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It's been three years, and the joy of having John back still hasn't diminished in the slightest.
He brushed off a long-abandoned hobby after The Machine led him to John's hospital room. A sketchpad hadn't been a companion of Harold's since those last days of his engagement to Grace, but he found himself itching to put pencil to paper for the first time in years as he gazed upon John's beautiful, sleeping face. A quick stop at a shop before he dropped in the next day took care of that. Soon after, Harold had a whole pad full of sketches of only one dear man.
It was a tad bit embarrassing when he realized that he hadn't drawn anything else. It was even more embarrassing when he realized what it meant. So many years and such a close call, and it took graphite and paper for him to figure out that he was in love. Good lord.
These days, they live in a cozy little lakeside house far outside the city, surrounded by privacy and solitude.
"Plenty for you to draw out here, Finch," John had said, as he wheeled himself up onto the vast wrap-around porch.
Stooping down, Harold kissed the top of John's head, burying his lips in soft, messy hair. "I only have one muse," he'd said, "and I don't need any picturesque scenery in order to draw him."
That, Harold finds, as he glances up from his latest sketch to the man dozing on the front porch swing with a guitar in his lap and his head drooping toward his shoulder, is still very much true.
Neither of them has taken to retirement like the ducks they often see on the lake take to the water. Stillness is not for them. Harold often helps with numbers, albeit from a distance and mostly financially, except when Root complains that she hasn't seen him "in forever." John ventures to the nearest town every weekend to teach a self-defense class for disabled people and has himself plenty of noisy toys to ride on the water. Thanks to word of mouth, Harold has become the person most people nearby call for computer help, and the other day he bought a lovely but neglected butter yellow '67 GTO convertible off of one of the locals for a tinkering project.
And he isn't the only one who's dusted off an old hobby.
"I thought you said you'd be providing the afternoon's entertainment," he says, voice raised, and John jolts awake with a surprised shake of his head. Harold can't help a fond smile.
"What?" John croaks.
Oh, how he loves this precious man. "You're going to regret sleeping with your head like that." John reaches up to rub his neck, and Harold sets his sketchbook and pencil next to his travel mug of tea and, with much stretching and groaning, gets up to help.
"You'd be much more comfortable in that nice bed of ours." He nudges John's hand and guitar strap aside and takes over, digging his fingers into the muscles in John's neck.
"Was just resting my eyes," John insists.
"Didn't realize that came with snoring."
"That was—" John lets out a whisper of a moan. "Oh, yeah, Finch, right there." Harold focuses on that spot while John goes on. "That was practice. Gotta get some good practice in if I wanna be better at it than you."
Harold snorts, and it turns into a laugh when John feigns a loud, ugly snore. "I'm fairly certain that Root or Ms. Shaw would have let me know if I snored that terribly."
"You're like a freight train." John lets out another fake snore, then leans his head back and grins, his smile bright and adoring. "You don't, really. Now Lionel..."
"Ooh." Harold winces. He's heard far too much of Fusco's snoring over the years.
"You're not too bad." John lowers his head again, while Harold moves on, hoping to soothe more tired muscles while savoring the warmth, the life of John beneath his fingertips.
"Know what?" John says. "We should build us a train."
"Really?"
"Yeah—one of those fancy model ones. Run tracks all over the house, hook it up to some of your computer stuff to control it...always wanted to do something like that."
A model train project. "That does sound like fun," Harold says. And them teaming up to put it all together? What an excellent idea. "We should do it."
"We should." Before they can get into it further, John yawns, wide and loud.
"But we should try a nap first, I think." Harold bends down and kisses John's head again, and John looks back up at him, his smile full of love, and gets a kiss to his forehead. "I'd quite like to be with the man I love for a while."
John's smile softens even more, and Harold's heart turns over. He isn't the only one whose joy over this relationship hasn't worn off. To love so much and be loved just as much in return—there is nothing like it. And to have found that kind of love a second time? How can one soul as unworthy as him be granted that privilege, Harold often wonders.
Love isn't rational. Though there are scientific elements, chemicals and the like, it has more in common with his sketches than his code. That was a hard truth to accept in his younger years, but these days, it is a comfort. He and John can be deeply flawed individuals and still be something beautiful together.
"Sounds good to me." John straightens up and starts to stand, and Harold hurries to fetch John's cane for him. Once he's on his feet, John takes it with a smile and a quick kiss to Harold's lips, and asks, "Can I see the new pic?"
"Yes!" Harold bustles over to his table and grabs his sketchbook, and he holds it up for John. "As you can see, you were not just 'resting your eyes,'" he says, while John lets out a small laugh. John's nap gave him an excellent opportunity to try to capture those lush eyelashes on paper.
"Looks great," John says, a hint of pink in his cheeks. "Can think of a better subject you could be drawing, but the neighbors might think we're weirdos if we put a mirror on the front porch."
Harold laughs. "What do you think we are? Normal people? Goodness." He closes his sketchbook and gathers his things. "And I'm not nearly narcissistic enough to draw myself."
"Too bad." John gets the door for him, then follows him inside. "Maybe I should take up drawing. Start with the nice view I've got from back here—" He palms Harold's rear end, and Harold laughs. "—and go from there."
"You don't have to draw me to get me naked, you know." With a grunt, Harold sets his art supplies down on the coffee table, then turns to take John's guitar. The case is lying on the couch, and Harold puts the instrument in carefully. A beautiful vintage spruce and rosewood guitar that John would never dare treat himself to but will surely love is on its way, but one of John's students is a teenager who's been longing for a guitar of their own. Best to be extra gentle.
"You're not that easy." John steps in and helps buckle the case, then, when Harold's standing again, he pulls Harold to him, his hand slipping back down to Harold's ass. "But you're damn sure worth the effort."
"And I feel the same way about you." Harold wraps his arms around John, letting his hands rest on the firm curve of John's bottom. Loving John hasn't been without pain—some of it pure agony—but, "It's such a privilege to have you in my life."
John tugs him even closer. "Keep saying things like that—" He gives Harold's ass a squeeze. "—and we're not gonna be doing much sleeping when we go for that nap."
With a wicked grin, Harold says, "Is that a threat, Mr. Reese?"
His smile just as big and filthy, John says, "Nah, Finch," and kisses Harold's lips with more tenderness than heat. "It's a promise."