But Karl did love Harry. Loved him deeply. Loved him without reservation. Loved him enough to be genuinely happy that Harry had found happiness. With someone else. Karl didn't blame Harry. Viggo was beautiful. Viggo was all that. Viggo was also closer to his age, was artistic and funny, caustic and wise. Viggo got Harry. Viggo understood Harry. Which made Karl happy, because he really did want Harry's happiness. Above all things, he wanted Harry to feel loved, wanted Harry to be secure, wanted Harry to be the center of someone's universe. Even if it wasn't his. And, God, it wasn't like he hadn't had chances, wasn't like the opportunities hadn't been there. He could have said something, could have made a play. And it would have been so simple... 'hey, Harry, feel like having dinner with me tonight?', 'hey, Harry, I hear there's a film festival next weekend, want to go?'...But life is made up, more often than not, by the choices you don't make. By the things you don't say. So, he hadn't said anything, hadn't done anything. And was currently watching as Harry kissed Viggo with tenderness and love, with friendship and compassion. And it was a beautiful thing to watch, it really was. They looked great together, sounded great together. Both so tall and handsome and poised, both witty and fun and so attuned to themselves and others. To hear them tumbling over each other's words when they told a story, laughing together when they said the same things at the same time...yes, it was beautiful. Yes, it felt right. And yes, Karl was happy for them. But, God, sometimes it just fucking hurt. And it wasn't like what was between Harry and Viggo was a fling, wasn't like other on-set romances. Hell, they'd been done filming the movie for over three years now. Definitely, enough time had passed. But, there they were, still together, holding hands at ROTK premieres, smiling and happy and so goddamn secure in their love for each other, their faith in each other. Unshakable. Unbreakable. Karl knew them both, was friend and confidant to them both, knew they'd rather die than hurt each other. And even when they fought, which they often did, as strong personalities tend to clash more often than not, they took care with each other. They never went to bed angry. Karl knew this because Harry had told him. Friend to friend. At least Karl had Harry's friendship. And he was thankful for that, really he was. A gift like Harry was a rare thing, a precious thing, and Karl was grateful that he had any part of that gift. Even if he still looked at Harry, at Viggo, at that bright sense of completeness they had, and wanted. Wanted to be a part of that, wanted Harry to look at him like that, wanted Harry to brush knuckles across his cheek, wanted Harry to kiss the pulse of his neck, wanted the naked love in Harry's eyes when Harry spoke about Viggo. Perhaps one day he'd get over it. Find love with someone available, someone who would love him for his faults and his vices. But he wasn't looking. Didn't expect to find anyone. In any case, they wouldn't be Harry, and he wouldn't give half his heart to someone. That would be unfair. He couldn't do that to someone...wouldn't appreciate it if anyone did it to him. So, he'd be happy for his friends, he'd be happy they'd found each other. Because, at the end of the day, when two people decided to make a firm commitment, to take that stand, to open themselves up to heartache and sorrow and anger and, oh yes, love -- that was the mark of true courage. Viggo had courage. Harry had courage. Karl didn't. It was something he'd have to live with.
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