The Executive & The Artist (H.S)

[baby steps]

Rory has a black eye today.

He came through Harry's front door and flopped onto the couch, legs draped over the end of it with Yeezy's dangling just above the ground, shoelaces trailing over the hardwood. At first Harry couldn't see the purple bruise blossoming just beneath his right eye, but as he got closer ("why the fuck are you here, Rory?") with his tea in hand, he saw the cut on his top lip and the pretty colour on his face, saw the dried red blood move as he spoke. ("Just knew you wouldn't kick me out, Haz").

Harry gets closer, sits on the edge of the coffee table, reaches out with his fingertips to brush over the discoloured skin. Rory doesn't wince - he moves his head away and says things like "why the fuck'd you do that" while scooting further down the couch. Rory does well with pain, probably. Harry thinks that Rory probably has gone through so much of it that he's a professional on not letting it show.

"Do you want ice?" is what Harry asks, already up and moving to the freezer to get it for him. Rory mumbles something to himself and Harry can't be bothered to ask him to say it again. There's a Finding Nemo ice pack in the very top shelf of his freezer and Harry's mind takes him back to that day this spring, when Leo bumped his head on the side of the kitchen table and cried about it until Harry kissed it better and got him that Finding Nemo ice pack. The image of Leo's little hands (he had to use two - it was too big for just one) holding the pack on his little blonde curls bombardes Harry's senses and suddenly he can smell the baby powder on Britt's skin and can see the dimples in Leo's smile and Harry misses his kids.

Harry really fucking misses his kids.

Sighing, he grabs the ice pack and closes the freezer door. One last whoosh of cold air crawls up Harry's spine but he doesn't really notice. He notices the darkness outside, and the blonde model on his couch, and he's even vaguely aware of the dripping of his kitchen sink... but he doesn't notice the cold creeping under his shirt.

"Here," he says, tossing the ice pack to Rory. The blonde's arm stretches to grip the object and tuck it into his chest, maneuvering it to cover his injured eye. Rory fumbles for the remote, too - both of his eyes are covered by the pack but he's fumbling for the remote because maybe the background noise of Geordie Shore will be better than the deafening silence Harry is providing right now.

In this silence, Rory hears the creaking of Harry's favourite chair as his lanky body falls into it, hears how Harry grunts in disapproval as an advert for some new nightclub appears on the television. Rory rolls his eyes underneath his ice pack. Harry never has any fun. He's the most boring person the blonde has ever met.

Yet, in the midst of all this, when asked in interviews what his connection is to this multi-billionaire, Rory says that "he's my best friend."

"How'd you get a black eye, Ror?"

"Bouncer at a club wouldn't let me in."

"You fought him?"

"I fought him."

"Who won?"

Rory laughs and Harry wonders fleetingly how much money Rory pays to get his teeth so white. "I fuckin' won, mate," the blonde says breathlessly, "got the black eye as my trophy. S' why I'm here with you now instead of grinding on some brunette"

Harry lets out a quiet chuckle and leans back in his chair. "You're high," he says, stating a fact.

Rory shrugs. "I think I'm going back there soon," he says, still smiling. "Bouncer's oughtta have changed shifts by now."

"Dolt."

Rory sighs and uses his opposite foot to kick the Yeezy's from his heels, sending them to a pile on the hardwood. He says, "S' this Leo's ice pack?" He hopes Harry nods, or agrees with him silently, because he continues with "you've gotta call em'. Call Nat and tell her to bring the kids over or something."