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Cornelius said that he doesn’t even like the word ‘entanglement’ because it sounds so much like what it means. Puts him in mind of the wires behind his telly or the hairs in the bristles of his brush. It’s a word that tastes bad on the tongue and sounds grating to the ear. He’d told him all this when Harry had tried to discuss what’s going on between them - their entanglement, Harry had called it, and then Cornelius’ forehead had creased with lines and he’d gone off on that little diatribe.
It had scuppered the conversation, to say the least. Harry doesn’t know if that had been his intent, to derail things and then float off into the kitchen to put the kettle on. It might just have been that the discussion had held so little weight for Cornelius that it had been quite easy to let it slip from his fingers, as if they had been talking about the weather or a new pair of shoes. Harry really can’t tell. Sometimes Cornelius is as clear to him as daylight, sometimes he is a puddle on the side of the road, muddy and clouded and trod in.
The most bothersome thing about it is that Harry doesn’t particularly like the word either, the one that derailed the whole bloody conversation - it had just been his clumsy way to swerve away from asking what their ‘relationship’ is. So much between them is unspoken, and Harry quite likes that most of the time. Only, the rest of the time, asking Cornelius a serious question makes him feel as if he is approaching an unpredictable cat, likely to scratch at his arm or dart from the room if he feels he must.
So he leans in the doorway and watches Cornelius make tea and tries his very best not to appear like his feelings are hurt.
“I’ve hurt your feelings,” Cornelius says, not looking at him but the side of his mouth raising in a knowing little smile that makes his cheek dimple.
Shit.
“A little bit,” Harry crosses his arms, feeling a touch defensive, “I’m sure I’ll get over it though.”
“Yeah?” Cornelius glances at him and drops the used tea bag on the countertop. He’ll leave it there. Harry will have to clean it up after he’s gone. The only reason he doesn’t go over and put it in the bin now is Cornelius will roll his eyes, as if his messiness shouldn’t bother him at all. He drops the other on top of the first.
“Yes.”
“Sure you’re not disappointed I’ve not confirmed we’re boyfriend and boyfriend? Holding hands in the park and all that?” He’s smirking a bit and it pisses Harry off. As so many times before, he just stands there looking at him thinking ‘Why, why do I even like you? Why are you in my flat right now?’
Harry doesn’t answer, he just watches Cornelius move around his kitchen like the conversation isn’t worth paying full attention to.
It’s that he knows Harry understood the brush-off as Cornelius intended it and he isn’t even bothering to say the words ‘no I don’t want to define what we are,’ or ‘we aren’t anything.’
“We need milk,” Cornelius says.
That gets Harry’s dander up even more than it was before. We, indeed.
So Harry crosses the kitchen and picks up the teabags. They’ve cooled enough that they don’t burn his hand.
“How hard is it to throw things away? Honestly?” He drops them in the bin and snaps it shut a bit hard. “No wonder your place is a fucking pigsty.”
Harry goes back into the living room and sits on the couch, irritation and a twinge of embarrassment turning up his stomach.
Cornelius comes in carrying the two mugs, looking unfazed, even mildly amused. He sets them down on the coffee table.
“And this is you getting over it, is it?” He flops down on the couch right next to him and puts his scuffed trainers up on the coffee table.
“Am I not allowed two minutes to lament your inability to have an actual conversation?”
Even without looking at him, Harry can picture the casual incline of his head when he says, “Fair enough.”
Harry sits with his elbows on his knees and he feels Cornelius settle into the cushions behind him.
“I just wonder why you need to have actual conversation with the person you ring up to suck you off every now and then.”
That stings. Harry turns to look at him as he puts a cigarette between his lips and lights it. That’ll be his couch stinking for days, but it’s not what is bothering him the most - it is bothering him, though.
“Is that how you see it, then?”
“That’s how it is, Harry,” he breathes out a stream of smoke, eye corners crinkled, “you have a hard day at the museum - cleaning dinosaur bones or polishing suits of armour or whatever you do - “
He very much does neither of those things.
“- And you call me to come over and help you empty your balls. It’s not an arrangement I have any problem with.”
Casual. So fucking casual and breezy and so sure that he’s right about everything. He’s heard Cornelius talk to people like that before, as if they are a little spider on the back of his hand to be flicked off and forgotten. It’s quite amusing, sometimes, it’s one of the more guilty reasons Harry fancies him so much.
To have it turned on him, though? When he knows Cornelius’ intense tenderness so well? When he can so clearly see the artifice in that aloofness? No, not amusing. It winds him up more than harms his feelings, and then Harry is the one breathing a bitter laugh.
“I don’t know if it’s worse if you are deliberately misrepresenting our relationship to make me seem irrational or if you actually believe that,” he shakes his head. Some of the amusement goes from Cornelius’ face then, and he looks at Harry closely.
“For the past few months you’ve been here as much as you’re at your own place. We eat together, you’ve a toothbrush in the bathroom, you know which cupboard the tea bags are kept in. You can pretend all that is meaningless if you like, but don’t pretend it’s not there, because it is…” Harry looks him back in the eye. “And those kinds of things are not meaningless to me.”
Smoke leaves Cornelius’ pointed nose and Harry struggles to pin down his reaction. He can turn that expressive face utterly inscrutable when he wants to.
It doesn’t matter though, Harry has said his piece and meant it, Cornelius can think what he likes.
“Tea’s getting cold,” Cornelius gestures vaguely to the mugs on the coffee table, “pass me mine, will you?”
Harry breathes out a sigh and does as asked. He should’ve expected as much. A none response, a dismissal. He sips his own tea, and it is nice, nicer than when he makes it himself, but it’s far too weak a tincture to lift the pall hanging over his mood.
“Come ‘ere,” Cornelius puts his mug down after a couple of gulps that finish half of it. He doesn’t give Harry a choice, either, just holds the cigarette between his lips and tugs him under his arm, “don’t get the face on, alright?”
Harry rolls his eyes up to the ceiling but leans back into the cushions despite himself, allowing Cornelius’ arm to remain over his shoulder and tug him to his side. He runs hot, Cornelius, despite his cold affect, sleeping in the bed with him is like being beside a furnace and he never even has the quilt over him, just sleeps on his belly with his face pressed into the pillow, snoring. That’s maybe why it’s so difficult for Harry to pull away from him - nice to feel the warmth even if he is a bit of a bastard.
“Who was your last boyfriend?” Cornelius asks after a moment, gentle-voiced in that way Harry imagines could be quite hypnotic if he were susceptible to that sort of thing.
“Why does that matter?” He glances at Cornelius’ profile but he’s not looking at him, he’s got his eyes half shut like he might fall asleep.
“Who was he?”
“My last relationship was with a woman, actually. Petra.”
“Trust you to go out with someone named after a UNESCO World Heritage Site, fuckin’ hell.”
Harry bites back the laugh that bubbles up.
“Alright, who was she then? What did she do?”
“She was a researcher in Byzantine civilisation at the university I lectured at before I moved here.”
“Right,” Cornelius says, “and the person you went out with before that? What did they do?”
Harry has no idea where this is going.
“He - he was my PhD supervisor,” he says, feeling a bit nervous, now, or shy maybe, “you already knew about that.”
“Yeah. I like that one… Bit older, bit dirty,” he’s smirking again, “I assume you get my point.”
Harry nearly raises the fact that he’s a fair bit older than Cornelius, like it matters.
“No,” Harry shakes his head and leans away so he can look at him properly, “what is your point?”
“You, Doctor Goodsir, have relationships with people like that,” he drops the butt of his cigarette in his unfinished tea, “sorry, ‘entanglements.’”
“So I’m only allowed to go out with academics?”
“You only want to go out with academics. Only reason you’re getting the idea that it wouldn’t be so bad being with a bit of rough is that it’s brilliant when we fuck. Easy to look at a person with hearts in your eyes when your cock’s still twitching.”
Jesus Christ. Harry barely even knows what to say, doesn’t know where to start, the words all catch in his throat.
“Bit of rough?” He laughs a bit eventually, bewildered. “Are you joking?”
“Not joking, no.”
“Well, I just-” Harry stands up, hands on his hips, needing not to be sitting right next to him for a moment.
He looks at Cornelius there, sitting on his couch with his shabby jeans and his shit tattoos that are already fading to blue. He is a bit rough, in his look and his manner, and his upbringing was rough too, Harry’s sure of that, even though he absolutely never speaks about it. By contrast, Harry knows he’s soft, he’s soft in his manner and his looks and his background. It’s amusing to Cornelius, he knows that, too.
But the idea that those differences make up the entirety of Harry’s attraction, as if he is acting out some fantasy… Well, Harry isn’t sure if he’s more offended or upset that Cornelius sees it that way. It actually overrides the nasty little stab in his gut that Cornelius doesn’t seem to return any of his feelings, the fact that he has misjudged him so badly.
He turns away from him and laughs again. It’s hollow and bitter, but it is quite funny - Cornelius thinking he sees everything when his lenses are so clearly cracked.
“I see now,” Harry says, “you believe you’ve got me sketched out... I am a middle-class intellectual trying to find out what a bit of council estate feels like.”
Amusement again on Cornelius’ face, but a sparkle in the eyes as if that was exactly what he was thinking and that he’s pleasantly surprised Harry put it like that.
“Well, you’re wrong about that. I just liked you. I like you. God knows why.” He shakes his head. “You make things so complicated, Cornelius. You colour my intentions dark and then you laugh at me for them. You judge me for thinking things that I don’t think.”
Cornelius isn’t smirking anymore. Inscrutable, again, save for the hint of a frown.
“Be a bastard if you like, just be one for the right reasons, for god’s sake.”
It’s deflated him, this knowledge that Cornelius has thought this about him for months when Harry had felt some unspoken understanding between them.
He goes to the balcony and slides open the door. He just needs some fresh air, doesn’t even step out of the flat, just lets the cold chill him pleasantly and maybe clear out the lingering scent of his Mayfair cigarette.
Dusk is turning to night. He looks up at the sky and wishes he weren't in the city so he could see the changes in it better, without the haze of exhaust fumes and streetlights. He would've liked to take Cornelius somewhere in the countryside - it would be interesting to see him in nature, since he is such a city of a person. Privately, he'd thought of them walking on the Moors together, what a nice picture Cornelius would cut on a background of green and purple heather.
Perhaps that was a silly thought.
He doesn’t hear Cornelius get up, he’s so light on his feet, so he startles a tad when he feels a hand on his shoulder, so unbelievably gentle, and stroke up to the side of his neck.
Then he feels Cornelius rest his forehead between his shoulder blades and hears him breathe in a deep breath.
“I don’t think all that, really,” Cornelius’ voice is very quiet, as if whispering a secret into the wool of his jumper.
“Why did you say it, then?”
He feels Cornelius shake his head, “Don’t know.”
Harry sighs, “Yes you do, Cornelius, you never say anything you haven’t thought about first.”
A huff of a laugh out of Cornelius’ nose, one that lets Harry know he’s not going to pretend that’s not true.
He turns around then, although Cornelius looks like he wishes he wouldn’t. He runs a hand through his perfect hair and shrugs, putting on a more relaxed air.
“Maybe I was trying to put you off.”
“Why would you do that?”
Another shrug and his tongue worries the inside of his cheek.
“Testing you, to see if you could be put off.”
Also a lie.
The easiest way Harry can see to pick it apart is to go along with it for the moment.
“So you took my emotional openness as an opportunity to play a little game with me? And that, to you, is better than honestly framing me as a lascivious prick using you for some kind of socio-sexual experimentation? Which of those do you really think of me? What is the narrative you’d like to go with, Cornelius?”
Cornelius smiles in that way he only does when he is truly caught. Harry can’t help it, the thrill that goes up his spine of having pinned him.
“This is a multiple choice then, A or B?” Cornelius raises his eyebrow and steps a bit closer.
“That does seem to be the situation you’ve created for yourself, yes,” Harry smiles gently. There’s an energetic hum in the air now, and somehow, Harry just knows Cornelius can hear it as well.
“Wanting to bring me to symposiums and that? Show me off to your clever friends?” Of course, Cornelius tries to wriggle out of it by looping the conversation around.
There’s a light mock to his tone, but Harry will answer earnestly.
“I would if you wanted to come,” Harry meets those bright blue eyes that have honestly, frustratingly, enraptured him from their first meeting. It isn’t just that excited buzz from their back and forth that Harry feels anymore. There’s a familiar flutter in his chest because Cornelius’ face falters with his surprise, just for a moment, and is completely open to him.
Harry wants to kiss him very much.
“I wouldn’t want to come,” Cornelius shakes his head, “but I do quite like that you would be willing to bring me, truth be told.”
Cornelius’ reaches up and he moves some curls behind Harry’s ear. He has somewhat of a fixation on his hair, likes to stroke it as if Harry is a little dog on his lap, or pull it in the right moment, to make him whimper. He’s let it grow a bit since they’ve been seeing each other for that reason. He actually told Cornelius once, at a nice Italian restaurant, that he does that for him, and Cornelius had loved that so much he’d ended up pulling Harry off in a toilet cubicle before the starters had even arrived.
He had smiled at him then the way he does now - with what Harry knows, feels in his marrow, is genuine affection.
Heat is unfurling low in his belly, as it does when Cornelius wills it to. From the beginning, Cornelius has never had to say anything to let Harry know what he wants and it always seems to make Harry want it too.
It seems too much to say out loud, but Harry believes it is as if they share blood in those moments, coursing through both their veins in tandem, rhythmic pulses.
Heat. Burning. It feels indescribably good to be burned for.
Were they arguing? Was Harry angry with him? He can barely remember anymore.
“You like catching me out, don’t you?” Cornelius looks up at him with his head cocked to the right.
Harry’s voice fails him now that Cornelius is entirely in his space. He always smells very good, as if he’s only just stepped out of the shower and put on a fresh t-shirt.
Cornelius takes Harry’s wrist and guides it to cup him through his jeans. He’s hard, already. Harry hears himself breathe out shakily in surprise.
“You’ve talked me hard, Harry,” he smiles properly and gets Harry to rub him, “should argue more often.”
“I don’t like argui-”
Cornelius kisses him firmly and pushes his tongue right into his mouth. His fingers weave into his curls and he presses against his body so tightly that Harry is nudged back blindly, vaguely aware he might be about to fall right through the coffee table. Not that it matters much, he’s quite sure it wouldn’t stop Cornelius, he would just climb right on top of him in the glass shards and keep licking at his tongue with his own.
He keeps nudging Harry backwards towards the bedroom, insistent and impatient.
"Hang on," Harry feels he can't let him off quite so easily.
Cornelius' nostrils flare impatiently when he pulls back from his mouth but keeps hold of his hips.
God, it is so satisfying to see him so eager. It only spurs Harry on to tease him a little, since Cornelius often believes that is his domain only.
He crowds Cornelius so his back presses against the bookshelf in the hallway and Cornelius has to tilt his chin up to look at him. He can keep a lot off his face, but desire like this isn't one of those things - his lips are pink and wet and Harry knows his cock will be too, by now. So he unfastens his jeans and slips his hand down the front of his briefs.
"Shit," the back of Cornelius' head clunks against the shelf when Harry feels him, skin to skin. His cock fills even more, twitches against Harry's palm.
"You didn't answer my question. Is it A or B?" Harry asks him quietly, applying pressure but not rubbing him yet.
"Can't remember which was which," Cornelius' eyes are closed, he writhes his hips up towards Harry's palm and a little noise leaves his throat.
"Option A was-"
"They're both bollocks. Touch me properly."
The victory of getting the truth washes over Harry delightfully. He's such a little shit, Harry really shouldn't reward him for it.
When he doesn't take him in hand quickly enough, Cornelius takes his wrist and takes his hand out of his jeans so he can push them down further and pull his cock over the waistband of his briefs.
Harry's breath shudders and he closes his mouth lest he actually drool when Cornelius starts masturbating in front of him, looking down at himself like Harry isn't even there.
"If you make me keep waiting I'll have to cum on your wall," he glances over his shoulder at the books behind him, "or one of these ancient tomes."
Harry's instinct is to stop him, because he's painfully hard himself and he wants more than just this. He suspects Cornelius intends that to be his instinct, though.
So he leans back against the opposite wall and watches him, noticing the flicker of Cornelius' eyelashes when he does.
"You can if you like... I think it would suit you quite well to cum in between the pages of one of my books."
"Ah," Cornelius hisses and his hand picks up speed, "yeah?"
"Yes. You look clean but you're actually fucking filthy, aren't you?" Harry can barely believe himself.
Cornelius makes a rough sound like he's been punched in the chest and Harry feels himself swell in response. The air is hot and soupy and Harry is so caught up in it that he doesn't mind if it finishes this way anymore, he just wants to see Cornelius' face get redder, his muscles get tighter - when he finishes, Harry might get on his knees and catch it in his mouth.
But Cornelius stops himself with a ragged noise and tucks himself back into his underwear. He doesn't bother fastening his jeans, he just crosses the space between them and puts his hand on Harry's jaw. It's not rough, but it's firm, and his eyes run over his face, breathing heavily. Cornelius' other hand slips down and squeezes Harry through his trousers - he's sensitive to the touch, painfully hard, so the sensation makes him moan.
Cornelius smirks a bit, "I'm gonna fuck you raw."
It seems like they're in the bedroom in the time it takes to blink, his jumper pulled off and dropped somewhere in the hallway.
As soon as Harry’s back hits the bed Cornelius is nudging him up to the pillows and climbing on top of him. He kneels over his thighs and pulls his t-shirt over his head, dumping it on the floor somewhere, hair barely mussed.
He is practically alabaster in the low city light coming through the window, smooth but littered with mysterious bruises and healing scratches as always. He leans down again and kisses Harry’s cheek instead of his mouth, up to his ear, then down the side of his neck.
Harry luxuriates in the attention. Cornelius has a focussed intensity to him that is almost overwhelming when turned onto him - he kisses and touches like he’s trying to crawl right under his skin and all Harry can do is hold onto him, feel those deceptively strong muscles move in his arms and his back. He’s had good sex before in his life, but Harry doesn’t think he’s ever felt so undone by someone as this.
By the time his shirt is unbuttoned and Cornelius’ nimble fingers work on opening his trousers, Harry already feels ravished. He feels the beard burn on his neck and the sting where Cornelius had bit his chest after opening his shirt.
“God -” He can’t help but moan when Cornelius takes his cock from his briefs and tugs at him lazily, “God…”
“He’s not here right now I don’t think,” Cornelius doesn’t seem overwhelmed at all, totally calm, measured, even though his cheeks are bright pink and his erection strains against the denim - all of that is beautiful, but it’s the dimple in his cheek when he smiles that really gets Harry, “unless I’ve finally ascended.”
There’s absolutely no way Harry can quip back and his brain goes from hazy to complete mush when Cornelius lowers himself to his belly between his legs and sucks the weeping head of Harry’s cock into his mouth.
The immediate intensity of the wet heat almost makes Harry feel like he’ll finish immediately. Pleasure shoots up his spine and tightens his balls, spreads from below his stomach to everywhere. He throws his arm over his eyes, tries and fails to calm down. If he tells Cornelius he’s about to cum, Cornelius will make sure that he does just to show off.
He sucks at him like it’s his job, swallows him into his throat and then lets him slip almost all the way out so he can lick at where he’s practically gushing precum.
He pulls away only to speak filth alternated with soft words of praise: “Bet you’d fucking choke me blue with it if I let you, wouldn't you?” into “you look so pretty like that, Harry.”
All of it pushes Harry closer, fisting the sheets and trying to hold back.
Cornelius’ hand, the one not steadying himself on Harry’s upper thigh, slides up his belly and his chest until his fingers press against his lips. Harry doesn’t need telling, all he wants to do is open his mouth and let Cornelius dip two fingers in, taste his skin.
He licks around them so he can feel his tongue and gasps when Cornelius pulls them out and gently runs the wet tips of them over his sensitive lips. They tingle at the sensation, quiver along with the rest of him. With a rough grunt, Cornelius lets his cock slip from his mouth so he can meet Harry’s eye when he puts his fingers back in his mouth. Harry’s burns with the scrutiny, but he’s beyond any embarrassment now.
He looks back at him while Cornelius purposely smears his own spit down his chin, over his stubble.
“Fucking hell,” Cornelius murmurs and moves his hand away, sitting himself up on his knees. His eyes are glazed when he leans in to kiss Harry again, all tongue and teeth.
Harry still can’t talk, too breathless and dizzy for it. His cock twitches against his thigh - he’d been so close it takes all his willpower not to take himself in hand and finish against Cornelius’ thigh.
He watches Cornelius sit back so he can tug off his own jeans and underwear and thinks about how pretty he is too, with his bright eyes and his red hair and his big nose and his lovely, eager cock. Harry feels daffy with the awe of it.
“Can I fuck you?” Cornelius' breath shakes a bit when he leans over him again, naked now.
“Yes,” Harry manages. Cornelius kisses him again, long and luxurious, and he keeps kissing him while he reaches into the bedside table drawer to take out the dwindling bottle of lubricant. Harry doesn’t even realise he’s done it until he feels the familiar warmth spread across him with delicate fingers, and he only just has the sense left in his head to marvel at his dexterity.
Cornelius leans down so Harry can feel the heavy weight of his cock against his own when they kiss again. His hand - still with lube residue on it - pushes into Harry’s hair again, blunt nails scrape his scalp and make him shudder.
Breaking the kiss, Cornelius pulls back to look over Harry’s face for a second, as if taking him in.
“Say it for me,” Cornelius murmurs against his cheek before he kisses it.
Harry doesn’t need to ask what.
“Fuck me."
“Cornelius.”
Cornelius - a silly old name for a modern young man. Who would name him that?
“Cornelius, Cornelius,” he writhes his hips up, feels the head of his cock brush against his bluntly, “fuck me, please.”
He always takes that instruction quite literally, Cornelius; he plants his hands and fucks, one in the sheets and the other gripping the headboard.
Harry almost immediately feels himself hurtling towards finishing again even without touching himself. He thinks he could cum just from listening to the way Cornelius moans and whines when he sets his rhythm. He says Harry’s name like a beg, it slips from his lips like he’s the one being fucked.
His hips move with force enough to knock Harry’s breath from him, to disintegrate every sensible thought out of his head like ‘What is this? What are we? Who are you?’ He’s going fast as well, not drawing it out as he does sometimes. Over and over, when the angle is just right, he hits Harry’s prostate with the thick head of his cock and makes his vision blur.
“Fffuck,” Cornelius moans and his eyes flutter shut.
Harry thinks if there’s any time he could figure him out it would be right now. His face, his body, his sounds - all totally unguarded and unmeasured.
Vaguely, in the back of his mind, Harry thinks he’d like to make notes on it for posterity, or take pictures to look back on:
- Cornelius’ furrowed brow and his sinewy body
- Sweat on his chest
- A bright red flush high on his cheeks
- Splotches on his collarbone
- Abdominal muscles straining and tense as they work.
He sees the images when he blinks in little sepia snapshots.
He squeezes Cornelius’ arse because he knows he likes it, guides his thrusts a couple of times until Cornelius makes a choked half-moan in his throat and lowers his face to Harry’s again, lips just about, but not quite, touching.
Harry suddenly feels that he has to see his eyes before he cums, he just needs to.
“Cornelius…” Harry murmurs and kisses him softly, “Cornelius…”
He slows down to a deep grind of the hips when his eyes open, “What?”
Nothing. Harry doesn’t have anything to say. He just wanted to see the blue for a second, to see his face all of a piece.
Harry pulls him down to him again and pushes his fingers into his soft auburn tresses. He’s so beautiful and he makes him feel so good that Harry is suddenly startled by the thought that he might cry.
Cornelius pulls back to take him in, looking quite dazed himself, until then he frowns and Harry knows his emotions are bare on his face.
“What’s wrong?” He stops entirely. His voice is soft and raw-edged and it gives Harry chills.
Harry shakes his head and swallows to wet his dry throat, “Nothing, nothing… Keep going.”
He puts his hand on Cornelius’ arse to get him to move again and he does. Harder, slower this time, hitting just right until Harry feels he’s teetering on the precipice.
Cornelius knows it, he always does, and then his hand wraps around Harry’s cock with purpose and he jerks him with quick little movements until Harry has to clap his hand over his mouth to at least somewhat stifle himself for the neighbours. It hits so fast and hard that Harry gasps when it does. He cums in thick spurts over Cornelius' stomach and his own, clenching around his cock, pulsing in his hand. His vision blurs.
He’s vaguely aware of Cornelius taking his hand away from his mouth and pinning it to the pillow and of himself groaning out profanities like there’s no one around for miles.
“That’s it,” Cornelius soothes him through it, panting and pleased with himself, “that’s it.”
The hand around his cock doesn’t relent either, not until Harry’s muscles jump with sensitivity and he has to move it away himself. That makes Cornelius laugh, right before he sucks a kiss into Harry’s chest, plants his fists into the sheets under Harry’s armpits and chases his own end vigorously - so vigorously that Harry thinks he can hear plaster dropping off in chunks where the headboard bashes the wall.
Harry is gone, mind turned to liquid, body a raw nerve.
“Ffffucking Jesus, Harry…” When Cornelius pulls out and cums over Harry’s stomach he grunts and groans with it, half-swearing, the words unfinished and choked. His body goes taught when his cock pulses and his finish is so powerful Harry feels it hit high on his chest as well, almost his chin.
“Fuck,” Cornelius swears again, shuddering. The last of it spills from the pink head of his cock and his muscles finally relax. His forehead is sweaty, his hair is a delightful mess and he looks like he can barely keep himself knelt.
Cornelius just about gets his hand next to Harry’s head to stop himself collapsing completely when he lets himself fall forwards. He breathes through his nose, nostrils twitching, eyes shut. They stay that way for a while, burning and breathless, sweating on each other.
On some impulse, Harry rests his hand on Cornelius’ chest, right over his heart, and feels it beating hard. Then he slips it up to the side of his neck so he can feel his pulse thumping there as well.
“‘M still alive,” Cornelius laughs a bit, opening his eyes to look at him then, “are you?”
“Just about.”
Cornelius leans back to sit on his knees but doesn’t move from between Harry’s legs. Instead, he puts his palm on Harry’s stomach and touches both their spend, massaging as if he’s making sure it mixes together. Obscene, really. Harry’s stomach is hairy, he’ll have to shower straight away.
He doesn’t say anything, though. There’s an intensity coming of Cornelius that he doesn’t want to break yet. He’s looking at Harry, no doubt red faced and debauched looking, as if he’s seeing something brand new.
Once they’ve both got their breath back, Cornelius leans off the bed to his jeans on the floor and takes out his cigarettes.
He cracks the window without needing to be asked and the cold breeze is welcome, Harry is unbearably hot but cannot bring himself to the bathroom to shower just yet. He doesn’t feel like moving at all - he feels soft and pliable as toffee.
Cornelius has his motor function back, but there is a bit of a tremble in his fingers, Harry notices with quiet satisfaction.
“I’m going to tell you something that might seem a bit weird,” Cornelius lights up, settling back against the headboard and much more comfortably naked than Harry ever is, “but I think you’ll understand me.”
“Alright.”
Harry tugs the quilt up to at least cover his legs a bit and barely has the energy for that.
“When you were asking me about this, what’s going on between us and that. What we are. I’ve got to be honest it really seemed like such a daft question to me,” he blows out a cloud of smoke, “‘I've been thinking about our entanglement,' you said. What kind of shit word is that?”
“It wasn’t even a word I meant to say,” Harry tells him.
“I know. I just -” Cornelius interrupts himself with another thought, “Have you read Jane Eyre?”
He looks at Harry, a little smile lingering on his lips.
“When I was at school, I think.”
“Well there’s this bit in it where Rochester says to her - and I’ve never forgot this - ‘I have a strange feeling with regard to you. As if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly knotted to a similar string in you. And if you were to leave I'm afraid that cord of communion would snap. And I have a notion that I'd take to bleeding inwardly,’” Cornelius wets his lips and shakes his head, “I didn’t even have to memorise that bit, it just stuck in my head.”
Harry feels pinned by the ease with which the words flow from him.
“I always thought was a bit intense, personally,” Cornelius goes on, “but when I applied it to me and you I realised it wasn't enough. I had this image of you in bed next to me, like this, and I put my hand through your skin, slipped my fingers between your ribs, and grabbed your heart so I could feel it beat in my palm,” smoke leaves his nostrils, “I’m speaking poetically, obviously.”
“Obviously,” but said heart is thudding quite hard in Harry’s chest. There’s something viscerally exciting about that.
“Do you want to give me your interpretation of what that means?” Cornelius asks him.
“Will you laugh if I get it wrong?”
Cornelius smiles around his cigarette, “No.”
Harry sits up, thinks about taking Cornelius’ hand, then decides against it.
“I think you mean you’d like to know me as well as a person can know someone… And then even more than that.”
Cornelius inclines his head and looks back out of the window, “Interesting interpretation.”
Harry scoffs and turns on his side, facing him. Of course he’s not going to give him any more clarity than that. It’s fine, he can keep his mystery if he must, Harry knows he was right, Cornelius knows that too.
He’s bone tired now, keeps having to mentally repeat to himself not to fall asleep before he’s had a shower.
“Harry,” Cornelius almost whispers. Harry realises his eyes have been dropping shut. It’s hard to open them.
“Hm?”
“It answers the question, doesn't it? Of what we are together," his finger taps the windowsill absently, "something barely expressible, something you have to find new language for."
Harry reaches across the bed for him, half wondering if he just dreamt that since he had said it so softly and he looks so ethereal in the dim light from outside. There is something dreamlike about Cornelius, sometimes, as if he straddles two worlds; one hand in the void, the other in Harry’s hair.
Cornelius picks up his hand and kisses the back of it, “Night night, Harry.”