So far, uni is not everything Harry’d expected it to be. To be fair, he’s only been here four hours, but there’s been a lot less beer and a lot more sitting in meetings and filling out paperwork than he’d expected. He’s only met two of his flatmates, and they’re friends from home—Cornwall—and all they’ve said to him so far is that he talks funny. He’d wanted to retort, “You talk funny, and you smell funny too,” but he hadn’t, because he tries not to be rude. Plus, he’s sharing a kitchen with these people. He doesn’t want any retaliation taken out on his food.
“There’s a welcome party tonight at the Union,” the really boring man who’s been telling them about fire safety and library fines says, and Harry’s ears perk up. The Union has a bar; he remembers that from the tour. And a party, even a shite one, has got to be better than this. “Doors at seven. And with that, I’ll leave you. See you tonight!” The guy makes an attempt at a hip and cheery wave, but he just looks like the weird uncle you avoid at Christmas. Harry clears out of the hall quick as he can.
The party is definitely an improvement on all the other fresher’s activities so far. He’s wearing one of the new pairs of jeans his sister Gemma’d talked him into buying—they’re a lot tighter than he ever wore in school—and a Rolling Stones t-shirt. The music is good, and he’s found a couple of girls from the sociology course to speak to, and the beer is shitty but really cheap, and this is so more like it. One of the girls, Angeline, is telling them about the time she fell asleep on a train and ended up in London instead of at her sister’s in Birmingham, when someone crashes into Harry’s side, one hand grabbing his shoulder and the other pawing at his face.
“Holy fuck!” she screeches at him. “You look so hot? Why don’t you always look like this?” She’s clearly had more to drink than Harry, and continues clinging to him like she’s not sure she can stand on her own now she’s thrown herself off balance. Harry has never seen her before in his life.
“Um,” he says. He did spend a bit of extra time on his hair, but like five minutes, not ages or anything, and yeah, he changed, but his jeans this afternoon were new too, and almost as tight, just they were blue instead of black, and he was wearing a grey shirt while the Stones one is white. Otherwise he looks pretty much the same. Clare, the sociology girl whom Harry knocked into with the force of the crash, asks the new girl if she’s okay.
“He’s so hot though,” grabby-hands says. “And no glasses? And his hair.”
“You’re kind of hitting him,” Angeline points out. “You should stop.”
“I don’t wear glasses,” Harry says, removing her hand, which is getting awfully close to poking him in the eye, and taking a step back. She’s really really gorgeous and he would definitely remember if he’d seen her before. “What’s your name?”
“You know my name, silly. It’s Katie. Kate. Katie-Kate-Kate.” She giggles, swaying a bit. “But only my sister calls me that.”
“Nice to meet you, Kate,” he says, shaking her hand, gripping her shoulder when that seems to throw her off balance again.
Kate doesn’t let go of his hand. “Marcel, I totally saw you watching me in Mr. Dunhill’s class. If I’d known you’d clean up like this, I would have made sure we were on that group project together.”
“His name’s Harry,” Angeline says, curt as hell. Harry wonders if she’s had a run-in with Kate already somehow or if she didn’t like that her story got interrupted. “And he was talking to us.”
Or, maybe she’s the jealous type.
“His name is Marcel,” Kate insists, turning on Angeline with a glare. “He was in my business tutorial last term, and he definitely wore glasses.”
“Okay,” Clare breaks in, not-very subtly stepping between Kate and Angeline. “Kate, let’s get you some water, or maybe a coke or something, yeah?”
“Bitch,” Kate tosses over her shoulder in Angeline’s direction, but she lets herself be led off.
Harry wants to tell her that he’s a first year and he’s not doing business and his name is definitely Harry, and he wants to know if this lad really does look so much like him or if she’s just confused and pissed, but he calls after her, “It’s not nice to call people that.” Gem’s apparently still influencing more than just his wardrobe choices.
“Stupid cow,” Angelina huffs. “This party’s for first years. What’s she doing here anyway?”
“It’s not nice to call people that, either,” Harry says, because fair is fair. “There are second years here, too, to like, tell us about the courses and stuff.” Though mostly everyone just seems to be here to get drunk.
Angelina doesn’t seem bothered by his rebuke. “So, are you secretly a business major who had a makeover over summer hols?”
“No,” Harry says, but maybe he should start telling people that. It makes a better story than he’s a first-year sociology major who worked at a bakery.
After that, things go more as he’d expected. There are classes of course, and studying, but there are club nights, and parties, and going down the pub, and hooking up with hot girls and hot lads, and on one memorable occasion one of each when the guy he’d been dancing with asked if Harry wanted to come home and meet his girlfriend. Harry mostly forgets about Kate and the mysterious Marcel.
Just before they break up for the holidays, Harry’s in the library late one night trying to find a book he needs for an essay. He turns the corner between two stacks, looking at the books’ spines to find the call number he needs, and trips on something that sends him flying. He’s saved from sprawling on the floor by landing on another person.
“Aaargh!” the person cries.
Harry’s head lands on a hard, flat chest covered in a rough, nubbly fabric. “Ow,” he says. “Sorry. There was—“ His foot’s still tangled in something, and he looks down to see he tripped on a messenger bag.
“I hope you didn’t break my laptop,” the voice from under him says. Apparently Harry landed on an American. Or someone who does weird accents when he’s agitated, like Harry’s friend Jesy does.
“I hope not too,” Harry says. “Or any bones.” He pushes himself upright and looks down at the bloke he landed on.
It’s like looking into a mirror.
“Marcel?” Harry asks before he even consciously remembers a doppelgänger named Marcel exists.
The bloke scrambles out from under him—barely missing kneeing him in the junk as he does—and backs away until he hits the stack behind. “How do you know my name?” His voice is kind of screechy, and definitely still accented.
“Holy shit,” Harry breathes. “Sorry. Are you Marcel? I just. Some girl thought I was you once. I figured she was just drunk, but you really—“
“Don’t touch me,” Marcel barks, and only then does Harry realise that he’s crawling toward the other boy with his hand outstretched.
“Sorry,” Harry says again, sitting back on his knees. “I’m Harry.” It is really freaky how much Marcel looks like him. Except for the ridiculously giant glasses which seem to have broken in the fall—one side is twisted on the bridge—and the tweed blazer with chinos ensemble, and the slicked-back hair. It’s close enough that Harry wonders for a minute if they were somehow separated at birth and his mum never mentioned he has a twin out there.
“Why do you look like that,” Marcel demands, still cowering against the bookshelves.
Harry shrugs. “I just do? Why do you look like that?”
“My parents’ genes combined and this is how I came out.” Marcel relaxes a fraction. “Are you adopted?” he asks.
“I was just wondering the same about you,” Harry says, pleased and a tiny bit freaked himself. “But no. When’s your birthday?”
“August twenty-ninth. Nineteen-ninety-three.”
“Not long-lost twins, then,” Harry says. “February first, nineteen-ninety-four.”
“Not brothers, either,” Marcel says. “Not enough time between us.” He smiles, just a little, but it’s the first time he hasn’t looked angry or terrified since Harry crashed into him, so Harry will take it.
“Maybe we’re a scientific experiment gone wrong, so they let our womb mothers take us home.” He’s totally joking, obviously, but from the look on Marcel’s face, Marcel doesn’t get that.
“The technology for cloning isn’t that advanced,” Marcel insists like he thinks Harry’s going to argue. “And my parents would never be involved in anything like that even if it did. My mom’s a hippy, and my dad was an accountant.”
He tries really hard, but Harry can’t help laughing. Much louder than is polite or appropriate for a library.
“What?” Marcel says, frowning again.
“Sorry,” Harry says. “Sorry. But I was kidding. I don’t actually think we’re clones.”
Marcel grunts and rolls onto his knees to peer at Harry’s face through his broken specs. Harry fights the urge to reach out for him again, because Marcel’s clearly not down with that, but god, Harry wants to know if his face feels the same as his, too.
“Who was it?” Marcel demands, staring at Harry’s mouth.
It takes Harry a second to get it. “Who thought I was you?”
Marcel nods, gaze shifting to Harry’s nose, or maybe cheekbones.
“Blonde girl. You were in a class together, I think. Kate, maybe?”
Marcel’s eyes go wide. “That would explain a lot,” he mutters, and his gaze turns to the bag that started all of this. That seems to break whatever spell seeing Harry put him under, and he goes all bustly and distracted instead of alarmed.
With Harry keeping a careful distance so as not to put him back on the defensive, they check his laptop is okay—it is—and awkwardly make their separate ways. Harry would like to talk to him longer, but even now he’s not cowering in a corner, Marcel clearly wants to escape as quickly as possible. Harry completely forgets to find the book he came for, and ends up getting a C on his essay.
Like the collision in the library brought their lives crashing together, not just their physical selves, after break, Harry starts seeing Marcel everywhere. He’s studying at Harry’s favourite cafe, sitting at Harry’s usual table at the library, picking up a pint of milk at the Co-op when Harry goes in for a chocolate bar. At first Marcel seems bent on pretending Harry doesn’t exist, but the fifth time they run into each other in a week, Marcel finally says hi. They’re in the queue for the cinema at the time. Harry was about to leave, having just got a text from his friend saying her sister showed up out of the blue and she can’t make it, but when Marcel shyly admits he was going to see the film alone, Harry decides they should see it together.
Marcel hides his eyes during the part where Tom Cruise is hanging off the side of a building, but other than that, they agree it was pretty kick-ass. They go for coffee after, and end up talking for almost three hours about Hollywood and their favourite films, and college and uni and how Marcel decided to come to Manchester. They get a few odd looks from passersby, but by the time they’ve maxed out on caffeine, it doesn’t seem as strange to Harry anymore that Marcel looks so much like him.
Harry still wants to touch him, though. The corner of his jaw, the arch of his cheekbone where his glasses—mended with sticky tape of all things—rest, his mouth, which Harry’s having trouble not staring at. It’s so like Harry’s when he’s listening, but when Marcel talks it goes all tense, and Harry wants to rub it.
It’s not until they go for a drink after the coffee and Harry’s had a few pints, that he realises he wants to rub Marcel’s mouth with his mouth, not just his fingers.
“Oh,” Harry says, apropos of nothing at all except the understanding that he wants to snog his own face.
“What?” Marcel asks.
“Nothing,” Harry says, because ill-fitting grandpa clothes and terrible eyewear choices aside, Marcel seems like a nice guy, and Harry doesn’t want to scare him.
Marcel looks around as though the pub will provide the answers Harry won’t, but when it doesn’t, he goes back to what he was saying about his marketing theory course. It should be boring, but Harry’s so fascinated by the shapes Marcel’s mouth makes when he talks that it’s the most interesting conversation Harry’s had in days.
When they’re walking to the taxi rank after closing, Marcel stumbles over a cobble, lurching into Harry’s side, and it only feels natural to Harry to put an arm around his shoulder. He half expects Marcel to flinch away like on the night they met, but instead, he puts an arm around Harry’s waist. They walk the rest of the way like that, not talking and not looking at each other. Harry’s finding it hard to breathe, and he can feel Marcel thrumming with tension beside him. Nonetheless, when Harry lets go so they can navigate the bus shelter to find their place at the end of the queue, Marcel takes Harry’s hand instead of taking the opportunity to separate. He peeks at Harry from under eyelashes magnified by glasses lenses, and Harry has to kiss him.
Usually, Harry’s pretty smooth at this part. He’s good at reading when someone’s flirting but that’s all, when someone’s hoping he’ll make a move, when someone wants to make a move themselves and wants a sign that Harry’s receptive. But Marcel is different. He’s clinging to Harry’s hand like it’s life or death, and he’s standing way too close for just friends waiting for a taxi, but he’s staring at the ground like he’s hoping it will open up and swallow him whole, and that’s throwing a spanner in Harry’s repertoire of moves.
“Hey,” Harry says softly, but before Marcel can respond, the queue moves forward a few feet, interrupting them. Instead of breaking the mood, though, it puts Harry in line with the support post of the bus stop, which means he can lean against it, and pull Marcel between his spread legs. This gives Marcel an inch of height advantage, and enough confidence to look Harry in the face. “Hey,” Harry says again, even softer this time. “Can I kiss you?”
Marcel answers by fisting his free hand in Harry’s jumper and mashing their lips together. It’s too hard and too fast and way, way too hot. Harry’s dick kicks and his stomach flips, and he lets out a grunting, whining growl, that he’d never imagined making at all, much less in the middle of a crowd. The hand not crushed by Marcel’s fingers finds Marcel’s hair and twists it tight, tugging him to a better angle so Harry can get his tongue deeper into the mouth that’s so much like his own.
“Get a fucking room,” a voice gripes from behind him, and yes. That is an excellent idea. Harry’s halls are right next to the taxi drop-off on campus, but they can go to Marcel’s if Marcel would prefer. Harry lets go Marcel’s hair to give the finger in the general direction of the complaint and carries on kissing.
“Perverts,” someone else says, and Marcel pulls away.
“Sorry,” he says. It sounds like Saahree in his accent, and it’s too adorable, and since when does Harry go all mushy at American accents?
“We’re not perverts,” Harry whispers to him. Though with his hair all rumpled from Harry’s fingers, and his lips all pink from their kiss, he looks even more like Harry than before, so maybe whoever said that thinks they’re brothers or something. That would be pretty pervy for a bus stop on a Saturday night.
“The queue’s moving again,” Marcel whispers back, and so it is. Harry makes a mostly unsuccessful attempt to put Marcel’s hair back like it was, and, still holding hands, they shuffle forwards, and then again as a whole stream of taxis return to the rank at once.
In the cab, Marcel sits with his thigh pressed against Harry’s leg, holding Harry’s right hand in both of his, tracing the bones and tendons with gentle fingers. A lot like the way Harry’s been wanting to touch his face, actually. “That feels good,” Harry says. “Do they feel like yours?”
Marcel stammers something that might be “yes, no, yes,” and then sits up a bit straighter like Harry does when he needs to pull himself together. “You have this scar,” he says, tracing the little half moon under Harry’s first knuckle that he got falling off his bike when he was little. “And your hands are bigger.”
Harry doesn’t think that’s true, so he lifts his out of Marcel’s grasp and holds it up so they can compare. They’re pretty close to the same size. Harry’s might be a touch wider across the palm, and Marcel’s middle finger has a bump on the top knuckle that Harry’s doesn’t, but even their wrists are similar. Harry circles them as much as he can with the fingers of his left hand. It makes Marcel’s breath hitch and his tongue dart out to lick the corner of his lips. Another thing they have in common. Harry likes that. “Come back to mine,” he blurts, not at all in the casual way he’d planned while they were waiting.
“Tonight?” Marcel’s eyes are like saucers, and Harry laces their fingers together, holds his gaze, tries to look as reassuring as possible.
“I meant tonight, but if you— Another time would be okay, too. I just. I want to touch you. Let you touch me everywhere you want. Want to kiss you again.” Harry doesn’t believe in ESP any more than he believes in clones, but he focuses everything on beaming say yes in Marcel’s direction just in case.
“I— you want that?”
Ignoring the fact that the driver can see them in his mirror, Harry kisses him again. This time it’s softer, over before either of them get their tongues involved, but, at least as far as Harry’s concerned, it’s just as hot. “I want that,” he says.
“Okay. Yeah. Yes.”
Harry can’t help noticing that Marcel’s mouth doesn’t look as tense when he says those words.
Luck is Harry’s lady, and none of his flatmates are in the common areas as they go through to his room. He’s not in the mood to explain why he’s with a guy dressed like the lamest kind of dork who also looks enough like him to be his twin. He’s in the mood to get into Marcel’s pants. He’s glad, too, that he’d gotten tired of the clutter this morning and given his room a good once round. The bed’s made and everything.
Marcel seems nervous, but not wary when Harry sits on the bed and pats the space beside him. He doesn’t quite meet Harry’s eyes, but he sits close enough their knees are touching, and he puts a hand on Harry’s leg. The way the light falls emphasises his glasses, way too big and with the tape starting to come undone. “Here,” Harry says, reaching for them. “May I?”
Instead of letting Harry do it, Marcel pulls them off himself and holds them out for Harry to take. Carefully, Harry sets them on his desk. “Are you okay without?” he asks. The kind of making out Harry wants to do they’d get in the way, but he doesn’t want Marcel to be blind or anything.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m okay. You’re only a little blurry, but you won’t mind if I get closer, right?” He gives a little chuckle at his own joke, and Harry grins.
“Nah, I won’t mind.” It’s vain of him to think it, Harry knows, but Marcel is really pretty without his glasses. He’d look good in better ones, though. “Can you not— do you have to wait until you’re back in the states to get new ones?” he asks. He’s not sure how the NHS works if you’re not from the EU, and a lot of students can’t afford new glasses without.
“I could,” Marcel says. He does a complicated twitchy shrug with his whole body. “Those were my dad’s. That’s why I— I keep forgetting to get some krazy glue.”
Harry feels terrible that he broke something that belonged to Marcel’s dad. They hadn’t talked much about him, but Harry’d gathered he died when Marcel was in school. “Oh god,” he says. “I’m so sorry I broke them. I’ll get you some glue. Or I can pay for an optician to fix them or something.” He’s not sure what to do with his hands, and they end up fluttering at his sides the way he’s seen Marcel’s do a few times. Harry’d never noticed he did that before.
“Oh,” Marcel says, patting Harry’s leg. “You didn’t break them. They’ve been— They were broken when I got them. I have to fix them a lot.”
The flood of relief Harry feels is definitely out of proportion. Somehow after less than eight hours in his company, Harry cares more about whether or not Marcel likes him than he does about people he’s known for months. His relief manifests itself in a need to tackle Marcel onto the bed and cover his face in kisses. After an initial squeak of surprise, Marcel seems pretty into it.
They kiss until Harry’s back starts to hurt from the awkward angle and the way he’s trying to keep his shoes off the bed, but it doesn’t take much convincing after the warmup to get Marcel down to his pants and the vest he’s got under his shirt under his waistcoat and jacket. “You’re a man of many layers,” Harry jokes. Marcel blushes adorably.
Harry doesn’t have nearly as much to take off. He’s not a big fan of wearing clothes if he doesn’t have to, but he does leave his briefs on as a sop to Marcel’s obvious bashfulness. He’s really hoping that once they’re back on the bed, maybe under the covers, they can get rid of the rest.
Back in bed, Marcel follows through on his plans to get closer, guiding Harry onto his back with gentle hands before leaning over him, tracing all the contours of his face with fingertips and thumbs while his eyes flick from feature to feature. “I’ve always thought I was too boring to be handsome,” he says after a bit. “Too average. But you’re— you know.” His fingers flutter over Harry’s face. “You’re so beautiful. And you don’t look that different than me.”
Not sure how to answer that without either gushing about Marcel’s face or criticising Marcel’s dad’s glasses, Harry reaches up and pulls Marcel into another kiss. They don’t fall into it as easily as they did before, and Harry’s not sure what’s wrong, until he figures out Marcel’s trying to keep his hips away from Harry’s body. “I’m so hard for you,” Harry whisper-moans, kissing his way down Marcel’s jaw, hoping Marcel will be less embarrassed if he knows Harry’s cool with erections.
“Gnngh,” Marcel breathes, and turns just enough for Harry to get them chest to chest, even if it takes another few minutes before Marcel relaxes to the point Harry can get a thigh between his legs and feel that it’s not just their hands that are the same size.
Like having Harry’s thigh to ride makes him brave, Marcel’s hands start roaming from Harry’s back down his arse, not trying to pull him closer or change the rhythm of their grinding like Harry’s used to, but stroking over the shape of it, cupping his fingers under the curve. Harry takes that as an invitation to return the caress, but he can’t help groping a little, squeezing to feel the muscles moving as Marcel rocks into him, hitching him a little higher so his cock fits better into the groove of Harry’s hip.
Harry wouldn’t say he has a type, but he’s mostly hooked up with shorter girls and taller, bigger blokes, so it’s novel snogging someone his size. The way they are on their sides, Harry can’t help tangling their toes because Marcel’s are right there next to his. Marcel flinches and giggles, but when Harry tries to apologise, Marcel kisses him harder, and holds on to the tops of Harry’s thighs while he wiggles his toes between Harry’s. It does tickle, and now they’re both giggling into the kiss, so Harry skitters his fingers along the skin between Marcel’s vest and his boxers, which makes him flail onto his back.
“What do you like?” Harry says, propping his head on one hand to smile down at Marcel’s flushed face.
The question makes him flush even redder, right down his chest below the neckline of his shirt. “I don’t— I—“ His mouth snaps shut and his eyes fix on Harry’s chest. “You have—“ He reaches toward the larger of Harry’s two extra nipples with one finger, but doesn’t quite touch it. No one Harry’s hooked up with has had a problem with them, but Marcel’s looking at him like he’s a witch or something.
“Yeah?” Harry asks. It’s gonna suck if this is a dealbreaker.
The hand Marcel was reaching out with flies to his own chest. “Sorry!” he says. “Sorry, I just—“ Slowly, he pulls up his vest. He’s only got one, not two, and it’s maybe a centimetre closer to his normal nipple than either of Harry’s is, but it’s definitely an extra nipple there on the left side. “I’ve never met anyone else with— I’ve never shown mine to anyone.” He starts to pull his shirt back down, but Harry stops him.
“It’s not as rare as you think,” Harry says. Which is true, though it’s rare enough that Marcel having one too adds pretty significantly to the weirdness of them looking so much alike. “Can I?” He bends toward Marcel’s chest slowly enough Marcel can stop him if he wants to, but Marcel just watches as Harry leans in and kisses his third nipple, then the other two, lingering on the right one when it makes Marcel catch his breath and twitch his hips up. “You’re hot,” Harry reassures him. “I want to kiss you everywhere.” When he pushes Marcel’s vest higher, Marcel lifts his arms so Harry can get it all the way off.
Harry’s surprised to see a tattoo on the front of Marcel’s shoulder. It’s a fancy script A, and Harry wonders if it’s for his dad, but now is not the time to ask. Harry’s been wanting to get a tattoo for ages, and keeps meaning to go, but hasn’t got around to it yet. Maybe Marcel got it here and he can recommend a place for Harry to go. But for now, Harry kisses it, kisses his collar bone, the hollow at the base of his throat. Marcel even smells familiar, like Harry’s own skin when he’s been sitting in the sun, and it makes Harry’s dick swell and his stomach swoop. It’s dirty-wrong to be so into someone who’s basically you, but Harry likes it. It’s kinky. And Marcel’s a lot more fun than you’d guess from looking at him.
He’s got one hand threaded through Harry’s hair, and the other gripping Harry’s shoulder, his arm, the back of his neck, a restless clutching that moves every time Harry kisses somewhere new. It’s not hard to guess that his stuttering before discovering Harry’s nipple situation was going to be something about not being experienced. Harry wants to show him everything.
But he also doesn’t want to scare him off. “Do you,” he says, then kisses the tip of Marcel’s sternum. “Have an opinion on blowjobs? Getting them, I mean.”
“Br-uuh-um-gnh?” Marcel gurgles.
Harry buries his urge laugh in the soft skin of Marcel’s belly. “Blow jobs,” Harry repeats. “I’d like to give you one. Or I could just wank you?”
“This is— This is all very unexpected, is what this is,” Marcel says. He’s staring down his body at Harry, whose chin is resting just above Marcel’s bellybutton, like he’s afraid Harry’s going to bite him. Not in the fun way.
“I don’t bite,” Harry promises. “Unless you ask. And even then, not during a bloke’s first blowjob.”
“You’re joking again, right?”
He’s so cute Harry might die. “Serious about not biting you.”
“I’ve never done anything before. Anything. A girl kissed me once on a dare, and she wiped her mouth after like it was gross. That’s it. I don’t want you to do anything gross.”
Digging in with elbows and knees, Harry scoots up Marcel’s body until they’re eye to eye, Harry’s palms framing Marcel’s face. Deliberately, Harry kisses his mouth, not looking away, even when he’s going crosseyed to keep contact. At first Marcel just lets him do it, but soon he’s kissing back, closing his eyes and melting into it, and Harry tries to pour into the kiss how hot this is for him, how much he wants it. When Marcel’s hips start hitching, Harry draws back to look at him again. “It’s not gonna be gross. I love giving head, and I’m going to love doing it to you.”
Marcel does a sort of snort-honk-choking thing that in any other circumstance Harry would take the piss out of mercilessly, but now just makes him suck a kiss onto the underside of Marcel’s left cheekbone in the interests of actually getting laid tonight.
“My parents did teach me the importance of good hygiene,” Marcel says when Harry doesn’t run at the strange noises.
“That is—“Okay, Harry can’t keep his laughter in any longer, and presses a chuckle into Marcel’s neck. “That is helpful. But could we maybe not talk about parents when I’m about to get you naked?”
His voice getting even squeakier than his baseline, Marcel says, “Naked? Will you be getting naked too?”
Always. Harry will always be getting naked. But he says, “If you want me to.”
Marcel manages a nod at that.
That, Harry fervently hopes, is enough talking. Careful not to fall out of bed, he rolls off Marcel so he can follow through on the naked thing. Marcel’s cock is great. Marcel’s face when he sees Harry’s cock is also great. Naked is great. “You’re not circumcised,” Marcel says, voice filled with awe.
Marcel is. Harry’s only sucked one cut dick, but the technique isn’t different enough he’s worried about it. “Most guys here aren’t,” he says. “Unless it’s like your religion or something.”
“That’s so cool.” Marcel’s looking at Harry’s junk like he wants to touch it, but he’s keeping his hands very carefully to himself.
“You can play with it after, if you want. Or watch me play. Whatever. But can I touch you now? Please?”
From the look that flashes across Marcel’s features, he forgot that was on the agenda, but he recovers and gives Harry a nod.
“Le’me,” Harry says, pulling Marcel’s near leg just enough to indicate he should spread his thighs, let Harry between. He goes easily, and Harry settles on his elbows, legs hanging half off the end of the bed. It’s not the most comfortable position in the world, but Harry suspects Marcel won’t have him here for ages.
To ease Marcel into it, Harry kisses each of his thighs, the dip either side of his groin, his hipbones. Each press of his lips gets a huffing breath and a tiny moan, which Harry takes as a positive sign. The stroke of his palm up Marcel’s length gets a sharp inhale. “You look so good,” Harry says, and then follows his palm with his tongue. Marcel nearly knees Harry in the side of the head.
It’s a good three minutes before Harry manages to get Marcel to stop apologising, and has him reassured that they can do this without sending either of them to hospital. With another hookup, Harry would probably give up on going down and just wank him, or rub off on his stomach and call it a day. But it’s impossible to look at Marcel and not see himself, his own first time, which had ended in him coming in his girlfriend’s newly styled hair before she even touched him. She’d been furious, and wouldn’t give him so much as a handie for three days. Not that he’d say it if you asked him, but Harry feels like if he can get this right for Marcel, it would make up for how embarrassed he’d been.
When he goes in for the second time, Harry’s got his arms hooked over Marcel’s thighs, pinning them down, and he has one hand flat on Marcel’s belly, the other holding his dick in a firm grip. “Ready?” he asks, and Marcel gives him a glazed-eyed nod.
Marcel is not ready. But Harry didn’t actually expect him to be, so he’s prepared for the fingers digging too hard into his shoulder and the buck of Marcel’s hips, and rides them out, eyes on Marcel’s face as he licks him like an ice lolly. “That almost tickles,” Marcel whispers, voice strained, so Harry decides to see what he’ll do when he’s got his dick actually in Harry’s mouth. What he does is say, “Oh!” loud enough that all Harry’s flatmates probably heard him. When Harry doesn’t stop, though, he goes silent except for the ragged breaths Harry can feel under his palm.
Harry tends to overestimate his capacity for deep throating, but this time when he goes down too far, he makes his best effort not to noticeably choke, because he’d like to avoid another round of unnecessary apologies. Marcel seems pretty happy with Harry’s hand doing most of the work though, especially with Harry concentrating the attentions of his tongue along Marcel’s crown. Marcel doesn’t grab Harry’s head, but he digs hard fingers into Harry’s arms, and lets out these delicious little hungry moaning sounds that make Harry want to come now.
Just as Harry’s wondering if he is going to get another knee in the head if he releases Marcel’s hips so he can get a hand on his own dick, Marcel makes a strangled noise and starts spurting onto Harry’s tongue. Surprised, Harry pulls off, but he keeps stroking him, delightedly watching Marcel watch his own dick bumping Harry’s lips as his come hits Harry’s face and his own belly.
“Oh, my,” he says. “Oh. Oh my. Oh my, Harry.” His eyes are huge and glazed, and his hands seem to want to do something, but aren’t sure what, as they’re hovering at his sides, shaking a bit.
“Good, right?” Harry says, and yeah, the sight of Marcel streaked with jizz is not making Harry’s need to come any less urgent. “Can I wank off on you? Please?”
As soon as Marcel starts to nod, Harry kneels up and starts jerking himself, aiming for where Marcel’s cock is lying flushed and wet and still half hard on his belly. He’s going fast and hard and not playing at all—hopefully there will be time later for Marcel to explore foreskins if he wants to—and it’s less than thirty seconds before he’s adding to the stripes on Marcel’s skin.
Before Harry’s even caught his breath, Marcel surges up to wrap his arms around Harry’s neck and kiss him. Somehow, they manage to fall onto the bed not the floor, and neither of them hit their heads or any other tender bits as they do, and Marcel doesn’t seem to mind when Harry accidentally bites his lip hard enough to make him squeak. It’s far from graceful, but it clears up any worry Harry had about scaring Marcel off with orgasms.
They kiss while they get more comfortable, and kiss while their come dries sticky between them, and then kiss some more. When Harry’s neck starts to ache and his lips start to hurt, he pulls away with a smile, and rests his head on Marcel’s chest. “That’s not how I thought the movie today was going to end,” Marcel says, twisting one of Harry’s curls around his finger.
“Heh. Yeah, no,” Harry agrees.
“I’m glad I wasn’t just imagining you.”
Harry’s not sure what to say to that. “You— You thought you were imagining me?” If it’s normal for Marcel to hallucinate people knocking him arse over tit in the library…
“Not imagining you, exactly. Just. Imagining that you looked like you actually wanted to talk to me when I ran into you at, like, the coffee place.”
That, Harry can deal with. “I did want to talk to you. It just didn’t seem like you wanted to talk to me.”
“It’s a little freaky coming face to face with the guy you could be if you weren’t a hopeless loser nerd. You don’t expect that guy to like you.”
Harry pinches Marcel’s side, an admonitory nip. “You’re not hopeless or a loser. And I do like you.” Marcel doesn’t just look like Harry, he seems to get him, even though they’ve only just met.
“I like you, too,” Marcel says.
Propping his chin on Marcel’s chest so he can see him, Harry smiles. “Good,” he says. “Wanna spend the night?”
The first warm day of spring, Harry’s walking Marcel to his lecture. Marcel has on one of Harry’s t-shirts with his chinos because he got pizza sauce on his own shirt the night before, and he’s wearing his new, half-frame glasses that Harry went with him to pick out when he decided he was going to lose his dad’s frames forever if he kept trying to mend them. They’re holding hands, and arguing about whether or not anyone should have allowed Americans to re-make The Office. (Harry thinks no, Marcel thinks yes.) They aren’t paying any attention to their surroundings, so both jump in surprise when someone screams practically in their faces.
“There really are two of you!” It’s Kate, apparently no less excitable in the middle of the morning than drunk at a party.
“There are,” Harry says. Marcel grimaces.
“That’s so weird!” She touches Harry’s cheek with one hand and Marcel’s with the other. “You’re not clones, are you?”
Pushing her hand away, Marcel sighs. “There’s no such thing as cloned humans.”
“He’s just my doppelgänger,” Harry says. He doesn’t mention that Marcel is also his boyfriend, because that’s none of Kate’s business, and Marcel is still sometimes shy about telling people.
She looks back and forth between them. “Weird,” she repeats, and carries on her way.
“She’s weird,” Harry comments.
“Yeah,” Marcel says. “A little.” And he takes Harry’s hand again, and launches into an impassioned defense of Rainn Wilson that makes his mouth do the tense thing Harry’s still fascinated with. It makes Harry want to rub Marcel’s lips with his lips. But they have class first. They can do that later.