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By the time the sun finally breaks through the clouds, they've finished off most of the Coronas and about half of the food. When Nick had suggested a picnic lunch in the garden he'd been picturing a typically American meal consisting primarily of hamburgers, beer and crisps, but Harry being Harry had gone to Pret and returned with a multitude of fancy sandwiches and salads. A fruit salad, of all things. Nick had rolled his eyes dramatically at that.
Puppy is snoozing in the back of the garden after an epic battle with a mouse that had apparently taken up residence in Nick's stone wall. She's lying on her back with legs raised, twitching every so often at what appears to be a pretty exciting dream.
Until a few minutes ago the baby has been gurgling happily in the bouncer Aimee and Ian had left when they dropped him off for the afternoon, but when Nick looks in on him, his suspicions are confirmed: passed out as well, dummy falling out of his mouth as he snores lightly. Nick pops it back in and slides the chair just inside the French doors and away from the sun.
Nick goes back to where Harry is lying on the blanket, rolling the bottoms of his stupid tight pants as far up his calf as he can manage. He lies back down, drains the last of his beer, and basks. It's not long, though, before he feels Harry's hands slide over the tops of his knees inquisitively. He cracks one eye open. "Yes?"
"I like your shorts," Harry says, hands gliding down toward the frayed edge of Nick's cutoffs, the ones that he accidentally cut way too short and should absolutely toss in the bin, if they didn't leave Harry seemingly overcome with lust every time Nick wears them.
"You might've mentioned that once of twice before—" Nick says, voice cracking a bit when Harry's fingertips reach his waist. He pushes Nick's knees apart and kneels between them, slowly pulling down Nick's zipper, kissing the skin that's revealed, tongue tracing over the red lines left by too-tight jeans. Nick can't really get his jeans off from this position but he's too lazy and content to move so he just lays back and lets Harry work with what he can get to.
He pulls Nick's cock out of his boxers through his zipper and swallows him down to the root, pressing his lips firmly against Nick's pubes. He pulls all the way back off again and sucks at the head, letting spit-slick fingers do the rest. It really only takes a few minutes before Nick comes, but it feels like ages lazing in the sun, slightly buzzed, with Harry slowly working over him. He comes quietly so as not to wake the baby (or the dog, who would surely come running over to play and put an end to this lovely moment) and Harry swallows every drop, then flops over onto the blanket next to him.
"Do you want—" Nick starts, even though he's not entirely sure he has enough energy left to give Harry what he might want.
"Mm, yeah in a minute," Harry says, running hands lightly over Nick's chest and shoulder. He pulls a grape from the bowl near his head and pops it into Nick's mouth. "This is really nice though, just lying out here with you." Nick grunts and trains his face not to react to the cheesiness of Harry's line.
"Yeah, alright pop star," he says, pulling Harry back up to straddle his lap. "Now slide them jeggings down a bit so I can fuck you."
"They're jeans," Harry whines half heartedly, but he doesn't seem too bothered and he kneels up to do as Nick asked. They've only got olive oil to use as lube, and they probably only have a few minutes left before Aimee calls to check in, but here in this garden, on a checkered blanket, under the July sun, neither of them can bring themselves to mind.