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"I'm gonna be famous," Harry cackles. He's laughing low in his throat, waving a three by two piece of paper in Perry's face – yet another business card, from yet another agent. Annoying for obvious reasons, but it's also obscuring the face of a potential contact, the whole reason they're at this shindig to begin with.

Perry knocks him to the side with one hand and locks on his contact again. "That's great, Harry. Keep in touch."

There are three reasons why talent agents like Harry Lockhart. One, the most obvious, he turns heads. He's not classically good looking, but he's got big eyes and nice, even features, the kind of face that looks good in black and white and glossy paper, a face to pad their files. Second, he's a schmuck, and he projects schmuckatude. A foolish, gullible idiot, and agents appreciate talent, but their bread and butter comes from the trusting out of towner with big dreams and even bigger heart, you didn't get it this time baby, but next time, they promise. Third, he's got money – correction, Perry's got money, and sometimes uses it to dress Harry, but all agents see are shirts, shoes and jeans that are expensive enough to look casual.

Thankfully, Harry doesn't have dreams of stardom, and even if he did, doesn't have the talent to act his way into a toothpaste commercial, even as forgiving as this industry is for a pair of big brown eyes.

He likes to brag, though, when someone shows interest. He likes to show Perry that he's wanted and desirable. He keeps the cards in a neat stack on his desk, beside the pile of tacs, rubber bands, marbles and paperclips, and they all get the same amount of use. "I'm gonna be rich and fucking famous," he clarifies, slapping the card onto the table proudly. He takes a drag of his cigarette, which is little more than a butt by now. "Don't worry, though, Perry, fame won't change me."

"Thank God."

"And I'll bring you with me, Perry. Straight to the top."

"You're too kind," Perry says. Harry stops talking then, making him easier to ignore, if he'd only stop that distracting shifting – he's rifling through his jacket for cigarettes. "You're out. Remember? You said you were going to stop buy a gas station for more, which you didn't, and get me those tic tacs, which you forgot."

"Hn. Sorry," Harry mutters, another futile inhale, then flicks the butt into a pool.

See, this is the problem, working with Harry. Perry notices things, it's the reason he's still alive. Normally, though, he notices relevant shit. Shoe size, accents, haircuts.

Being around Harry is like an overload, for some god awful reason Perry can't disconnect when he's around. He's chronicling the shift of his weight. How he licks his bottom lip. His fingers rapping on the side of the table. Thunkthunk, beat, thunk, because he's only got three fingertips to rap now.

"God damn it, Harry, could you let me work here?"

"What, I'm stopping you?"

"You're fidgeting like a," fuck. "Fidgeting. Thing. Just, go somewhere else. Go find something shiny."

Harry:
Lips stiffen.
Blinks rapidly.
Pulls his hand back.
Eyes narrow.
Looks at his cigarette butt floating.
Walks off.

Contact:
Leaving the party with arm around a slinky red dress and three thousand dollar pair of stilettos.

Damn it.

Business is just fine, but Perry had kind of been counting on that, and what makes it worse is he can't even pretend this is because of Harry. It's his own stupid fault, because he can't keep focus around the bundle of tics, twitches, way too open brown eyes that is Lockhart. Some uncontrollable part of his mind just locks on Harry's figure and screams LOOK LOOK LOOK as if there's something there to see.

He glares down at the business card Harry forgot on the table. He'll try it again. Tomorrow. Alone.

"Let's go."

"What, we're leaving?" Harry asks, pulling away from some twenty year old wearing knock-off designer jeans and a shirt cut for someone with a way smaller rack.

"You're more than welcome to stay, good luck getting a ride home."

Harry:
Blinks.
Shrugs.
Shoves hands in pockets (unconsciously feeling into the corners for a pack of cigarettes).
Follows Perry.

They stop at a gas station, and Harry waits in the car as Perry buys him a carton. There's a rack of cheap paperbacks, and he paws through them, grabs the gaudiest looking one as an apology for snapping at Harry earlier. It works. He's not allowed to smoke in Perry's car, but he's got the cigarette hanging from his lips, skimming through the pages and cackling to himself by the time they pull into the driveway.

"Fuck, Perry," he groans suddenly as they walk in the house, throwing down the novel, his jacket, the carton of cigarettes, kicking off his shoes. "I forgot the card."

"As if you need it?" Perry asks.

"It's my ticket to fame, remember?"

"Right," Perry says, rolling his eyes. He pulls out Harry's precious card, though, from where he'd saved it in his pocket.

Harry:
Laughs.

And that's really it, but his fucking face, you can't look away from it – Perry's had too much to drink.

He drops down on the couch, turns on some rerun and tries to distract himself from Harry padding across the room, to their offices on the other side of the studio floor. He hears him shuffling around back there, closes his eyes and pictures it.

Harry:
Adding the card to his stack
Shuffling out to the balcony
Closing his lips around his cigarette and
the clicksnap of his lighter.
The grateful moan of his first drag.

Perry's eyes are dropping, he brings a hand to his face; he can't believe he's this tired. He can't believe he's this obsessed. This is stuff for kids, stuff for Harry Lockhart. It's fucking ironic, and it's also more than a little pathetic. But yeah, he's sitting there, visualizing Harry's closed eyes, he's probably leaning against the wall, one arm wrapped around his middle, it's chilly for California and Harry's spent just enough time here for him to feel it, too.

"Get over here, Harry," he says, and is surprised at how wrung out it sounds.

He can hear the soft sound of Harry pushing himself off the wall, throwing down his cigarette.

"Boss?" Harry asks, standing in front of him.

Sex isn't a pathetic thing.

Sex, with Perry, is usually something of a game. He never gives his all, his everything, until he's sure his partner is already doing the same. Toying with each other; it's a hunt, almost, trying to lure out his partner's true motive for the night, to bounce and use it against him before it can be used against Perry.

This is a non-issue with Harry. Perry spreads his legs, he raises and eyebrow, and even Harry gets the picture.

Harry kind of sucks at giving head, but he's enthusiastic about it, which is more than Perry can say for some of his other partners.

Harry:
Says something that includes the words "dictator of sex"
Drops to his knees,
smiles,
waggling his eyebrows.
Toes curling already, like he's the one who's about to get sucked off.

"I don't know how you think this works," Perry mutters, and doesn't have to finish. Harry's going for the button on his jeans, followed quickly by the zipper. He's got this odd sort of fascination with Perry's cock, Harry does. It's satisfying for Perry to see, considering that Harry's given him an odd sort of fascination with his every fucking twitch.

But Harry pulls it out carefully, like he still somehow thinks it's a fully loaded weapon. He's entranced by it, like every time. He holds it with both hands, and it's still soft in Harry's touch, but even just the sight of that is improving the situation. Harry helps it along, blowing lightly, then licking in these dainty little moves that don't fit him at all. Perry watches him work through half-lidded eyes, his breath deepening slowly.

Arms spread over the back of the couch, thighs on either side of Harry's shoulders, he looks small, and Perry feels a measure of control over this, his ridiculous obsession. Fascination. They both sound bad, so fuck it.

"My cock had better not smell like tobacco after this, Harry."

Harry:
"Little too late for that, princess."
Swallows.
Eyes widen (like this is some kind of surprise)
Brief struggle before remembering to breathe through his nose.

And then he's off to the races, eyes drifting shut as he works Perry's cock, and he's not sure when his hands went to the top of Harry's head but suddenly they're there, not gripping at his hair as much as resting.

Again, Harry's not terribly great at this. But, Harry:
Moans (because he loves it)
Starts breathing too hard
Moves his tongue like he's trying to say something, still, even with a cock shoved down his throat.
Looks up at Perry, shameless.

It's been a long day.

Perry comes with a grunt, gripping at Harry's hair, forcing him to take it all.

Harry: Swallows.

It doesn't take him long to catch his breath, Harry's mouth is still stretched around his limp cock, like he'd been sucking on that cigarette earlier, hoping for more.

"Get up here," Perry mutters, and Harry does. His cock is hard, pressing against Perry's stomach and thigh, jutting out of his jeans awkwardly; he'd been stroking himself while Perry fucked his throat, how did he miss that?

"What, no thank you?" Harry asks. "No, good job, Harry?"

"Good job, Harry," Perry says, gripping his cock unceremoniously, which is his thank you, and he should know it by now. "That wasn't quite as bad as last time."

Harry:
Arches his back
Wails
Claws at the upholstery
and then Perry's shoulders.

Harry:
Gasps
Cries
Thrusts up and up and up into Perry's palm like he's expecting to find more.

Harry:
Eyes go wide and wet
Lips go slack and
Mouth opens
The smell of tobacco and cheap alcohol

Harry:
Comes in his lap, spraying all over Perry's shirt, and he really should've planned for that.

Harry:
Collapses against him
Gasps for air, and Perry – Perry supposes, if it gets him this kind of performance, maybe paying this much attention to Harry Lockhart isn't that pathetic.