Inclination

Eggs, Escort, Excitation

Two raw eggs lower gently from a wooden spoon into boiling water and once completely submerged, Harry sets his kitchen timer for seven minutes. He loves a perfectly cooked medium-boiled egg on toast with avocado, and if he had more time in the mornings on weekdays he would certainly indulge in his favorite breakfast more often. For now, it would remain his Saturday morning ritual.

He was awake late last night, not because he stayed at the club after you left but because when he arrived home, he paced his apartment with his shoes on and records echoing through his living room but he wasn't paying any attention to the music. He was thinking about you, he was thinking about the man you brought home with you, he was thinking about him icing over the spots that Harry had previously burned with his fingertips into your skin.

He was thinking about your lips and tongue on his mouth, his collarbone and his cock and then he was driven wild with jealousy and suddenly the music in his living room was meaningless. In fact, it wasn't even music anymore; it was the hop of the needle over the paper label but he hadn't even noticed.

He stayed awake until the sun peeked over the city buildings and he battled between staying awake or falling asleep, knowing that you had promised to call him in the morning but before long, sleep had won.

Ever since Harry struck a certain age, he's been incapable of sleeping past eight in the morning so when his eyes popped open mere hours later, he's groaned and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. He checked his answering machine for messages straight away but the tape was empty so his second task was to make eggs.

Hours pass, Harry sits in his studio painting water; calm, tideless oceans and small placid  ponds buried deep in hidden meadows at sunrise. His thoughts are consistently drawn back to you - your smile and your shiny hair, your ability to pry a good mood from a shitty one, your perfect timing, your sportsmanship, your curt sense of humor that almost perfectly mirrors his.

He meant it when he said he loves you and he meant it when he said you were the closest friend he's had in a long, long time. He's revisiting his drunken consideration last night, how he could possibly be feeling lustful attraction towards you, but it mostly just confuses him.

You're obviously beautiful: any man, woman, gay or straight can admit that. But is he having allure that he wants to explore on a bottomless level or is it simply a heart-wrenching adoration for a friend? How can he know the difference? When and where does one draw the line? Is jealousy over a friend normal? Will the urge ever dull or will it grow stronger with time?

His head spins as he tosses his palette aside and brushes his hair away from his face, smearing shades of blue against the skin on his forehead and into the chestnut waves of hair on the top of his head. The clock reads nearly one in the afternoon and his heart slams against his ribcage in the form of envy. How late had you stayed up with your fling? Did you hold each other in the morning? Did you go to brunch together? Kiss on his way out the door?

Hearing your voice will make him feel better. It would cure any ailment he could possibly be suffering from; he crosses his studio in a hurry and shuffles into his kitchen, reaching for his cordless phone and dialing your number which he now has memorized from returning so many of your "emergency" pages.

Your roommate answers the phone and Harry's voice gets caught in his throat. He hasn't so much as thought about your roommate in ages and now he's scrambling to gather his wits as your roommate repeats his friendly prompt, "hello?"

Harry coughs into his fist and starts pacing his kitchen, "hi, uh-"

Your roommate recognizes the deep, smooth timbre of Harry's voice instantaneously and raises an eyebrow before propping his hip against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest smugly, "oh, well hello there. Long time no speak, hoebag. How are the CTNDs treating you?"