‘There's just sex between us,’ Tom tells himself, as he comes home late from work and nestles into Harry's arms, careful not to disturb his sleep. Why, even on the nights when they don’t have sex, he still stays over at Harry’s apartment— at home— is something he prefers not to think about.
‘There's just sex between us,’ Tom confidently repeats to himself, unable to suppress a smile as Harry wakes him up with kisses and strong black coffee, trying to push him out to work on time. The fact that Harry is the only one who has ever seen him smile in Tom's entire life doesn’t even cross his mind.
‘There's just sex between us,’ Tom begs his thoughts to shut up as he fucks Harry slowly and gently, almost reverently. And this feels nothing like just sex; this is what people call "making love". As for the mass of feelings that gnaw at him from within when Harry comes, Tom is too afraid to think about it.
‘There's just sex between us,’ Tom scolds himself, thinking about their age difference. God, Potter is still a child, only 23 years old, while Tom is almost 40. This is absurd. Potter does stupid yoga in the morning, drinks warm milk before sleep, goes to bed at ten, and cries over cartoons. The fact that something fragile inside Tom shatters every time Harry cries is something he refuses to acknowledge.
‘There's just sex between us,’ Tom reminds himself monotonously, sipping expensive, neat whiskey alone at a bar at 5 a.m. Harry wouldn’t manage to finish even a glass of this drink. Nor would he try. He’s full of nonsense about how a healthy mind resides in a healthy body, and the body being a temple. Oh, Tom certainly worships this deity, but he disagrees that anything could ever defile it. As for the fact that he always lets Harry know if he won’t be staying over, Tom chooses to ignore it.
‘There's just sex between us’ is the mantra that Tom keeps repeating in his head. Harry is too sweet, too naive, too pure, too inexperienced for him. And Tom has been floundering in this life cesspool for far too long. He doesn’t want to taint Harry, break his enthusiasm, disappoint him. He doesn’t want to watch Harry grow up, see the world for what it is, and witness his rose-colored glasses shatter. Though, truth be told, with his relentless optimism, Harry is more likely to conquer Tom’s cynicism than succumb to it, and those rose-colored glasses of his must be made of concrete anyway. The thought that Tom wants to protect those glasses at any cost is something he doesn’t allow himself to entertain for even a moment.
‘There's just sex between us,’ Tom mutters automatically to himself, no longer even understanding the meaning of those words as he watches Harry smiling while making them a vegetarian dinner in the kitchen. The fact that it's been “just sex” for two years now—and that neither of them has had any other partners in all that time—is something Tom isn't ready to admit.
‘It’s just sex between us!’ Tom snaps harshly, storming out of the apartment and slamming the door behind him. Fear has always triggered aggression in him. His response has always been flight when faced with the danger of feelings. Harry doesn’t chase after him, and doesn’t shout anything in response. He just smiles sadly and waits for his love-scared boy to come back.
And Tom comes back. He lists all the reasons why there can only be sex between them. After each one, he pauses, as if silently begging Harry to object. But Harry stays silent. He waits for Tom to finish and realize that, despite a million reasons against it, they will both still choose the one reason for it. And then Tom falls silent. And his too-sweet boy simply embraces his life-weary, love-scared loner.