The first time Rusty met Harry Potter, the Harry Potter, he entirely forgot about it.

Granted, Harry was not wearing his own face that night as they flirted by the pool table and he did not stay long after his hand had found two of the blonde's loose hairs. If Rusty got some compliments on a bank heist he didn't recall and a few strange looks in Atlanta, he didn't bring it up.

Second time, Harry showed his own face with a different name. That night Rusty would remember, despite the smattering of cheap whiskey. He awoke to a cracked hotel ceiling accosting his eyes and a gorgeous cock burned into his brain. Though the alcohol dulled his senses, if he closed his eyes he could still feel skin under his fingertips, a tongue running the length of his neck and heat everywhere.

Rusty was not unfamiliar to casual sex, stranger sex or even creep-out-while-their-still-blacked-out sex, even took a bit of pride in his one-offs, but he wanted another night with the man from the night before. With one barrier. Despite his aching dick and the vivid memories of pleasure, Rusty still did not remember Harry Potter's face or been given his name. And certainly not a phone number.