Hugo had never felt true guilt until Harry. It wasn't like he hadn't made mistakes, wasn't like he didn't regret things. A white lie here, not correcting assumptions there. Everyone did it -- part of life. Live and learn, move on. Only problem was, Hugo couldn't -- didn't want to -- move on. Harry was addictive, a poison. He would destroy everything Hugo was -- was already changing him. At work, he was the consummate professional. Still the same Hugo, still the same person. Still laughed and made jokes and worked with the same level of dedication that he always had, did his Agent Smith impersonation for a delighted Elijah, studied his Elvish with Orlando and Liv and Viggo. He didn't think of Harry's four-poster bed. Didn't think of tangled, sharp kisses. Didn't think of large hands on his body. Was it truly guilt if you have no regrets? * * * "Stay still." Hugo's breath caught, held still, as warm lips ghosted over the back of his neck, the tips of calloused fingers pressed against the small of his back, pressing him face-first into the wall. "Wha --?" "No." Soft admonishment whispered in his ear. "Don't talk." Hugo clenched his teeth, bit his lip as those same fingers drifted past his hip, under the leggings of his costume. Bit back the whimper. * * * Hugo still loved his wife. Loved his kids, wanted to go back to them; still called and emailed and missed them with every breath. At his core, he believed he hadn't changed. Not really. Not in any way that mattered. Harry had been a momentary aberration, a distraction, an irresistible force. And Hugo was, of course, only human. This was natural, this was expected. It would pass. It would fade. * * * "A bit late for you, isn't it?" Harry asked, leaning against the doorjamb. Hugo shuffled his feet, swayed with exhaustion. "You gonna let me in?" "Of course -- if you tell me why you're here." Hugo sighed, eyes red-rimmed, desperate. "I need you to fuck me." Harry's eyes seemed to bore right through him. But finally, he stepped aside. "If that's what you wish." Hugo could only nod as he shuffled past Harry inside the door. * * * Night after night of sneaking to Harry's house under the cover of darkness -- it wasn't an obsession, it was pleasure. Morning after morning of waking up alone, aching, wishing his bed wasn't so empty, that he could spend one complete night with Harry -- it wasn't a craving, it was basic human need. Day after day of watching the clock during make-up, counting the minutes until he was free to leave, to seek the pleasures of Harry's bed -- it wasn't love, it was infatuation. And if he sometimes got drunk and passed out on his sofa after talking to his wife -- if he sometimes felt a dull ache in his heart at the thought of going home, of leaving New Zealand -- it wasn't guilt. Hugo didn't believe in guilt. These feelings would all pass. * * * "I will end it one day, you know." Harry kissed the small of Hugo's back and sat up. "I know." He stretched out over Hugo's prone form -- heavy, welcome weight pressing Hugo into the mattress. "But you'll never be rid of me."
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