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Whatever Nathan might have to say about the subject, there is nothing that Harold's life lacks.
Admittedly, he misses Grace. In hindsight, she was right to break up with him. She deserved better. Still, Harold has everything he needs: his work, Nathan’s friendship, and the love of the dog Nathan foisted on him.
Curse Nathan’s inability to leave well enough alone.
The… paid companion… is foisted on Harold much like the dog. Harold wakes up one day to see a beautiful man kneeling beside his bed.
“Hello,” Harold says, at a loss for words. An assassin would probably have acted already, not to mention worn more clothes.
“My name is John,” the man says. He truly is extraordinary. Harold’s eyes helplessly trace the fluid grace he exudes even in complete stillness. “I’m a gift from a friend.”
At that, Harold sits up and snaps, “Don’t be absurd. Gifts are objects. You’re a human being.”
John’s eyes crinkle, so briefly that Harold almost misses it. “My services, then.”
“I hope you’re good at shelving books,” Harold says.
John rises. Agreeably, he says, “I can do that.” Of course he doesn't bother to put on so much as a stitch of clothing first, so that Harold is subjected to a morning of pointedly looking away from John’s form as he stretches to put books away.
( Read more... )
Admittedly, he misses Grace. In hindsight, she was right to break up with him. She deserved better. Still, Harold has everything he needs: his work, Nathan’s friendship, and the love of the dog Nathan foisted on him.
Curse Nathan’s inability to leave well enough alone.
The… paid companion… is foisted on Harold much like the dog. Harold wakes up one day to see a beautiful man kneeling beside his bed.
“Hello,” Harold says, at a loss for words. An assassin would probably have acted already, not to mention worn more clothes.
“My name is John,” the man says. He truly is extraordinary. Harold’s eyes helplessly trace the fluid grace he exudes even in complete stillness. “I’m a gift from a friend.”
At that, Harold sits up and snaps, “Don’t be absurd. Gifts are objects. You’re a human being.”
John’s eyes crinkle, so briefly that Harold almost misses it. “My services, then.”
“I hope you’re good at shelving books,” Harold says.
John rises. Agreeably, he says, “I can do that.” Of course he doesn't bother to put on so much as a stitch of clothing first, so that Harold is subjected to a morning of pointedly looking away from John’s form as he stretches to put books away.
( Read more... )
