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It’s that time of the year in Seattle when the evergreen cracks in the sidewalks are buried beneath a carpet of red–orange leaves. The rain hasn’t let up for over a fortnight, clogging gutters with fallen leaves, leaving the rain to flood the streets. Bikers bother with the delays, passengers packed like sardines even in the front of the buses. The neon lights pouring in from the shops and headlights braving through the lakes in the roads became the only hope for pedestrians trudging through the soggy city; winter is coming, and the nights are starting to swallow up more daylight. Even before the rain took an expected yet always undesired residence over the city, the sun has begun to set before enough clouds could clear for a sliver of pure sunlight.
All of this rain is strange, really. The tales of Seattle being drenched in constant rainfall is entirely mythical; it’s usually just overcast. Some days the clouds will spit on you, but for the most part the wintertime makes the people sleepy—perhaps more grouchy than anything, but it’s only because they get so damn cheerful under the spell of unshrouded sunlight.
But the rain—the black clouds it comes so fiercely dressed in, conspiring with the shriveling hours of daylight weeks shy of the Winter Solstice—has manifested itself into something entirely different from when it first started.
Because when he first moved here, Liam liked it.
It’s so very painfully romantic falling into bed to the pitter patter of the rain against the window and counting the drops as they bead into each other, lulling him to sleep, then waking up to the morning's mist and fog rolling in from the Sound, veiled over rooftops and silhouettes of morning birds perched on power lines so delicately like lace over porcelain. Liam likes these dark, foggy mornings, wiping away at the frost on the windows, because it’s almost an out of body experience, like he’s in a movie while fixing himself a bowl of cereal.
He usually wakes up before Harry, so he’ll occupy himself in the seat in the kitchen that looks out the window, squinting his eyes through the blanket of fog, trying to make out any signs of life weaving through the street outside of their apartment. He usually sees Geraldine, their seventy–five year old neighbor, walking her corgi, Augustus, with curlers in her hair beneath a plastic bonnet and scarf, making her morning trip over to the doughnut shop on Summit.
But for the past two weeks there’s been the rain, seldom slowing down to a manageable spray of cloudspit. It’s mostly been that steady flow of it being light enough to walk through, but heavy enough to get you drenched when walking from A to B. He can’t believe it hasn’t let up.
Liam lets out an exaggerated yawn while pouring boiled water from the kettle into his chipped green mug, cinnamon and allspice mingling with the tendrils of steam curling over the lip of the cup. He always denied the darkening days of a winter looming in the horizon hardly affected him, while Harry abused the late morning sunrises for his chronic winter fatigue and drove Liam crazy by way of his inherent leisurely approach to all situations when they needed to be at the boathouse at 6am for circuit training.
Liam kicks open the door to the dishwasher to pull out his Iron Man mug for Harry and rips open another packet of apple cider to stir up and take with him to the living room. The floorboards creak under the weight of his cautious steps, stiff and icy beneath his bare feet. A shiver spikes up his spine as he passes the kitchen table and into the living room, and of course he’s left his slippers next to the recliner.
Liam slugs his way over to the couch, carefully tip–toeing around the torn corner of the rug Harry usually trips on to hand over a hot apple cider. Harry’s curled into a ball, buried beneath a pile of quilts and a striped blanket, head slumped against the armrest.
“Thanks,” Harry sits up, holding the mug between his palms to ease over to the coffee table.
“Have a coaster,” Liam slides one over from the stack pocketed from various bars on the Hill, “don’t ruin the grain.”
“Okay, dad.”
Harry fishes the remote out from between the cushions of the couch to dust off lint and crumbs before turning up Barefoot Contessa.
“There you go again,” Liam sighs. “Stop calling me dad.”
Ina is eating slices of raw onion and slurring about the benefits of farm fresh organic kale while Liam carefully settles into the recliner with his mug.
“Shh,” Harry brings a finger to his lips, “you’re interrupting my program.”
Liam scoffs, lips tightening into an O to blow into his mug, “sure thing, gramps.”
“Touché,” Harry smooths his hands over the cluster of pilling on his blanket. Liam watches him mindlessly pick at the fuzz, eyes never leaving the screen, fingers pinched, dropping the balls of red cotton onto the floor.
“I feel like I’ve seen this episode before.”
“Please,” Harry hushes him.
“Is this the one where she eats half the ingredients before putting them together?”
“No, it’s the one where she only buys from local merchants in her denim smock.”
“Ah, definitely haven’t seen it then,” Liam winks, taking a sip of cider.
“Then shut up—I need to know who she’s inviting to her dinner later.”
“From her bakery—”
“No, the gay ones,” Harry corrects him, falling back onto the couch on his side. “Her gays are coming over.”
“But you said we don’t know who yet.”
“Liam.”
Harry sits back up and turns from the TV to look at Liam. Liam’s occupied himself with pushing back a cuticle, eyes blinking as he deliberately avoids facing a mildly irritated mop of hair.
“I—”
“I’m trying to watch the show.”
“It’s on break,” Liam points out.
Harry turns to look at the screen, then back at Liam with a shrug. Liam takes another sip of his cider, finger scratching into a fray on the armrest.
“I don’t know, but," he starts, licking his lips to buy time to line up his words, "doesn’t Ina seem so lonely to you? Don’t you ever feel a bit sad for her?”
“You can’t be serious right now,” Harry shakes his head.
“Harry—”
“This is a cooking show we’re watching and then happen to be needlessly talking about. It’s still TV. It’s scripted. Why’re you getting too real over the Barefoot Contessa’s social life? Every episode is about her hosting a party.”
“But you can tell—and how often do we see Jeffrey? Does Jeffrey even bother to come home and truly appreciate her sorry excuse for tabbouleh?”
“Li,” he lifts a hand, owning silence over the room. Harry’s managed to mute the TV, and Liam watches a commercial illuminate the concern lined across his brow, “Look at me. You alright?”
And he really should be alright. Today is their rest day, no training at the boathouse or Gasworks, and Liam doesn’t have any other work to catch up on. Not a care in the world should be had as far as he is concerned, but it’s like the rest of the universe outside of their apartment is caving in on him, chipping at his skull right between the eyes, and he can’t stop thinking about how miserable it is to even think about having to step outside, where the elements of Anything can twist your day into Something for The Worst, obsessing over how dark it’s been getting hours before dinner, and how close yet so far away Christmas is, and his family—How are they? The list keeps piling: needs to Skype with his parents soon, neither has he called Nicola in a while, nor heard from Andy in weeks, and Jesus Christ: it definitely feels like everything is unraveling at breakneck speed right before his eyes, and he knows it’s real because his chest is wound tight, heartbeat entombed behind some existential force that’s driving him apart from all of the good things in his life.
Except for Harry, of course. As of this moment, he still has Harry who’s sat next to him over on the couch staring at him, patiently waiting for Liam to say anything. Liam lets out a deep sigh, but that doesn’t help, especially when Harry keeps blinking, and Harry’s got himself together.
Liam blinks again, shaking his head to clear his thoughts.
"We're—we’re so far from home,” he stutters, voice tightening so small. He shakes his head again, slating it clean to remind himself: it’s just Harry. He’ll listen. “And the Olympics are even further."
Harry turns off the TV and throws off his blankets onto the floor. Liam pushes further into his the recliner, fingers tightening to keep from shaking around the handle of his now lukewarm cider. He tries to put on a smile in hopes to lighten his honesty as soon as Harry gets up from his seat to walk over.
"Yeah," Harry agrees, sits on an armrest, wrapping an arm around Liam's broad shoulders. They've still got two years until the trials. "But you're my home away from home. We've got each other, yeah? Think about how far we've come."
Five years of swearing and blood and sweat, of heartaches and doubts and tears, of more wins than losses, soaked in support between each other and their families and friends, as the hometown heroes, as the blood flow, as the moon and the sun. Harry never lets them think about the end, has told Liam a time or two about not liking it when Liam entertains the idea of their string being cut short. Harry understands the fragility of it all, not on the same level as Liam does—it’s not caked in fear of failure, but more sheathed in the possibility of disappointment. Though that's a commonality they both share: the lingering weight of worrying over letting others down after working so hard to carve their way to the top.
Liam’s lip quivers, "what if we don't make the cut?"
Harry pulls Liam tighter. The possibility is always there: everything falls. Glory wasn't made to be everlasting. Even silver loses its luster.
It only takes one off day, a single mistake to kick them out of the running.
Liam trembles in his arms, shaking out a sigh. "What if we'll never get to be Olympians?"
Deep down Liam knows he won't let that happen to them. Many people have been upfront about Liam obviously wanting this more than Harry, but he knows Harry is just as fierce with competition. Nobody knows Harry like he does.
Harry’s told Liam about his dreams of them standing up on the podium, tears prickling the corners of his eyes, with their medal around his neck as he holds one hand over his heart and Liam belts out the national anthem. That always made him smile, not just imagining it, but knowing that little dream (no, definitely not a dream; an aspiration. There’s a difference between the two because dreams are buried in your skull, and Liam isn’t training this hard to resort to keep his imagination an intangible desire) has burrowed its way into Harry’s head, too. No matter how unmotivated Harry can get some mornings, he reminds himself Harry still wants it.
Hell or high water, they’re going to make it.
“Never,” Harry tucks down to plant a soft kiss on the crown of Liam’s head, “not with you, Liam."
Liam can’t help but crinkle his eyes and smile into Harry’s touch. The weight of him is warm, the soft scratch of wool from Harry’s shoulder sweeps across his neck. Liam brings his hand up to pat at Harry’s cheek.
“Thanks,” Liam sighs, other hand gripping tighter around his mug so it doesn’t spill over his lap. Harry’s inching closer to him on the armrest.
“Is that what’s been bothering you?”
Liam shrugs, lets out a little hum. He’d rather not let the inside out, stay like this with Harry’s chin on his head and fingers drawing circles on his forearm. Despite the growing darkness in the living room, the stillness disrupted by their evened breaths, Liam can’t sink into it and ease the ache in his chest.
“A bit of it,” he says, less than he’ll care to admit.
“You’ve been… erm, I don’t know. Like, weird lately,” Harry mumbles, cheek nuzzling into Liam’s hair on the top of his head. Liam always told him he swore Harry was part cat.
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, you’ve just been brooding out the window looking like a lost pup for the past week, and I get worried when you're sad.”
Liam has for the most part kept to himself during the soggiest bits of the week, taking off to yoga classes and hunkering down in coffee shops to catch up on his readings. The only times he’s seen Harry have been to and from training, and he honestly has no idea what Harry’s been up to these days, either.
“I can be sad,” Liam says.
Harry nods, getting up from the armrest, taking Liam’s mug from his hands to walk it back over to the coffee table. Liam watches him hesitate setting it down for a minute, scramble to search for a coaster, giving up, but putting it down anyway. Liam frowns but lets it go; the mug isn’t hot anymore anyway.
Harry wads up one of his blankets off the floor and into his arms.
“No—you see, you haven’t talked to me about it. Right now, to me, you were just sad without a reason.”
Liam rubs his hands together, leaning over the armrest to swipe up his slippers to put on. Harry drapes the blanket over his shoulders like a cape, takes two big strides with a grin, and slides himself down into Liam’s lap. He pulls the blanket over their heads, the front of Harry’s mane dusting across Liam’s hairline, cloudlight seeping through the gaps of the woven shroud.
“It’s safe under here,” Harry whispers. “You can tell me anything.”
Harry’s smiling, freckled with spots of daylight across his cheeks. Liam can make out the line of Harry’s eyes, patiently waiting.
“I’m just really lonely,” Liam admits.
“Oh,” Harry nuzzles his nose against Liam’s, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright.”
“No it isn’t.”
“It really is,” Liam chews on a fingernail.
“No, ‘cause you’re sad,” Harry brings a hand up to fix his hair then pulls Liam’s hand down into his lap. He laces their fingers together, thumb stroking lightly against Liam’s knuckle. “It’s okay to be sad every once in awhile—”
“That’s what I’ve been saying—”
Harry shakes his head, finger lining Liam’s lips to silence him, “but not for this long. You’re bottling it up and winter isn’t even here. Just know you can unload on me, Li.”
“I don’t want to be—”
Harry shushes him, leans forward to plant a quick kiss on the corner of Liam’s mouth. Liam stills, falling victim to a blush. He bats his lashes a few times before looking back up at Harry who’s smiling, leaning into Harry’s finger that’s grazing up his cheek to tap against his temple, “I don’t want to hear you sad.”
Liam holds onto this, and god, he feels pathetic. Usually he doesn’t feel this heavy talking to Harry; he must look some kind of awful.
“Thanks,” he croaks.
“I wish I could make it go away,” Harry says, hand tracing back down to lift Liam’s chin, “you’re too lovely to be this down.”
He shifts his weight on Liam’s legs, scooting closer to poke the tip of Liam’s nose, leaning just enough to release the recliner. They’re both caught in the surprise, Liam’s heart skipping under the weight of Harry falling on him with a quiet oof.
“Fuck sake,” Liam wraps his arm around Harry’s back, huddling him closer. “I forgot we were in the recliner.”
He can’t see anything with the blanket plastered against his lashes. Harry starts to laugh, shoulder digging into Liam’s chest. Harry starts to prop himself up to look at Liam again, and Liam almost wants to tackle him back into a hug: it’s all he wants, is someone to hold, someone warm, someone to keep him anchored.
But he’s already reconciled with the loss when Harry looks back down at him, so fond. It makes that ache in his chest give out just a smidge, ribbit like that airy-pebbly feeling that rolls through you when you suffer a surge of nostalgia.
“What are we gonna do to make it better?” Harry’s finger skates across his left brow and back down the side of his face. It’s soothing, aimless, knows Harry isn’t fully aware of what he’s doing with his hands, “Wanna go down to Pikes? Dodge some Greenpeace recruiters on Pine? Drink up some Orange Spice tea samples and pick up some apples?”
And he isn’t really thinking, because it’s the last thing Liam wants to do, and he’s pushing forward, never minding Harry’s finger stray across his cheek as he closes the gap between them, lips straining into a tight little o on the bow of Harry’s upper lip. Harry sighs into the kiss, the weight of his open lips closing around the tip of Liam’s tongue, palm sliding up the side of Liam’s face to card through the top of Liam’s hair. Liam can feel the blunt tips of Harry nails scratch at his scalp and curl a fist into his hair. Harry gives it a gentle tug, twisting his body from under the blanket to straddle Liam’s thighs in the cozy recliner. It’s only a brief moment for them to catch their breath, foreheads pressing into each other, noses brushing, until Harry kisses Liam again with more fervor.
Liam eases further into the recliner, hand skating over Harry’s that’s settled so warmly on his neck. He laces their fingers together, settling them between their chests, Harry’s heart beat fast and steady against the back of his hand. Their kisses are picking up speed, Harry’s tongue a phantom memory in Liam’s mouth. They haven’t kissed like this in ages, haven’t found themselves in the need, or want, or both, Liam isn’t sure which at this point, but he’s buzzing through it, how familiar it is to be under Harry, always shaking beneath this budding whisp of anticipation as he makes unconscious notes on how Harry’s chaste bites and stifled moans have matured over the years.
Harry's hands are on autopilot, unlocking from between them and getting both of his hands through Liam's hair. Liam presses his onto the small of Harry’s back, his own lifting from the chair, arms wrapping them tighter. The heat under the blanket is getting the best of them, and it’s like Harry is a step ahead of Liam already, sweeping away the hair plastered against Liam’s brow before throwing an arm up to pull it off of them. Liam savors the quiet yelp Harry makes, swallowing it down when he wraps his hands under Harry’s thighs. Harry takes the hint and sits up, arms wrapping around Liam’s shoulders to pull him back on the recliner and sits them both back up, lips never parting, their bodies swinging in sync to move from the chair to the floor.
It’s a soft landing onto the hardwood floors, still barren and as cold as a snow lined street, so Liam thinks to pull the blanket back over to bundle under Harry’s head. Harry quietly thanks him as he falls back onto it, neck of his sweater pulled down his shoulder. Liam takes a moment to resettle between Harry’s legs, considering the soft lines on the corners of Harry’s mouth, parenthetical dimples around the same smile Liam’s familiarized himself with for over five years. He’s the same Harry he first met in some ways, like that smile for one, and it’s grounding to be living with the same Harry who puts banana in his oatmeal, whose record collection is organized by color for aesthetic appeal, whose favorite place to think is on the back of the 49 with a notebook in his lap.
He’s the same Harry who takes the lead, sets the pace: the stern, lifting his knees to wrap around Liam’s waist and bite into Liam’s neck, the same Harry who likes to giggle in his ear when Liam noses along his collarbone, the same Harry who digs his fingers into Liam’s shoulders when Liam’s tongue swipes over the hollow of his throat. Same Harry. Different time, different place.
Liam pushes up from Harry to catch his breath, elbow digging into the floor while sucking in his bitten lip. Harry throws his hands above his head with a flighty sigh.
“This okay?” Liam asks.
Harry nods, chest stuttering to catch his breath. Liam watches as Harry brings a hand back across his throat.
“‘Course,” he croaks.
“It’s just, I should have asked with—considering Leigh Anne—”
“It’s over,” he sighs, so flippant, casual. Liam’s known this: they’ve been over for a few weeks now, but it’s a double edged sword, and he’s still having a hard time gauging if Harry’s really over her himself.
One thing Liam’s learned about Harry is that he wasn’t one to be on this endless journey of seeking romance. He’s too easily distracted by the appeal of being comforted by common interests and conversation with any company that welcomes it. He is the yin to Liam’s yang in many ways, but most on the front for partnership. Attraction and commitment to monogamy was always a choosy affair for Harry. He never sought it out, but when it happened, it’d come to him, and he’d go in head first, full force. In the five years Liam’s known Harry, he’s only been in two serious relationships adding up to a grand total of 17 months.
Of course they started on Harry’s terms, only because he couldn’t deny he’d fallen a little bit in love with them at some point along the way. Another thing Liam knows is both relationships didn’t end on Harry’s terms. In some ways, Liam envies Harry’s inability to fall for someone so easily, but on the other hand, Liam’s glad he’s been hardened a little more than Harry has by rejection. Harry tries so hard to be so blase about his heartbreak, never saying anything to anyone, especially Liam, if he’s letting it run through how mind or not. Liam leaves him to it, considering it’s his way of dealing with the drop out.
“We’re okay?” Liam nudges Harry’s knees apart to stand back up. He’s dusting off the knees of his sweatpants, minding Harry who’s still splayed out on the floor, neck of his sweater still hanging off his shoulder.
“God, we’re both such a mess,” Harry laughs, tucking his face into the crook of his elbow. Liam thinks he sees a blush peak on his cheeks as he offers a hand to get up from the floor. Harry waves him off and rolls on his side.
“I know,” Liam shrugs his shoulders and shies away from Harry, turning his back on him to bumble through a gut reaction, and it’s not entirely absurd, it’s just the first thought that pops into his head and he isn’t making sense of himself much lately anyway (he can blame anything on the weather at this point), so he can’t be bothered to put a filter on his brain, especially now, when he’s so relaxed, and it’s only Harry, then:
"I can be your rebound."
Harry sits up on his elbows.
“Wait—” he stands up, eyes now level with Liam’s, “let me get this straight. You’re not asking me to go steady, yeah?”
And, fuck, he instantly wishes he could have worded it better, kicking his toe against the floorboard. He stands up taller, chin pointed with confidence as Harry steps back over to him: “No, I'm telling you I just really think we can have a casual fuck and be okay about it after."
Harry hangs his head and tries to hide a smile. "Christ, Li. I thought you were asking me to start a relationship."
“Well, that was a helpful answer.” He turns all the way around to really look at Harry again, who’s got his hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders slumped forward, and, "Like, honestly. If you're not up for it, I'll just go out to Neighbors tonight—"
“Oh, Jesus. Neighbors?” Harry pipes up, “No need to make me feel so special, darling.”
“God damn it, Harry,” he whines, “I want to have sex: that’s it. Sex.”
Liam lets out a breath he wasn’t sure he was holding, opens the fists that were curled into his palms. He doesn’t know how much more clear he needs to be:
“I need a good fuck to get lost in.”
Harry smirks.
“But, Neighbors… I didn’t know you were that desperate.” Harry asks in mock offense. “Might have better luck at The Cuff.”
Liam lets out a groan, rolling his eyes: “That’s why I said something!”
He’s dizzy, on his toes, ultimately frustrated. He’s never outright asked Harry for this before; the other times it’s happened have just, well, fallen into place, much like them out on the water. Liam flickers his eyes to the floor, hiding the flush patched against his cheeks.
"You know when you know everyone around you loves you, but you still feel alone?"
Harry puffs out a laugh, making Liam’s eyes snap back up to watch Harry rest his temple on the heel of his hand, scratch away at his hair. "You're trying to make, 'I'm desperately horny,' sound poetic, Li. You can't fool me—I'm onto you."
Liam blushes more into a quiet giggle, "I—well, you're right. I am horny, but—" he clear his throat, “it’d be nice to be with someone familiar.”
Harry chews on his lip, stepping closer. "Have you been thinking about how you were gonna proposition me?"
"No," Liam goes silent, arms folded over his chest, backing into a corner.
"Hmm," Harry runs a hand through Liam’s hair, "how—how'd you feel if I said I have?"
Liam stands up a little taller, shifting the weight on his feet. He watches Harry swallow, eyes skating that line of flirtation between bashful and haughty.
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
He settles on Harry’s lips again, sees his tongue flick out to trace the corner of it.
"I—" Harry licks his bottom lip and swallows again. "Since Leigh Anne. Yeah—maybe a time or two."
Liam gives a quick once over Harry, reading the language being carved between them. Liam catches Harry’s gaze and they hold onto it just long enough for him to feel a blip in the waves of uncertainty—just enough of it going slack like the split second after the trigger is pulled; that jolt, then focus, then full speed ahead, Harry takes a step closer to Liam.
No words are needed for Harry to put his hand on the back of Liam’s neck, the other cupping his cheek, foreheads pressed against each other. Liam feels the tip of Harry’s nose brush his, their breaths curling between their open mouths. Harry’s breathing a little faster into Liam, lips centimeters apart.
They kiss again, Harry taking the lead with the tilt of his face, licking at the seam of Liam’s lips, tongue curling into Liam’s mouth. Harry’s hand slips from Liam’s face, trailing down his sweater to pull them closer.
Liam’s in a daze, speaking through hums passing through tongues and tugs, side stepping through the hallway, back hitting the wall next to his room. Liam can count the number of times on both of his hands he and Harry had ever taken their heated kisses behind closed doors. It’s been awhile since they’ve last felt each other in this way, and Harry’s hands aren’t as calculated like they used to be when they slip under his shirt, but they feel twice as rough when his calloused palms smooth over his skin, nails scratching over the trail of hair down his stomach. Liam shivers under his touch, eyes rolling as he silently thanks the stars above for this moment, everything’s aligned: for them both to be so wrapped up in each other, for Harry to be single and over (or as over as he’d like to be) Leigh Anne, for Liam to be gasping for air with someone who’s as familiar with his body as himself.
Harry pushes Liam’s hips against the wall, mouth nipping at his chin and down his neck. Liam can feel him pressing smiles behind his ear, the curve of Harry’s lips pecking and biting and licking and sucking and giggling.
“Would you like another kiss?” Harry mumbles, words puffing against the shell of his ear.
“Isn’t that what you’re doing?”
“On those lips of yours,” Harry squeezes his hips, peppering another wet kiss on his neck.
“Why d’you ask? Are you going anywhere?”
He watches a wicked grin flash across Harry’s face:
“Just getting on my knees for a bit.”