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“That was an interesting movie.” They had just exited the cinema playing Pan’s Labyrinth. As there were no new numbers, they had decided to spend the evening enjoying themselves for a change. John wanted to watch an action flick, but he couldn’t resist Finch’s helpless excitement for long. He wasn’t even sure if he had tried.
It was already dark and raining when they got out, the November chill biting into their skins, and Finch had wrapped a purple scarf around his neck, as John opened up the umbrella.
“I told you, you would warm up to subtitles.”
“I am sure you are fluent enough in Spanish to not even need the subtitles. And anyway, haven’t you seen this movie before?”
Harold had the decency to shrug. John noticed some droplets of water had started landing on Finch’s shoulder as they walked leisurely on the sidewalk, and tucked him closer to his side to protect him from the rain. The proximity did wonders for the cold weather.
“True. But you hadn’t.”
“Still trying to improve my taste Finch?” John teased.
“Always Mr. Reese.” He used their trademark sentence with such a sarcastic inflection that John had to raise a hand to cover up the broad smile creeping up on his face. From the corner of his eye he could notice that Finch’s lips were stretched into a smug grin too.
“Anyway Harold. I did not take you for being fond of fairy tales.”
“Oh I would hardly call it a fairy tale John. More of a horror story really.”
John thought about it for a second, and then conceded. “Horror it is.”
Reese realized his right shoulder and arm were getting completely soaked in rain, but Finch was reassuringly dry. He wouldn’t have it any other way. The man in question looked lost in thought, no doubt thinking a thousand things way beyond John’s imagination. Harold’s brain was beautiful.
But that wasn’t the only beautiful thing about him. Looking at him from the side profile, John could feel affection oozing out of his every pore. Harold’s limp was a little more pronounced, as it got after long days in cold weather; John mentally reminded himself to bring Harold a hot water bottle when they reached the library. He would protest that he didn’t need one, but John knew by experience that he would use it, and would walk a little less stiff the next morning.
Finch was bundled up in layers. John secretly loved him like that, with his hat and warm coat and the scarves. It made the warmth of his personality take on a physical shape and John found it strangely comforting. Harold was one of the very few people he knew who could carry a whole range of colors and look good in every single one of them. Right now, he was in plain black coat, with a purple splash of color brought by his scarf. Instinctively, he tucked Harold closer, tightening his arm around his waist. The man did not even seem to notice.
Reese continued his catalogue of everything he liked about the billionaire’s face: the sideburns, the orange streetlights glinting off of his glasses, the wrinkles around his eyes that were more pronounced because of the smile hovering at his lips. And oh his lips. John thought an awful lot about his lips.
Seemingly out of nowhere, Harold startled, and then looked at John, turning around and facing him. John stepped closer, tilting the umbrella to cover more of the shorter man’s frame, noticing with amusement the eager glint in the blue eyes behind the spectacles.
“Do you want to know something interesting?” He said, rhetorical, because John always wanted to hear what Finch had to say, but he nodded in assent anyway, “The shapes and the colors of the movie were thematically relevant.”
“Really?” John drawled, not even slightly interested in it, but extremely invested in letting Harold play out whatever was going on in his head.
“Yes.” Harold nodded enthusiastically. “Scenes with Ofelia had warm colors and more interestingly, circles and curves, and scenes with Vidal has straighter lines and colder colors. It mixes in later, as the theme of the movie gets darker. Now everyone uses the colors and shades, it’s the first time someone used lines and circles. Del Toro really is a genius.”
Harold looked up and beamed at him, and fuck all sanity. John was only human.
They were already close enough that John could feel the warm puff of Harold’s breath on the skin of his neck. All he had to do was bend down a little, noticing the widening of the other man’s eyes, and hovering with intent. He raised one hand, and folded his fingers in the lapels of Finch’s coat, clenching tightly, his mouth a bare few millimeters away from Harold’s. Eventually, he felt the man exhale, his shoulders relaxing minutely, and he took it as his cue to cover the remaining distance and slot their mouths together.
After months of dreaming about it at nights, and fantasizing about it during the day, the reality took him off guard. The moan that sounded, it took him a while to realize it was his own. Soft, gentle lips returned his seeking kiss with the patience and expertise that was the custom with the genius, and soon John couldn’t bear it, he had to be closer, he had to have more.
“Harold.” He breathed against the lips, barely separating, and moved closer, letting go of the umbrella so that it could be squashed between them, hopefully protecting them from the worst of the rain, and moved his other hand around Harold’s back to his arm, folding him in his embrace and pressing their chest together.
Despite the incredible need to be closer, their kisses had been close mouthed. Achingly sweet, and gentle; but then Harold moved one of his hands to John’s back, and the other to his cheek, stroking softly. John whimpered, and opened his mouth, requesting permission to deepen the kiss.
Gracious as Harold relentlessly was, he acquiesced. Better yet, he reciprocated.
“We should head to the safe-house.” Harold whispered, his breathing labored, when they surfaced for air.
“We should.” John agreed, and went right back to kissing.
Their umbrella fell away sometime, the wind making it land in the middle of the road, making the rare cars at this hour of the night honk angrily, the lights flashing by. They were getting soaked, their heavy layers getting drenched and becoming uncomfortable. John’s hair were plastered to his face, and Harold’s hat had been knocked off by John’s attempt at running his fingers through the soft, soft hair.
But they hardly noticed. All that mattered at the moment was the fact that they were together, embracing each other, lips seeking the touch they had been longing for since ages, fingers roaming across the shoulders, arms, cheeks they had been aching to trace for months.
The cold could not touch them right now. Nothing could.
Art by Liebelit.