Archive of Our Own

“Whatever you want, my love,” Harry replies without turning back to look at his husband. These days he can hardly stand the sight of him. He only has himself to blame for this.

Before he can go back to daydreaming, there is a hand on his lower back and the unmistakable presence of George right next to him. Harry keeps in the groan that desperately wanted to manifest itself. He has more practice than he would like.

“A gallery not far from our hotel is opening its new exhibition tonight, my friend sent me an invitation. Sounds like a plan, doesn’t it?” George says into Harry’s ear, too close for comfort. His hand ever so slowly starts sliding down from Harry’s back to his arse. Harry grits his teeth and only vividly imagines snapping George’s arm in two instead of actually doing it.

“Is it modern art?” Harry asks, his voice flat.

“No, it is actually 1700’s stuff. Vermeer, that sort of thing.”

Harry only hums.

“That sounds right up your alley, you love baroque, darling,” George continues. “I thought it would be something you’d enjoy.”

Harry slaps on a smile and gives George a look. “Yes, I do love baroque. Thank you, sweetheart.” 

Content and ignorant to Harry’s pretense, George smiles quickly and presses a kiss onto Harry’s temple before returning to the boat’s bench seat.

Harry turns around and leans his elbows and back on the roof of the cabin. He stares at his husband, squinting into the sun despite his sunglasses. Lord George Montgomery, filthy rich, influential, and Harry’s husband of three years. Gone are the days when Harry looked at him and felt something other than mild annoyance and disdain. Now it’s quite a frequent occasion when Harry finds himself imagining stabbing George’s eyes out as they’re having dinner at some overpriced restaurant with brilliant wine but food that barely tastes like anything. Or just shoving George off of a balcony in a high-rise building. Harry’s not certain how he got to this point in his life but he’s pretty sure he has only himself to blame. Who the fuck marries their sugar daddy? 

At the tail end of his 20’s, Harry feels stuck. He’s been with George since his last year at Cambridge, where he studied history and envisioned a pretty normal life for himself. He had been thinking about getting a masters in archeology. And then he met George. It was some alumni dinner, a chance for current students to network and join the alumni community in spirit even before graduation. Harry wasn’t necessarily flirting with George but he was tipsy and George was handsome, polite, older yes but it was simple to ignore. So as easy as breathing, Harry said yes when George asked him out for a date. It didn’t feel illicit to Harry, even after he realized just how old George was, and how filthy rich.

Sure, George liked to spoil Harry, paid for things for him, took him places. With his trust fund, Harry wasn’t exactly hurting for money but getting treated like a prince by a sexy Lord wasn’t the worst thing in the world. And somehow around all that, George talked Harry into taking a gap year before doing his masters, just so they can travel. Harry, with the carefree ignorance of a 22-year-old, thought it was a bright fucking idea. Then it was another year. Then another. And then they got married. Why? As the scorching Italian sun actively adds on to Harry’s sunburn on the boat, he couldn’t tell you why. Was he lonely? Content with George taking care of him? Scared to be an adult on his own and try building a career for himself? It doesn’t even matter now.

A few weeks into their marriage something snapped in Harry and he seemed to wake up from the nightmare he had been stuck in. Harry was alone in the bedroom of George’s apartment in Paris, the balcony door wide open and he heard a group of people walk past the building, laughing and chatting about some new club opening nearby later that week. And that’s when it hit Harry - he was twenty-five with a husband closer to his mum’s age than his own. He couldn’t take George out to a club. Hell, his own friends wouldn’t probably invite him out if it came down to it. And that was when Harry realized he needed an out. Regrettably, it was easier said than done.

“I don’t think I’ll join you for dinner tonight,” Harry says, capturing George’s attention easily. “I’ll order some room service and take a nap instead, so I’m feeling fresh for the exhibition.”

George looks visibly disappointed. “But Pietro and Venera are coming. They’d been dying to see you again.”

“I know, my love,” Harry grins like he’s so terribly sorry not to see those two old cunts who once asked him for a threesome. “Some other time, I promise.”

Harry’s promises to George were little more than a hush of the wind anymore.

xxx

George was out of the door within an hour of them getting back to their suite. Harry more than enjoyed the blissful silence, no one talking at him or wanting anything from him. He got out of his clothes the second George left and put on a simple black silk robe. Room service brought him some food and wine to the balcony, leaving Harry to enjoy a glass of a good red alone while watching the Grand Canal’s usual activity and the impending sunset. Miles and miles better than dinner with two of George’s abhorrent friends, of which he has many.

There’s a knock on the door a little while later and Harry’s lips break into a smile. It’s not George, he knows very well it isn’t his husband. Knowing him, they won’t even go to the gallery later on. He’ll be too busy with stupid fucking wine lists and pathetic little stories his friends love to share. No, Harry knows him and he knows he’ll come back after midnight, tipsy if not drunk, interested in little more than getting off like Harry has nothing better to do with his life than wait until George comes back and decides to pay attention to him.

Harry pulls the man behind the door inside right away and greets him with a deep kiss. His heartbeat calms down upon the first inkling of passion that is genuine, that doesn’t make Harry’s stomach turn upside down. The kiss is over quickly but the feeling lingers, the corners of Harry’s mouth never dropping the easy smile.

“I didn’t think you’d be able to come,” Harry says as he grabs Niccolo’s hand. “I was so glad when you texted me.”

“You’re in my homeland, you’re up to no good, I couldn’t miss it for the world,” Niccolo chuckles before kissing the back of Harry’s hand. “I got the boat.”

“Brilliant,” Harry grins. “I have wine on the terrace. Fancy some?”

“With you, always,” Niccolo says and Harry just shakes his head before walking off.

He’s known Niccolo for almost two years. They’re not exactly lovers but they’re not quite friends either. Since Harry’s big Parisian moment of realization, he’s been living a kind of a double life. Fooling George is easier than Harry had anticipated. Either George blindly trusts Harry over everything or he’s really thick and thinks Harry could never fuck him over. Just because Harry didn’t run off with his money three months after getting married, doesn’t mean that he hasn’t been fucking people behind his back for years now. And not just doing that, but living a life that he should’ve been since the beginning before he ever got himself pulled into this relationship and let it consume his life and youth.

“Tomorrow at 11 AM?” Harry asks Niccolo after a couple of minutes of chit-chat. “Should be pretty empty everywhere then, right?”

“You’re always all business, impossible,” Niccolo clicks his tongue and drains the rest of his glass. “Yes, 11 AM sharp, I’ll be here with a boat. Everything will be ready.”

“I’m putting a lot of trust in you, Nic,” Harry says carefully, looking into his wine glass, his finger making circles around the rim of it. He lifts his head up, meeting Niccolo’s gaze. “I’ve got to be all business. I only have one shot at this.”

“I know,” Niccolo nods. He’s the picture of aloofness, sitting in the chair with a glass of wine in a white linen suit, his dark hair falling into his eyes. A couple of years ago, back when Harry didn’t know better, he would’ve fallen head over heels for him. “Do you have a plan? What are you gonna do after this? Not just the next month, but year, five years.”

Harry snorts and averts his gaze to the Canal, finding the repetitiveness of the waves rippling comforting. “Of course, I have a plan. I’ve been thinking about this for years. Ever since I realized my trust fund was effectively erased thanks to the prenup.” Harry looks over at Niccolo, the coldness of his look washing away the man’s smile. “Don’t doubt me, Niccolo. I’m not some disgruntled sugar baby who’s not happy with his daddy’s wrinkly arse and balls anymore. I’ve thrown enough of my life away. I refuse to waste another week.”

Niccolo holds his hands up. “I didn’t say anything. I’m just looking out for one of my dearest friends.”

“Is that what we are?” Harry asks, swirling the wine in his glass before downing it. His eyes meet Niccolo’s, his sunglasses now removed. “Friends? A rather strange friendship isn’t it.” He doesn’t need to pose a question as he already has his answer.

“Strange is good,” Niccolo remarks. He leans closer, almost over the table separating them as he snakes his arm underneath it, his hand landing on Harry’s naked knee. “Would it be strange to also have some fun tonight? Such a beautiful evening.”

Harry pointedly looks at Niccolo as he uncrosses his legs and lets them spread. “If you want to get on your knees, I could have some fun tonight.”

“You’ve become very selfish,” Niccolo chuckles and sits up straight, his hand kept to himself.

“It’s about time I have,” Harry shrugs easily. “You can’t kill your husband without being at least a little selfish, can you?”

xxx

He should consider a career in acting, Harry thinks to himself as he sits in the lobby of a police station in soaked clothes with a thin towel wrapped around his shoulders. It was quite a performance, the interview he just did, still in the clothes wet from the aftermath of trying to “save” George from drowning, kept on for maximum dramatic effect despite being offered something dry to wear. He was just oh so shocked, far too much to change his clothes.

It worked out nicely. Niccolo was right on time, pretending to be just a random guy driving their boat on a little romantic trip to see the tiny islands south of Venice. When they got on the boat, George had already drunk an espresso with sleeping pills crushed in it. His balance wasn’t the best. And before midday hit, he was drunk, more than comfortably so. He was pliant, easy to go when Harry dragged him out of his seat and had them stand at the side railing of the boat. His mind was fogged, even as Harry very calmly, almost sweetly recounted the years of misery he lived through with George. Harry got himself into the situation but George was twice his age back then, he should’ve been the one to step back and not pull Harry into a fucking vortex he couldn’t get out of. Looking back at it, at all the red flags, at all those little things he ignored, he feels nothing but disgust and that was all he felt as he pushes George, barely standing on his feet, over the side of the boat into the water. Harry stood there and watched the man the thought he loved once sputter for air, trying to keep his head above the water and he only felt grief. Not for George, but for himself. For all those years he spent with him, for the piece of himself that he’ll never get back. George effectively killed the person Harry was when he was twenty-two. This only seemed fair. Eye for an eye, wasn’t it?

Once George was sinking down to the bottom of the sea, Harry and Niccolo staged the boat to look like the three of them were having lunch altogether. Fingerprints and glasses, all of that. Then Niccolo sent out a distress signal and tried to call the ambulance and the police as Harry reluctantly jumped into the water in his clothes, to make it seem like he tried to help George. At least it was the sea and not the smelly canal water.

Once the authorities got to them, Harry pulled off a weeping widow as he recounted their official story after they pulled him out of the water. Harry’s old friend Niccolo happened to be in Venice at the same time as he and George, so Harry felt like it was a great idea for them to have lunch together. Niccolo suggested they take out his boat, as he recently got it and would love to try it out. Everything went great, nothing strange happened. Until George started feeling a bit nasty from all the wine and he said he could’ve actually been seasick. He decided to walk a little, then he leaned over the railing, lost his balance, and fell. By the time Harry left the table and got out of the water, he couldn’t find George. The police, apart from a few judgy looks, didn’t feel very compelled to oppose a rich foreigner who was crying, talking about calling someone at the embassy, and had an Italian aristocrat with him too.

“Mr. Montgomery?” Harry lifted his head up to see a detective with two paper cups in hand. He didn’t correct him that this wasn’t in fact his legal name, despite George pretending like it was. The subconscious drive to retain his identity, who he truly was, never fully left him.

“Yes?” Harry asks as he accepts the vending machine coffee. 

The detective sits next to him and sighs. “Our divers found the body. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

Harry nods softly, trying to make himself cry again. He covers his face in one hand, mostly to escape the pitying look of the detective.

“We will send him to the coroner, then as fast as we can, we can send him home for the funeral with your family.” The detective continues with his little protocol and stories and what not but it’s background noise. Harry’s done here. He’ll leave Venice a free man.

xxx

The sun in Italy feels the best. Maybe Harry’s lying to himself or maybe he just loves the country. Regardless of his thought process, the sun feels delicious against his skin as he mildly fries himself on a sun lounger on a beach somewhere between Florence and Rome. His body is slick with sun oil and a quick shower outside is the best course of action. The water is still cold on his skin when he returns to his sun lounger and Niccolo is on the one next to his.

“Don’t make me regret coming here,” Harry remarks offhandedly before shaking his wet hair off right above Niccolo. He plops down on the lounger and closes his eyes, finally at peace, knowing the man next to him won’t pester him like a petulant child.

“You’re a newly single man, a good holiday is a fitting way to celebrate,” Niccolo argues. “You look incredible.”

Harry hums out a laugh. “I know.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Dunno.”

“You said you had a plan.” “I do.”

“Well?”

Harry lifts his sunglasses and frowns at Niccolo. “I don’t plan holidays to the last detail. Besides, you dragged me out here.”

“I didn’t see you complaining last night when I was eating you out on the terrace,” Niccolo adds smugly. Harry rolls his eyes at him. “I have to go to Rome on Monday.”

“Okay.”

“Are you alright?” Niccolo’s voice is laced with genuine worry. Harry gives him a questioning look that gets an exasperated sigh out of Niccolo before he continues. “You know what we just did. Even if you’re heartbreakingly beautiful, you’re still my friend first. I just want to be sure you’re fine after… that whole pesky business.”

Harry sighs and smiles a little. “I am fine. I actually feel like I can breathe for the first time in years. It was pretty fucked up, the whole situation but… it’s in the past now. And in terms of my plan, you’re so curious about, I’m going back to school in fall.”

“You’re doing what?” Niccolo breathes out a laugh. “You got rid of your husband just to… go back to school?”

“Yeah,” Harry grins at him easily. “I had been planning to before he derailed my plans. Besides, I can do whatever the fuck I want. I’ve inherited his estate.”

Niccolo looks at Harry for a brief moment before he starts laughing. Harry joins him easily, the pure joy and ridiculousness of the situation can only be conveyed with a good laugh.

“So does that mean in a couple of years I’ll find you somewhere in the desert digging through sand in search of some treasure?”

“Doesn’t have to be sand. I could focus on Ancient Rome and I might end up digging my way through your backyard, looking for fragments of amphorae or coins.”

“Or you’ll be corrupted by your posh London friends and you’ll become an influencer,” Niccolo wiggles his eyebrows.

Harry shakes his head with a laugh. “I’m too smart to be an influencer.”

“Never say never.”

“You never say never, Mr Aristocrat living in a republic,” Harry pokes Niccolo cheek. “Bloody hell, why do I keep fucking men with titles?”

“A weird kink of yours?”

Harry scrunches his nose in mild disgust. “Ugh, stop. You’re the last one. And that’s a promise.”

“As long as you keep me around.”

“I’ll make my mind up about that.”