Afterwards, Harry lay curled up next to John, a smug smile teasing the corners of his mouth.
"That," he said in a satisfied and somewhat lazy tone, "was worth waiting a month for. I think I'll just lie here for the rest of the year, too."
Harry's stomach disagreed. It rumbled. Loudly.
Harry facepalmed. "I'm sorry. Wizard metabolism. Sex makes me hungry. Especially fantastic sex. I'd better go get something and bring it back here. You want anything to eat? Besides me?"
"It is my considered suggestion that you put the frozen lasagna in the oven and then go get the Pop Tarts from the cupboard to tide you over while it cooks. My refrigerator is your refrigerator," John said lazily. "I can wait for the lasagna. I am not a caloric black hole, unlike other parties present."
Harry grinned. "Thanks, John. I'll be back as soon as possible." And with that, he got out of bed and walked toward the kitchen, giving John an excellent view of his nude body.
It didn't take long before Harry came back with two platters of piping hot lasagna (with silverware for each), a mile-high platter of Pop Tarts, two mugs of coffee, a pitcher of milk, a sugar bowl, and two bottles of Mac's ale. He arranged both meals on and near the bed, then slipped back into bed and nestled close to John once more.
Absolutely ridiculous, and yet John was going to let him eat pop tarts in bed and wash the sheets with a smile. If only because the man did look amazing naked.
John stretched out against him, the blankets tangled over his legs.
"I asked you once to remind me if I ever slipped too far away from how I ought to behave. Harry, tell me, am I REALLY going to let you do this?" There was a smile in John's voice; it wasn't a serious question.
Harry grinned at him. "Well, I hope so," he replied in a teasing tone, stretching a bit. He took a forkful of lasagna, then stroked John's foot and ankle with his own foot. "I could spend the rest of my life like this, you know. Good food, a comfortable bed, hot water when I want it, outstanding sex...and lots of love. Oceans of it."
John smiled and forked himself a piece of lasagna, too. Really terrible stuff, greasy, nothing like homemade, but the universal tang of frozen food and arcane preservatives was a comfort to someone who'd once been a young man on a Ramen and Kraft diet.
"If I could commute to Haurvatat, I am forced to admit that I would. I have never eaten pop tarts in bed in either my penthouse or my estate. I would be allowed, but it would annoy the cleaning staff. ...you make me feel young, hot stuff. You do. Young and too free."
Harry considered it pretty good...but then, he was accustomed to brittle or overcooked spaghetti.
"If you could commute, so would I. Even though I love Chicago. You make me happy, Il Migliore. In fact," he said in a quieter voice, "I didn't know it was possible to be this happy and still be alive."
He touched John's face with the hand that didn't have a fork in it. "'Stu' o' mo' run.' That's Gaelic slang. I read it in a story. Do you know what it means? 'Joy of my heart.'" He blushed a blotchy brick-red. "And yes, I am being completely soppy here."
"You are the tallest, most well endowed teenage girl I have ever met," John told him deadpan. "...one who has an excuse to call me words that sound slightly like 'moron' in public."
"You are being completely soppy. Utterly. You are awash with saccharine. And I enjoy it, which is lamentable. Love you, Harry."
"One of these days," he added, taking another forkful of lasagna, "I want to see how your pasta compares to this. You do know how to make homemade spaghetti sauce, right? You've probably even mastered the esoteric art of baking garlic bread without cremating it."
"Are you joking? You know that my repertoire involves mostly ramen, sloppy joes, and things from cans and jars. My father could cook.... but I learned from my mother, who taught me the fine art of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese." John smiled. "This is how my pasta tastes, and this is how I make it," he said, poking his frozen lasagna with his fork illustratively.
"I thought you knew how to make spaghetti sauce from scratch, somehow," Harry said with a frown. "Sorry. I shouldn't assume that you know how to make pasta and its accouterments just because you're Italian. Though I have to admire a woman who teaches her son about the fine art of Kraft." He paused for a moment, then added quietly, "I think I'd have liked your mother. One of these days, I have to introduce you to mine."
"You should also remember that we've had this conversation. Although you might have been distracted by your ulterior motive at the time-- I can only imagine that your train of thought ran something like 'John looks entirely too comfortable with all the discipline he's practicing, why don't I kiss him and completely rearrange his view of the world?'" John snarked lightly.
"...I admit that I'm not sure how good an idea that would be."
"Did we? Sorry. Oh...we had the conversation THAT night? No wonder I don't remember. I spent half the night trying to nerve myself to say something or do something that would get your attention in a way that wouldn't start you laughing or scare you to death. Finally I just decided to show you. I figured it would have more impact than words.
"I wasn't planning on a sit-down dinner on Sunday to introduce you to my mother the sorceress. I know I can't really introduce you." He sighed. "I suppose even the two of you running into each other and talking would be risky, huh?"
"That depends on what my soul looks like these days, I think," John said with a slight frown. "What she's heard from other Chicago natives about me. What she's heard from you, if anything. I can only see it being ... problematic. I'm sorry." Holding his lasagna careful and steady in one hand, he turned the rest of his body to press an apologetic kiss against Harry's stubbled cheek.
"I don't think I've told her anything about you," Harry said with a frown. "Mostly what we talk about is the past. Her past. My childhood. That kind of thing.
"I'm sorry it's a problem." He honestly didn't believe that his mother would judge John or hate him...but it was John's choice. "I guess it was a bad idea."
"She might like me. But... I've let too many people in on this. I am not unaware of the irony, by the way, that I pressed for secrecy, that I'm ostensibly the discrete and political half of this relationship, and that I am the reason that Michael Carpenter and Frank Hendricks know."
"That," he said in a satisfied and somewhat lazy tone, "was worth waiting a month for. I think I'll just lie here for the rest of the year, too."
Harry's stomach disagreed. It rumbled. Loudly.
Harry facepalmed. "I'm sorry. Wizard metabolism. Sex makes me hungry. Especially fantastic sex. I'd better go get something and bring it back here. You want anything to eat? Besides me?"
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It didn't take long before Harry came back with two platters of piping hot lasagna (with silverware for each), a mile-high platter of Pop Tarts, two mugs of coffee, a pitcher of milk, a sugar bowl, and two bottles of Mac's ale. He arranged both meals on and near the bed, then slipped back into bed and nestled close to John once more.
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John stretched out against him, the blankets tangled over his legs.
"I asked you once to remind me if I ever slipped too far away from how I ought to behave. Harry, tell me, am I REALLY going to let you do this?" There was a smile in John's voice; it wasn't a serious question.
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"If I could commute to Haurvatat, I am forced to admit that I would. I have never eaten pop tarts in bed in either my penthouse or my estate. I would be allowed, but it would annoy the cleaning staff. ...you make me feel young, hot stuff. You do. Young and too free."
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"If you could commute, so would I. Even though I love Chicago. You make me happy, Il Migliore. In fact," he said in a quieter voice, "I didn't know it was possible to be this happy and still be alive."
He touched John's face with the hand that didn't have a fork in it. "'Stu' o' mo' run.' That's Gaelic slang. I read it in a story. Do you know what it means? 'Joy of my heart.'" He blushed a blotchy brick-red. "And yes, I am being completely soppy here."
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"You are being completely soppy. Utterly. You are awash with saccharine. And I enjoy it, which is lamentable. Love you, Harry."
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"One of these days," he added, taking another forkful of lasagna, "I want to see how your pasta compares to this. You do know how to make homemade spaghetti sauce, right? You've probably even mastered the esoteric art of baking garlic bread without cremating it."
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"...I admit that I'm not sure how good an idea that would be."
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"I wasn't planning on a sit-down dinner on Sunday to introduce you to my mother the sorceress. I know I can't really introduce you." He sighed. "I suppose even the two of you running into each other and talking would be risky, huh?"
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"I'm sorry it's a problem." He honestly didn't believe that his mother would judge John or hate him...but it was John's choice. "I guess it was a bad idea."
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