance himself in the tight space, and it's pretty obvious why, but Perry can't busy himself with thoughts of how Harry's perfectly sober now but apparently is still getting one. He can't wonder if he's been getting them behind his desk for the past two weeks as well, or what it all might mean. He has to concentrate on the fact that men with guns could blow their brains out at any minute, and he only had one on him with no extra ammo. The voices drew nearer and he listened.

"That's a girl. My guy never said Haverford dealt with chicks…Sounds like she's just a kid. What the fuck is this?" Perry asks. The girl's voice comes close enough for them to hear.

"God, Adam, don't be such a chicken shit. Aren't you supposed to be a big brave macho man?" she giggles. Harry and Perry throw each other a look of confusion that neither can see in the dark. "What's the matter, afraid the cops are gonna ruin your chances of going to Yale? Or do you think some gangs are gonna come after us for getting all up in their territory?" She laughs again and listens to a response they can't hear.

"Or are you afraid that I'm going to use this opportunity to take advantage of you on a dirty concrete floor?"

Relief washes over Perry and he snickers. "Fuck me," he sighs. "It's just kids. Just a pair of fucking kids." He claps Harry on the shoulder.

Harry doesn't feel quite so relieved. Sure, they're not gonna get killed by some corrupt corporate assholes, but he still has a hell of a boner and he's trapped in a closet with the last person he wants to be inches away from right now. Perry's hand only rests on his shoulder for a couple of seconds but its enough to agitate him and he still feels its imprint once it's removed.

"I guess the only thing to do is burst out on them, guns out and scare the shit out of them bad enough that they never show their faces again. Don't want the poor horny bastards getting killed if they decide to come back at the wrong time," Perry says, still chuckling.

Harry wants to agree, to reach for the doorknob and get the hell out of there, but as he moves towards the door he has to maneuver around the bucket of water with the mop stuck in it and he needs to breathe just as his face is closest to Perry's neck and the aroma of his cologne hits him harder than ever. He doesn't think. He just grabs Perry's face in both hands and forces their lips to crash together hungrily.

Perry, surprised, brings a hand up, preparing to push him away, to give Harry the second he needs to think about whether he really wants to do this, but Harry feels the hand coming up and meets it with his own-the one with all five fingers, luckily, because otherwise that might just be too weird. Their fingers intertwine and Harry slowly brings the hands to waist level, still kissing him desperately.

Perry feels Harry's body leaning towards his, ready to fill that space that lay between them, and he tries to push the bucket against the wall so Harry won't trip over it. Trouble is, he's busy with the long held back kissing and he's trying to hold Harry's waist steady with one hand and it's so dark. The bucket spills over sloshing with water that must be completely filthy up to their shins, getting his other shoe soaked as well. With a much- too-loud "augh," Perry pulls away slightly to look down at the damage that it's too dark to see. Harry shushes him and pulls Perry's face back to his. "They're just shoes," he whispers, "You're so damn gay."

Then he closes the distance between their lips again, laughing softly into Perry's mouth. Just as Perry manages to forget the gross feel of dampness at his feet and up his legs and sink into Harry's kiss, so simultaneously certain and uncertain, just as he reaches around to Harry's shoulder blades to bring him even closer, they hear the kid say,

"Diane…what the fuck is that?"

"It's just water, Adam. God, you're such a little pussy sometimes. Now less talking, more-"

"No, seriously. It wasn't there before…"

"Well…maybe…maybe a pipe broke or something," the girl says, though there's now a hint of nervousness in her voice.

"Oh, fuck," Perry says, reluctantly pulling away. It's only been a second and already he misses the feel of Harry's cock pressed firmly against his. "Need to deal with the teenagers…"

Harry slowly unclenches the fist that's been holding the back of Perry's shirt.

"Right…teenagers," he says reaching for his gun.

"I really think that kid is going to shit himself, you know. Might put a damper on their relationship…"

Harry laughs, bringing a palm to his face to muffle the sound. "On three?"

"Yeah. One. Two. Three."

"Alright! Which one of you little cocksuckers is going to tell me why you think it's okay to turn Big Anthony's place of business into a lover's rendezvous?" Perry shouts, with a badly faked mob accent, bursting into the light.

The kids, pressed against a stack of crates, look up at Harry and Perry and their guns in complete terror and begin stuttering nonsense.

"You better start talking, you little shits, because I don't like cleaning up brains when I don't gotta, ya hear?" Harry says, pointing his gun right at the boy.

"…we um…"

"We thought it was empty," the girl says, stepping in front of her boyfriend, raising a hand in the air to signal him to stop. "Look man, we don't want any trouble. We just wanted somewhere to hook up and hang out. It looked all abandoned and stuff. We…we're sorry to have caused a problem, man, but it wasn't on purpose or nothing so just…so just put the gun down and we'll walk away."

"I don't know who you think your talkin' to, you little minx but I think you better reconsider-" Perry starts, but the girl interrupts him.

"No. Listen, dude. We're just a couple of kids. We don't got nothing to do with whatever you're doing here and no need to be involved so let us just get the fuck out of here and you won't ever see us around again. Cuz…cuz you know if two kids end up shot in this neighborhood they're gonna look everywhere and your…your place of business'll be one of 'em and then you'll have to go through the hassle of moving whatever it is you're storing here and no one wants that. So just…put the gun down and let us leave."

Harry and Perry cast each other an amused glance and lower their weapons.

"Alright, kid. Go, and don't even think of looking back. And maybe tell that man of yours to grow a pair."

She nods, grabbing him by the wrist and pulling him towards the door. Only when she reaches it do they hear a sob that could only come from a girl.

"Think that scared them off?" Harry asks, slightly bewildered.

"Yeah. Some kid though. 'Course if we were really mob we would've blown their heads off, but still, she handled herself…whoa."

A silence falls and they looked at each other, unsure of what comes next. Perry begins to panic when nothing happens, knowing that if it was so hard to get things normal after one drunken night, a second, completely sober make-out would surely be the end of this friendship. He knows he would have been willing to settle for it, if nothing else, but if Harry feels it's a mistake now, there's no going back. He tries to think of life without this annoying, pathetic idiot in it, of life before him and he can't. Desperately, he breaks the silence.

"I guess…I guess we found a good place to…hide out…for tomorrow," he says it weakly. Uncertainly. A word he never would have used to describe himself two weeks ago, a word that describes everything he ever does now.

Harry says nothing for a few moments and the quiet becomes painful but finally he grins slyly and says,

"I dunno. I think…I think maybe we should go back in there for a bit…just to make sure."

A/N: Comments, be they complimentary or critical, are appreciated like you wouldn't believe!