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algiatry: the specialty of pain medicine; derived from the greek words for “pain” and “medical practice"; concerned with easing the suffering and improving the quality of life of those living with pain.
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Harold opens the door in track pants and a threadbare gray shirt that is coming undone at the seams. His hair is messy, as if he just got up, and there is a smear of toothpaste at the corner of his mouth.
"You said it was an emergency," John says, a little out of breath from running up five flights of stairs to Harold's current safehouse because the elevator took too long.
"Oh, yes," Harold says distractedly. He pulls John into the apartment by the hem of his jacket and closes the door behind him.
Then Harold just sort of leans against John and sighs a little. "An unexpected six today. I don't know why it throws me so much, I should be used to this. Maybe because the first days of the week were a blissful three each."
John frowns. He runs his hands over Harold's back and arms in careful, soothing motions. The t-shirt is very soft under his hands. "I'm sorry?"
Harold moves back a little. "I am referring to the visual analogue scale frequently used in hospitals to assess pain in patients," Harold says. He sounds detached, but John can see the effort it takes him to be on his feet. "Mostly ranging from 1 to 10, 1 being minimal pain and 10 representing the worst pain one can think of."
John does the math in his head. "I didn't realize you were in pain the last few days," he says, alarmed. "Is this before or after medication? Why didn't you tell me? I could have done something."
"Are you very experienced with managing chronic pain, then?" Harold asks mildly. He makes his way to the couch and slowly lowers himself down, wincing a little.
John feels pretty useless all of a sudden: he knows, intellectually, that Harold is in pain a lot, that he's used to managing and working around it. But there is a part of him that likes to play along with the fiction that Harold is fine most days, and not just running on painkillers and forced cheer.
Harold pats the empty spot on the couch next to him. "Come here," he says softly.
John brightens up and walks around the coffee table. He takes off his jacket and shoes before joining Harold on the couch, nuzzling the warm place between Harold's ear and throat.
"I apologize, I am cranky today," Harold says. "I shouldn't take it out on you."
"I've never seen you in anything else but a suit and boxer shorts. An undershirt, maybe. I didn't realize you owned track pants," John says, fascinated. He slides his palm over Harold's thigh, the smooth polyester. It's nice, to be pressed up against him like this, all soft and comfortable. John nuzzles Harold's ear some more, and Harold sighs.
"I am aware that I'm not much to look at today," Harold says. "I didn't even shower, I feel like something the cat dragged in."
John doesn't mind: he buries his face in Harold's shirt and licks the salty taste off his skin, and Harold's hand comes up to pet John's head, which is nice.
"You're always something to look at," John says. He runs his thumb over Harold's jaw, the faint bit of stubble there. "I could look at you for hours."
It's true: John feels giddy with excitement that Harold lets John see him like this, in ratty clothes and with his hair a mess. John places soft, careful kisses on Harold's jaw, then he moves up to his mouth and licks the smear of toothpaste away. It tastes like mint.
"Would you like something to take your mind off the pain?" John asks. He strokes his hand over the soft swell of Harold's belly under his shirt.
Harold stiffens. John draws back, afraid that he has done something to aggravate the pain in Harold's hip or back.
"I would just like to emphasize," Harold says, sounding very serious, "that I do not just keep you around for the purpose of sexual gratification."
John chuckles. "No?" he asks. "What else, then?"
Harold looks tired, but John can see a spark of humor in his eyes. "I find you very aesthetically pleasing," he says, and reaches out to run his fingers over the side of John's face.
John turns his head to kiss Harold's palm. "I bet you say that to all the boys," he says, looking at Harold from under his lashes.
Harold gives him a disapproving eyebrow, and John grins and nudges him to lean back so he can ruck up Harold's shirt and pull down the elastic of his sweat pants. "What else?" John asks, trying to sound indifferent. He kisses the soft skin of Harold's belly. Harold makes a very undignified noise when John licks his belly button.
Harold runs his fingers through John's hair. "You go out of your way to find the best pastries in town and bring them back to the library," he says.
John tugs Harold's pants further down until his cock springs free, then he noses into Harold's pubic hair, inhaling his scent.
Harold's fingertips stroke the nape of John's neck in little circles. "I enjoy measuring your for suits. You find it so endlessly frustrating."
"Because you won't really touch me," John says. He closes a hand around Harold's half-hard cock and Harold sighs.
"Oh, but I do think about it," Harold says. "All of the time."
John feels the blood rush into his face at the admission, so he bends his head and licks at Harold's cock. Harold makes a little, pleased noise and sinks deeper into the cushions. He runs his nails lightly over John's scalp, and John shudders pleasantly.
"Having you around all the time, it's horribly distracting," Harold says. His speech sounds a little slurred. John wonders if it's a side effect of the meds or if Harold is just tired. "I always want to touch you. The hollow of your throat where your shirt falls open. I want, oh. I want to run my fingers through your hair."
Now John is the one who's squirming: he slides off the couch and opts to kneel on the carpet instead, so he doesn't have to crane his neck as much. The angle is better, too: he sucks Harold's cock into his mouth and Harold lets his head fall back, his hand tightening in John's hair.
"You're so good at this," Harold says, a little breathless. "You are so good at all the things you do. You do everything with such kindness, such generosity."
John pulls off to stroke Harold's cock with his hand and lick off the drops of precome that have gathered at the head, teasing the slit with the tip of his tongue. Harold moans, and the sound goes straight to John's dick: he rubs himself against the couch through the fabric of his pants, just to take the edge off.
Harold opens his eyes and looks down at him. He seems to have forgotten that he started out teasing John, he sounds perfectly serious now. His eyes are are a little glassy, his cheeks flushed. "You never ask anything for yourself," Harold says, frowning a little.
His hand slides down to John's mouth, and Harold's thumb brushes over his lips. John opens his mouth and sucks lightly at Harold's thumb, his teeth grazing the skin playfully. "Do you even know how precious you are to me, how important," Harold says quietly.
John can't look at him, not when Harold is talking like this. He must be loopy on pain meds, John thinks. He probably doesn't realize what he's saying. John kisses Harold's fingers and then moves down to suck him off again. Harold lets him, his hand coming to rest on John's head.
John lets himself get lost in the physicality of the task and listens to Harold's reactions: the way his breath hitches, the groan when John takes him in deeper, the little, thin noises that tell John that Harold is close, barely hanging on to control.
"John," Harold says, tugging at the collar of John's shirt.
John lets Harold's cock slide out of his mouth and climbs onto the couch again: Harold grabs a fistful of John's shirt and pulls him close, draping John half over him. "Like this," he says against John's throat. "Want to touch you."
John feels weirdly affected by that. Harold wants him close, right there with him, wants to run his hands over John's back and stroke his sides. John reaches down between them to close his hand around Harold's cock again and Harold makes an urgent noise and tightens his grip on John's arms.
"Oh yes, just like that," Harold says, and suddenly John's mouth is desert-dry. He feels Harold's breath against his throat, Harold's solid, warm body beneath him while he is coaxing his body closer to orgasm.
It's an awkward position: John half-straddles Harold's leg, his wrist bent at a weird angle. It's perfect.
Harold sighs against him, a blissful expression on his face. John touches him carefully, reverently, drawing out Harold's pleasure with every stroke. Then Harold makes a sound like a sob and spills messily over John's hand. John eases him through it, pressing kisses against Harold's temple, smiling at where his glasses sit crookedly on his nose.
It takes John a moment to realize that the hot rush of affection he feels isn't just that: his hips twitch against Harold's side and he feels a warm, wet spot spreading at the front of his pants. John hides his burning face against Harold's shoulder.
"Oh, that was," Harold says, touching John so tenderly that John wants to weep. "Thank you."
John waits for Harold to remark on the sticky mess, or to throw him off and leave to get cleaned up. Instead. Harold keeps touching him, humming a little.
Then, he tenses up a little. "Oh, do you want me to get you off?" Harold asks brightly, like the thought just occurred to him.
"I don't think that's necessary," John drawls, cuddling closer.
Harold looks offended. "Why, I think it is, actually," Harold says. He slides his palm down between them to rest over John's crotch. His eyebrows shoot up when he finds John soft under his hand. "Did you– oh. Oh."
John considers staying in the warmth and comfort and anonymity of where he's hiding against Harold's shoulder forever. "Yeah," he says. "I don't think that happened to me since I was a teenager."
Harold places his hand on John's jaw and tilts his head so they can kiss. "I feel extremely flattered, then," Harold says.
"How is your pain?" John asks. "Is there something I can do? Do you need anything?"
"I'd like to call this day off," Harold says. He finds a good spot to caress right behind John's right ear that makes John want to purr and present his belly. "Get back into bed and pull the sheets over my head."
John tries not to let the disappointment show on his face. Sure, Harold wants to rest, he certainly doesn't plan to spend his day cuddling on the couch. "I can get you some food for later, if you want. Do you have all the medication you need?"
Harold squints at him like John is a firewall that won't behave. "I was hoping you'd join me, in fact," he says. "You are pleasantly tall and warm and very good with your mouth."
John laughs, delighted. He presses an impulsive kiss to the back of Harold's hand. "Sure, Harold," he says. "Whatever you want."
Harold tugs at the collar of John's shirt. "You," he says, "I only ever want you."
John is all out of words and he is blushing furiously, but he does squeeze Harold's hand and Harold smiles as if John has done something extraordinary.
– fin