Title: It Was an Accident...Really...
Warnings: Kissing, a little swearing
Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. They belong to Shane Black et al.
Archive: If you want it, go for it, just please drop me an e-mail at saying where it'll be.
Summary: A tale of Harry and Perry's first few kisses and the fun (and not so fun) things they led to.
It Was an Accident...Really...
The first time they kissed it was like an assault, all strong arms around his body and aggressive tongue forcing its way between his lips. For a second Harry froze while his brain processed the fact that he was being kissed by a guy, a guy he barely even knew, then his body clicked into gear and his hands rose to push Perry away. Only, then the cop's spotlight lit them up and he adapted the shove into an awkward pat-and-stroke, despite his every instinct being to run. He didn't need Perry's warning grip digging hard into his ribs to tell him running would be a very bad idea.
Harry knew from experience that if he ran, the cops would chase. And if they chased, they couldn't miss noticing Dead-Girl-From-The-Lake who was wrapped in a sheet and barely hidden behind Perry's prissy car.
So instead of running, Harry gripped the side of Perry's face, trying to tell him without words to ease up on the pressure. Apparently Perry didn't trust him not to say something stupid and was convinced if he just pressed their lips together hard enough, it would act as a gag. Not a bad theory, considering Harry's mouth sometimes (often) ran without first connecting to his brain. On the other hand, there was a pretty nasty cut on the inside of Harry's lip from getting the crap kicked out of him at the party, and from the coppery taste in his mouth, Perry had just reopened it. His lip was starting to throb.
When the cops finally left and Perry let him go, Harry hacked and spat, and generally made a scene. Maybe a little insulting to Perry, the kiss hadn't been that bad. But what the hell else could he do after a first gay kiss he had definitely not been ready for? Then Harmony showed up, and he was stuck explaining why he had been making out with the notorious Gay Perry.
Eventually, Harmony believed him. Mostly.
The second time they kissed was almost a White Knight moment.
Perry took Harry to some random Hollywood party, where he promptly abandoned him and went to troll for...something. Sex or jobs, Harry never found out which. This resulted in Harry chatting with a six foot two brick wall named Jake, who was bodyguard to some Random Hollywood Starlet.
Harry didn't notice until twenty minutes into the drunken conversation that Jake was standing just a little too close, leaning in a little too far, laughing a little too loud at his jokes. Even then Harry thought it was just some weird LA thing, until he was suddenly backed up against a wall with this fucking huge guy palming his ass.
Just as Fucking Huge Bodyguard Jake was leaning in for what Harry was sure would be a pretty damn intimidating kiss, someone yanked Jake away and pushed him against the wall.
God bless Perry.
He was giving Jake a look that could've peeled paint and his voice was unrelenting. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Faced with Perry's ice-cold fury, Jake actually stammered when he replied, "Nothing."
"That's what I thought," Perry said, and glared as Jake made his retreat. Then he turned to Harry. "What the fuck did you think you were doing, you idiot? You're going to end up bent over a sofa if you keep flirting with fags."
Harry was too smashed to do much but stare, but then he made the mistake of trying to say "thank you." Unfortunately, those weren't the words that came out.
"Perry," he said instead, eyes wide and wondering, "you saved me." And Harry laid a sloppy-drunk kiss right on Perry's lips.
Harry didn't remember much after that except Perry pushing him away, calling him an idiot and dragging him out to the car, but his last conscious thought as he passed out on his bed was that he really hadn't meant to slip Perry any tongue.
The third and fourth times they kissed, Harry was wallowing.
Perry walked into the apartment at one in the morning after a long and fruitless stakeout, and found Harry sprawled out on the couch curled around a mostly empty fifth of Jack Daniel's.
Somewhere between the cursing and name calling, Harry managed to stammer out that Harmony had finally called it quits. He told Perry everything his whiskey-soaked brain could remember. How she said it just wasn't working, she cared too much to lead him on, said he was too good a person to keep hanging on to childhood dreams.
How she had fallen for someone else.
As hard as he tried, Harry was too drunk and miserable to keep the tears from escaping his eyes. He sobbed pathetically into his sleeve; chest aching like his heart had been torn out.
Something in Perry melted at the pitiful sight, and all the anger and frustration at his housemate's behavior drained away.
Somehow, Perry ended up sitting on the couch, Harry's head cradled in his arms as he sobbed into Perry's shoulder. His hand rested awkwardly upon Harry's unruly hair. Perry wasn't used to being nice when it served no practical purpose, but seeing annoying, outspoken, goddamn frustrating Harry curled so tightly in on himself had a feeling of wrongness that made him reluctant to just leave him here to sleep it off.
Perry struggled not to fidget as Harry leaned heavily against him and stroked his friend's dark hair softly.
Nine and a half fingers clutched tightly to Perry's sweater. The sobs finally began to fade until finally, Harry was able to speak. "What's wrong with me?" he whispered brokenly against Perry's neck, "Why can't I get anything right?"
Perry didn't have an answer, so he remained silent. The silence stretched out uncomfortably, and he could almost feel Harry folding in on himself.
Something about that withdrawal was completely unbearable, so Perry tilted his friend's face upward and laid a soft kiss on his lips. "There's nothing wrong with you."
It almost hurt to see the hope in Harry's eyes when Perry spoke. Then Harry leaned in and their lips met again. "You're a fucking liar, Perry. But thanks." Harry curled close against Perry's warmth, mumbling into his neck, "You're my best friend. I love you."
"You're drunk," Perry replied.
"Yeah. But I do." Then Harry dropped into a fitful doze, still clutching Perry's sweater.
Perry watched him sleep, stared at his long, long lashes and oddly compelling face.
And wondered if Harry really meant what he said.
The fifth time they kissed was the very next morning.
Harry was sober...and it wasn't an accident.