Well, it's certainly all John's fault when Harry goes taunt as a bowstring and all but shivers against the bed. "You're not sorry at all." Liar, his words are practically a dare for John to come back with something - whether more of the damp heat that was his tongue, or a flash of teeth. The teeth he remembers with abrupt clarity. Harry's neck is still a fading motley of yellowing bruises, and the color of blueberries remind him of how stark the bites had been when he'd turned his head to look at them in the shop window.

Self-destructive, he thinks of himself, and chooses to wrap his legs back around John's waist. "You make a mess, you better clean it up." The reminder is faint, low in Harry's chest as he watches with curious, quick eyes. His gaze darts: John's eyes, his mouth, to the bare skin of his chest and the bullet wound and the solid, broad width of his waist and over to the defrosting fruit - back - forth. "Okay," he breathes. "Do that again?"