#ace!harold

~~

It's Harold who makes the first move, although John doesn't realize it until the beautiful redhead who'd been aggressively flirting with him for most of the evening blankly says, "You're not interested at all, are you? But your friend--"

John leans closer, and silkily says, "My friend, what?"

He comes back to the library with cheer on his face and murder in his heart. "Are you feeling bored, Harold?"

Harold turns around in his chair, eyeing John warily. "I can't say I am."

"I think you need a hobby," John says. "One that isn't setting me up with strangers."

Harold's mouth tightens. "I feel you and Ms. Bright would have suited one another very well."

John fights dirty. He swaggers up to Harold and kneels before him, fluid. "I don't think she'd suit me at all," John says softly. "And I think you know that."

Being on his knees is a good look for John. He knows this. Harold just looks resigned, though, enough to make John fleetingly wonder if he miscalculated after all. "Fine. I won't interfere. I'll admit I shouldn't have done so to begin with, and I apologize. Does that suffice?"

John stays right where he is. "It really doesn't."

They maintain this silent detente for another moment. Then Harold exhales. "What do you imagine I'd do with you, as you are, right now?"

It's not dirty talk. Harold's trying to make a point, though what kind of point, John has no clue. So when he says, "I have a few ideas," it's tentative, not suggestive.

"Sexual in nature?" Harold asks. More than anything, he looks tired. There's lines on his face that look like pain, and John abruptly wonders if he's taken the wrong approach after all.

He moves to sit cross-legged, easier to maintain for a long time. "You could read to me," he says, and rests his head over Harold's thigh. When Harold's fingers sink into his hair, he closes his eyes and basks in the sense of triumph.

~~

The thing is, John doesn't really need much to be happy. A few kisses, Harold's hand on his shoulders or the back of his neck, and he's good. Harold's the one who gets twitchy.

"It's such a waste," Harold grumbles. John can't bring himself to mind, sprawled on the couch with his head in Harold's lap. When Harold's hand stills, though, he makes a questioning noise, mostly in hopes of getting started up again.

"I am aware that you're beautiful," Harold says, matter-of-factly. John buries his face in Harold's stomach to hide the way his face must light up at the praise. "You would be a generous, skilled lover, and instead you frustrate yourself waiting on me."

"I'm not frustrated," John points out.

It's not strictly true. It's just that he finds he enjoys it, the resting state ache of his hard cock, constrained until the end of the day when he takes his clothes off and relives every single touch.

Without preamble, Harold reaches down and drags his hand over the bulge in John's pants, making him suck in a desperate breath, let out a strangled, "Please," before he can bite his lip to refrain from saying more. "Sorry," he says, once he's got himself under control.

"You shouldn't be. That's the point." When John looks up, Harold's eyes are on him, wide and concerned. From his current position, it's clear that Harold isn't even a little bit aroused. "And yet, I worry that stopping this, at this point, would do more harm than good."

That's an interpretation that John wants to support. He nuzzles into Harold's hands. That, Harold does like, evidenced by the way he responds and pets John more. Harold likes kissing, likes touching, likes sharing John's bed on occasion. He doesn't like sex, but John wasn't having a lot of sex before this started, either, and didn't enjoy the sex he did have all that much. This is a net improvement, as far as he's concerned. "If I feel deprived, I'll let you know."