Archive of Our Own

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

James looked up at the facility, an unlit cigarette in between his lips. He had acquired a nasty habit of smoking, a consequence from hanging around Alexander for far too much than advised. Despite that, James couldn’t help but feel grateful for the guy. Alexander had secured a job for him after all, not to mention the many times Alexander had taken care of him when James couldn’t bring himself to visit Oliver.

Oliver had pointed out the pungent smell of smoke once; he scrunched up his nose and narrowed his eyes at James.

“Did you smoke?”

“Yeah. Didn’t think you would mind,” James shrugged.

Oliver shifted in his seat. “Didn’t think I would either.” He sniffed. “Guess I’ve changed a bit.”

James scratched his jaw. “Sorry. I’ll stop.”

James rubbed his eyes before taking the stick out his mouth. He eyed the pack that stuck out his denim pockets and tossed it into a nearby trash can. He couldn’t help but hesitate when his hand hovered over the basket; he’d paid nine dollars for the pack and it wasn’t even half-gone. He let it go when he remembered the way Oliver shrank away.

He brought his hand up to mouth and blew against it, sniffing the air that bounced off his palm, before walking inside.

When he pushes through the glass doors, there's a receptionist waiting for him. She glances up from her desk.

“I'm here to pick up Oliver Marks?” James says. He had meant for it to come out as a statement, but really, the aspect of picking up his friend from his ten year prison sentence had sounded so ridiculous in his head, he couldn't help the question mark from slipping out. 

“And you've already contacted the facility beforehand, yes?” The lady asks. When James nods, she hands him a clip board with paperwork attached and instructs him to hand it in when he's done. 

The lady takes his paper, types something with her obnoxiously loud keyboard, before confirming his identity and telling him that Oliver Marks would be waiting at the front gates where he'll be formally released.

James is—needless to say—all nerves when he drives toward the gates. He's been in the building countless times with the sheer amount of visits he pays Oliver; but now, looking at the facility, all James is focused on is how in the next few minutes or so, Oliver would be in the car alongside him. 

He pulls up to the front gates, trying to steady his trembling hands by squeezing them on the wheel. 

When he first sees Oliver, it’s nothing like the scenario he had repeated over and over in his head before. It’s nothing like a fairytale where the princess appears at the top of the staircase with her new make-over. Instead, Oliver has a guard by his side and Colborn on the other, a constant reminder of where he had just been pardoned from. 

He’s out of his jumpsuit, now in denim jeans and a plain white t-shirt. His hair, which had grown long enough for the strands to touch his chin, shone under the sun's rays. His feet only had the comfort of being sheltered by a pair of cheap khaki flip-flops. 

He hadn’t even lifted his head to see James and his car. Instead, his head lolled down as Colborne continued to talk to him about something. It didn’t look like the man was mad or trying to get a rise out of Oliver which was a relief, but the official's face was firm and in no way welcoming. His mouth moved slowly, as if he were trying to get his every word to soak into Oliver’s ears, but James was out of ear shot to decipher what exactly he was saying.

Colborne was the first to see James. The detective gave James a grim glare but nodded in polite acknowledgment. He whispered something into Oliver’s ear which caused the other to look up.

James was already aware of Oliver’s ability to switch expressions. For them, it had become second nature to express emotions from pure rage to absolute ecstasy. Mastering expressions and how certain feelings twisted and turned a person's features was a given in their course during their stay in Dellecher. Knowing when the spotlight hit their faces was their cue for their eyebrows to furrow and their cheeks to rise as their lips pursed and pressed. 

What James saw wasn’t any of those. There was no dramatic flare to each swoon and there were no staggers to each gasp. All James could see were Oliver’s eyes; how they melted; how each and every muscle in Oliver’s tense body relaxed and disarms at the sight of James, waiting there for him. The way those pupils widened only for a fraction before those lips quivered and tugged upward.

James could curate only one single thought at the sight of Oliver’s smile: I’m so fucked.

Oliver is closing the distance between them at rapid speed. Before James has the thought to maybe close his mouth, his body collides with another.

Oliver is holding him like if he let go, James would slip out of his grasp. Thin, cold arms wrap around James’ waist, and a few strands of brown hair stick up into James’s nose and poke against the flesh of his chin and lips. James sniffed and was hit with the scent of something milky and earthy. A dove bar mixed with hints of honeysuckle. The smell was mixed with something musky and acidic, but James found himself not minding it. He didn’t realize how much he missed the smell of Oliver until he found himself taking copious—as subtly as he can—amounts of sniffs of Oliver’s hair.

“Hey you,” James lets out with a breathless laugh. He brings his hands up to bring Oliver closer to his own body, but he hesitates when he sees Colborne standing only a few yards away, watching the heart-warming scene. Instead, he lets his hands drop down, only a few seconds before Oliver pulls away.

The man sheepishly peeled himself off of James, stepping a few feet back as if embarrassed by his previous reaction. When he didn’t immediately say anything back, James cleared his throat. “It’s nice seeing you out of cuffs.”

“It feels nice too,” Oliver says. His fingers rub against his chaffed wrists, the discoloration clashing against his pale skin. He tucks his hands away into his back pockets like he was unsure what to do with them now that they were free.

Colborne takes his cue to approach and exchanges polite greetings with James. The detective eyes him intently, and there's a weird glimmer in his eye that makes James squirm. It was as if the detective knew James inside out. Knew what he was capable of. Knew what he did.

However, even if he did, the most words he got out were a “Good to see you,” and a “Take care of yourself.”

Colborne gives Oliver a strained smile before heading back inside the institution, the gates slowly closing after him.

James feels small pelts of sweat forming on his palms when he's hit with reality. Oliver is here now. Less than a few feet away, tangible, cuff-free.

There's a beat of silence before Oliver huffs through his nose. He looks up, squinting at the blue expanse. James watches as Oliver closes his eyes, preening under the sun's attention.

“Does the sun feel nice?” James quirks a smile. Oliver hums in response.

“Might just get a tan by the end of the year. Would've been out all the time.”

James chuckles at that. He presses down the urge to reach out and touch Oliver again. The bubbling of laughter knocks around in his belly; he's determined not to make a fool out of himself. James isn't so sure he believes he can do that though.

Oliver looks down at him and smiles. “Take me home, James.”

Definitely not when Oliver looks at him like that.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

The ride is quiet. Oliver takes the passenger seat. The back seats of James's car are embarrassingly occupied with junk. Alexander told him before he started to look more and more like a hoarder. James's only response is that he likes the sentiment of things.

Ten minutes in and there hasn't been a word exchanged between the two. James's grip on the wheel tightens and he thinks there might be tremors forming in his right foot.

Oliver reaches over and turns on the radio. The two jump when the speakers start to blast full volume.

“Oh, shit–” Oliver curses, dialing down the volume.

James lets out a breathless laugh, his ears still recovering from the vibrations of the radio. “I'm sorry, I didn't realize I left the radio on full volume–”

“No, It's fine.” Oliver laughs to prove it. The car is filled with pop music. 

James thinks Alexander is to blame for the radio's volume.

“Glamorous” is being played. James isn't much for music, let alone pop, but he doesn't want to ask Oliver to turn it off right after he turned it on. Besides, he didn't mind the distraction. He taps on a finger on the wheel, determined to calm his nerves.

“G-L-A-M–”

James steals a glance to his right. Oliver is looking away, toward the window. It was as if the other was taking everything that passed by into memory. Or maybe Oliver just didn't feel like talking.

“–O-R-O-U-S, yeah–”

James looks back at the road.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

They stand outside James’s apartment. James is fiddling with the key while also trying not to absolutely freak. Oliver doesn't seem to care that James had been jangling around the key ring for a good minute.

The apartment is nice. James is proud to say that he hadn't fully gone over the ledge and trashed his home. It's politely clean and spacious. James thinks it's nice. Alexander told him that it looked like James was squatting rather than living; the apartment looked new. Unlived in.

He had only started to live in the apartment after graduating. He left home and lived down in Illinois where Oliver was stationed. His family didn't approve. He left anyway.

Oliver had admitted to him before he wasn't ready to go back to Ohio. After the whole fiasco, his sisters only ever visited a handful of times. His parents were nowhere to be seen. Oliver had looked close to tears when he admitted how angry Leah was at him. 

“Yet another strain to my dysfunctional family,” Oliver had joked. None of them laughed. James only squeezed his hand tighter.

So with nowhere to go, James had silently gone ahead and put it upon himself to make space for Oliver in his apartment. It wasn't a small apartment anyway. He didn't like to flaunt his wealth, but it was true he had money. Oliver used to joke about his money and class before.

The door opened with an audible click, and James shoved his keys into his pocket as he pushed the door open. He stepped in, opening the door wider for Oliver. 

The other thanked James with a smile as he stepped in, looking around. He nodded mutely. “It's nice.”

“Tell that to Alex,” James huffed, closing and locking the door after him. “He says the place is unbearable.”

Oliver hums. James isn't sure if that meant he agreed with Alexander. 

“Would've thought you'd buy yourself a penthouse if you were going to live down here,” Oliver confessed. 

“Yeah, because that's just what I need,” James replies dryly. “A huge penthouse for little ol’ me.”

Oliver smiles apologetically at that. “Why don't you give me the grand tour?” He asks, switching the topic.

The apartment has a kitchen with an island bar. Across it is the living room, and if you went straight down, you would find your bathroom and laundry room. The two bedrooms were just to the left from there. 

The whole interior is decorated with quote-modern-bullshit-end-quote (Alexander). There was a particular glass vase that made Alexander point and say, “I wonder what it would feel like to put your dick in that.” James told him to “Please don’t experiment putting your little Alex in any of my vases, thank you.”

The spare bedroom across James’s own was only slightly smaller. A bed was positioned in the middle of the wall of the doors left. Queen sized with crème colored sheets. There were two bedside tables with a lamp on each one. Only to the right corner was there a desk and chair. There was an open  window right above the desk, the curtains flowing along the air currents. The wardrobe and full length mirror was closest to the door.

Oliver let out an appreciative whistle, plopping himself down on the bed. He patted the mattress while looking around. 

“Were you planning on getting your stuff from Ohio anytime?” James asked. Oliver looked up and rubbed his hands together, his knuckles knocking against each other.

“I don’t know.”

James nodded. “Do you have any of your stuff?”

Oliver winced. “No.”

James hummed. “Okay, well. How about we go shopping together on the weekend—?”

“No! It’s okay, you don’t need to spend—“

“Oliver. It’s fine. You know a light spending won’t hurt me.”

Oliver opened his mouth to undoubtedly protest some more, but he realized he was on the losing side of the argument. Facing his family in Ohio might lead to a long argument and some alligator tears, and currently Oliver had zero possessions in Illinois. 

“Okay. But promise me you won’t do anything crazy? Or buy more than I can pay for?”

James laughed, his arms crossed. “This is my money. I get to spend it however I want.”

“Right. Of course.” Oliver huffs, but he doesn’t seem too annoyed.

There lingered a silence. James wasn’t sure what to say, if there even was anything to say. It seems it was the same for Oliver as well since he continued to avert his gaze around.

“So… good room? I mean, do you like it?”

Oliver nods.

“Alright. Uhm… is there anything I can get you? Food, a drink?”

Oliver considered it for a moment. “Well, I wouldn’t oppose some food.”

James scratched the back of his neck. “Hold on,” he raised a finger before quickly turning toward the kitchen. 

The fridge consisted of a carton of milk close to expiring, bottles of Fiji water, exactly two eggs, a leftover subway sandwich, cups of butter, and an apple.

He opened the pantry and behold, stacks and stacks of ramen cup noodles. There was pasta, a jar of peanut butter, a pound of flour, and half a bottle of virgin olive oil. 

The island counter had ketchup, a pack of bread, and a singular browning banana.

James bit his bottom lip. Okay, so he definitely needed to stock up. He closed the door to his pantry when he heard Oliver’s footsteps behind him.

“I have to say, it’s been a while since I ate anything outside of mashed potatoes and mystery meatloaf,” Oliver said, popping his head inside the fridge. “But now I’m wondering how long it’s been since you ate anything.”

“I ate.” James hated how defensive he sounded. He leaned his bottom against the pantry doors so Oliver wouldn’t see the sorry state of his food supply. He knew it wouldn’t help; Oliver had already scoured the fridge. The freezer only contained ice cubes.

Oliver blinked at him, his hands still on the fridge doors. He glanced back at his hands, and peeled them off the steel handles. “Right. Why don’t we go eat out? Nothing fancy or anything.” Oliver tugs at the cotton shirt. It was close to translucent. James steered his eyes off here Oliver’s chest grazed against the white fabric.

“Where would you want to eat?”

Oliver mused. “Hey, do you remember that one Mexican place? You know, we went there with everyone else a couple of times.”

When James didn’t immediately respond, Oliver scratched his hair. “It was near Centro Lake. Hole in the wall esc sort of thing? Uhm… what was it called…?”

James perked up. “Oh! Aurelio’s!”

“Yes!” Oliver nodded, snapping his fingers. “Mexican sounds good?”

James didn’t turn down the idea.

Before James could fish out his keys again, Oliver cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. With a blush flourishing on his cheeks, he asked, “Could I take a shower first?”

James blinked, surprised. He realized how inconsiderate he might’ve been. “Yes! Yeah, no, of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t know you wanted to–”

“No, it’s okay, I’m sorry,” Oliver smiles. “I just feel like I smell…” He frowns at himself, taking a sniff at his shirt. “Like a prison cell.”

James wanted to quickly say that Oliver indeed did not smell like a prison cell, but he decided to stay silent and nodded, quickly guiding Oliver to the bathroom. 

“There’s only one bathroom,” James says apologetically, offering Oliver a clean towel.

Oliver looks around. “Well, it’s bigger than the communal toilet and our dorm bathroom combined.” With that, he smiled at James and shut the door closed. 

James could hear the shower head coming to life, and he tried not to make it weird by imagining Oliver naked in the next room doused in hot water. 

He sat down on the couch, staring down at the dark TV screen. Stop thinking about it. 

It wasn’t the first time he saw Oliver naked. And by naked, he means naked. It was an accident when they were still rooming together back in the dormitories. He had walked in on Oliver changing, and it wasn’t anything serious. James left the room and apologized through the wooden door. Oliver didn’t seem to mind. Oliver had also seen James naked before. Whether it was from skinny dipping, or when he was fresh out of the shower with nothing but a towel hanging from his waist, it wasn’t anything serious. It’s not like they purposefully peeped at each other or anything. 

James rubbed his hands on his pants. It was never a big deal before, and it won’t be a big deal now, he drilled in his head. He couldn’t believe how immature he was acting. It was as if James turned back into a horny little teenager every time Oliver did anything remotely provocative. 

James sniffed, suddenly feeling cramped in his own pants. He stood up and paced around the coffee table, thinking about no nothings. 

“James?”

James freezes in his tracks, his ears perking up at Oliver’s voice. He melts and quickly makes his way to the bathroom before reaching a full stop.

The bathroom door was half way open and James could see Oliver’s wet hair, soaked body, and covered hips. The hot steam wafts and teases James’s skin. Oliver's chest and stomach was a blotchy red, as if he had rubbed it harshly. The man looks away with embarrassment, likely aware of James’s wandering eyes.

“What is it?” James asked, his eyes now trained on the wet drops falling from Oliver’s hair. “Is something wrong?”

Oliver quickly shook his head. “Nothing. I was… uh… no, never mind—“

“Oliver.” James frowned. He didn’t like it when Oliver kept things from him. The man shouldn’t have to feel like he had to keep things from him. 

“Do you…” Oliver licks his lips and hesitates. “Do you mind if I could snag some clothes from you?” 

James’s face contorted from a raised eyebrow into two raised eyebrows, which were then followed by widened eyes and an agape mouth. “Uh, no, yeah, okay, sure.” Real smooth.

He quickly pointed over his shoulder, trying to form the next few words along the lines of, “Do you want something looser, or are you okay with jeans?” But the longer he stood there with Oliver flashing that smile at him, the more likely he was going to say something stupid like “Please kiss me.” 

He plucked out a soft hoodie and a pair of sweats. He more or less chucked them through the gap of the bathroom door. 

When Oliver emerged from the bathroom with damp hair and drowning in James’s clothes, James nearly choked. In fact, he was pretty sure he did. Oliver was holding a small towel to his hair, tussling the strands around. 

He plopped down on the couch beside James and looked at the remote on the coffee table. He picked it up, flipping through some channels. If he saw the way James clenched his fists and bit his lip, he didn’t comment on it.

“How about we head out in about twenty? Wanna dry my hair first.” Oliver proposed, not looking away from the screen. He stops clicking through the buttons when an episode of “Veronica Mars” starts to flicker across the screen.

“You know,” Oliver started, pointing toward the screen. “Leah used to love watching these types of shows.”

James took a deep breath, remembering that this is no big deal. He turns to the screen and  squints at the screen. “What, shitty thriller-slash-teen-drama shows where the main character somehow is able to hack her way through the US government?”

“Careful, don't let her hear you say that,” Oliver laughs. Said main character is typing away at her computer as she accesses confidential information on a nine-teen year old student smuggling dope. “She liked to act like Nancy Drew, snooping around the house with a magnifying glass. She would stick her nose into everyone's business and pull some snooty comment on how she bet it the culprit was them, or you.

“She would go around making a big deal about everything, you know? She would take pictures of random people's license plates on her little FinePix, telling me that some day, it would come in handy. Like Ohio was some kind of crime hub,” Oliver says dryly.

Mars is printing out a fake ID.

“She got into true crime and all that stuff. Every time a murder case came on, she was gone. Couldn't pull her away from trying to crack the case herself. Mom told her to stop pinning pictures of random people up on the cork board. She kept hogging the thumbtacks.”

Mars sweet-talks her way into a club, slipping around and blending in with the booming music and swaying bodies. She's able to make a drunk man spill some info with a little nudge.

Oliver looks like he's about to say more, but he keeps his mouth shut. His eyes are glazed over, and his grip on the remote is loosening. James wants to reach out and flip the channel.

“I thought it was… funny,” Oliver says after a minute. “How easy it is to catch someone guilty of a crime.”

James feels his muscles tense.

Mars is printing out a stack of pictures on the evidence she's acquired. She slips them into a standard yellow folder.

“Just like that…” Oliver whispers. His voice drips of something cold and sharp, but his body looks soft and pliable, as if he were unfasting the physical holdings of his soul to seep out of his body.

Mars blows a kiss while the guilty marches away before they split into a full sprint. He’s running away, but the knowing smile on Mars’s face means he won’t get far.

James wants to squeeze Oliver's hands. Back at the visiting rooms, that was the only thing that brought Oliver back to him, except now they were in James’s apartment.

Would it be weird if James just reached out and touched him right now? It felt odd to just go ahead and take his hand. Holding hands in the center was easy. They were in a tiny room with a table in between them. They sat across each other but they weren't allowed to do anything wildly intimate. Their hands were only a few inches away, it was easy to just hold them.

James glanced at Oliver's hands. They were already occupied with a towel and remote.

Oliver's damp hair was leaving water drops onto the gray hoodie. His eyes glazed over, a fog obscuring his vision.

Without thinking, James reached out and snatched the remote out of Oliver's hands. He clicked the power button. Veronica Mars was gone.

Oliver blinks out of his haze and his hand goes back to scuffling his hair. Silence ensues once again and the only sound that James can bring himself to focus is the breathing and moving of Oliver Marks.

“How about those tacos, yeah?” James all but whispers as he rises up from the couch.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

“Fly me to the moon–”

James keeps his eyes on the road. Oliver hadn't said a single word since they boarded the car.

“Let me play among the stars–”

He can't help but panic; this was not what he had envisioned for their first day together to be. Well, if he was honest, he didn't actually have high expectations. He thought about it several times, but the only imagery he had was of their co-rooming back when they were students. Quiet but otherwise comfortable. Back in the dorms, they hadn't really interacted. Most of their time together was outside, most likely with other people.

“Let me see what spring is like–”

James glanced at Oliver. The other was looking out the window.

“On a-Jupiter and Mars–”

James looked back on the road, swallowing down saliva. 

“In other words, hold my hand–”

James quickly dialed up the AC a notch.

“In other words, baby, kiss me–”

“Please turn right on McGinnis Road–”

James took a breath as he maneuvered the steering wheel. He drove down the road before reaching a red light. 

“Fill my heart with song–”

“A whole lot of things changed over ten years,” Oliver says. 

James hums—really, he squeaks—and nods. “Yeah.”

“and let me sing forevermore–”

“I mean, I'm looking outside and it kind of scares me how much everything's changed while I was gone,” Oliver confesses. “I knew ten years was a lot—sure did feel like a lot—but I mean, seeing it now…”

James looks over again. Oliver is still facing the window.

“You are all I long for–”

Whatever Oliver was going to say never comes out.

“Keep heading straight on McGinnis Road–”

“All I worship and adore–”

“The internet is a lot faster now,” James says just to break the silence. It really wasn't silent, what with the radio on in the background, but James didn't think he could handle staying quiet while Sinatra sang his heart out.

“Oh? Really?” Oliver hums. “Computers were never my thing. Slow fuckers…”

James smiles at that.

“In other words–”

James hears Oliver sniff. He doesn't glance over to his right; he knows he won't be able to see Oliver's face.

“Please be true–”

James glances up at the sky. He frowns when he's met with grey clouds. Hopefully it doesn't rain.

“In other words–”

James stares down at the road. He definitely doesn't squirm in his seat because of the radio. Love songs on the radio was a given, wasn't it?

“I love you–”

Fucking Frank Sinatra.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

To say James was relieved to get out of the car was an understatement. 

He holds the door open for Oliver on instinct. Oliver calls him a gentleman which in turn causes James to flush red.

When they find their seats, a booth hidden in the corner, James takes his time looking around. It'd been a while since he'd been here. He watches as Oliver takes the menu from their waitress before doing the same.

When the waitress comes back to collect their menus, James orders for both of them.

“That is what you want, right?” James double checks before the waitress leaves.

Stunned, Oliver nods. “Yeah, it is.”

James flashes a smile, thanks the waitress, and hands her both menus. 

“How'd you know?”

James looks up. “What?”

Oliver frowns. “How did you know what I wanted?” He doesn't look mad, rather more confused and flustered.

James blinks and then raises an eyebrow. “You mean your order?”

“I didn't tell you what I wanted–”

“Please, Oliver. You always get the same order no matter which Mexican restaurant we go to. We called it your signature.” James laughs. It only ceases when he sees the way Oliver blushes.

“Didn't think you'd remember after all this time.”

James sucks in a breath. He fiddles with the hem of his shirt because their drinks haven't arrived yet and the waitress took his menu away.

The way Oliver was looking at him right now was making it harder for him to remain calm and act like everything was fine. 

Oliver and his dark brown eyes, glistening like he were staring into the stars themselves. The way his lips parted as if he were to whisper a declaration of love. The way he melted when he looked at James–

James squeezed his thigh. The thoughts running through his head, both sickly sweet wishes of peppering kisses all over Oliver’s face, as well as his desires to pull Oliver out of their booth, press against him, bite him, scratch him, devour him–

“Two waters?”

James jumps when the waitress is back with their drinks. Oliver is more subtle, only blinking in surprise as the lady places the glass cups down.

James is ashamed. Very much so. He knows well how red he probably is as he sips on his ice water. He purposefully averts his gaze down to the taco mascot on the napkin until he feels himself calm down.

Having these kinds of thoughts wasn't new to James. He'd be lying if he said he didn't imagine Oliver under him or on top of him when they first met. But those weren't anything substantial. Those were horny thoughts from a kid that liked to fool around with his friends in class. They weren't meant to spiral into anything more than a good jerk off.

He abandons the straw and instead engulfs an ice cube, swishing it around his mouth. When the cold starts to hurt, he bites it and swallows it down.

They decide to fill the silence with small talk. 

“How's Pip?”

“Good.”

“Alex?”

“Better. Colin's been a help. Good guy.”

“That's good.”

“Hm.”

“Did you hear from anyone else?”

“Ah… no.”

“Figures. How's your job?”

“Nice. Nothing much changed, but I think most of my co-workers are scared of me.”

“What?” Oliver laughs because in his books, that's ridiculous. “How? You're a softie.”

“Gee, thanks. That really helps my ego.”

“No, seriously! You're a saint!”

James glowers. “No, not really.” Not anymore.

Oliver falters. He sniffs and switches the topic. “You know, I didn't think you'd move to Illinois.”

“No?”

Oliver shakes his head. “I thought you would've stayed in Cali. Or, I don't know, moved to anywhere except Illinois. Japan, New Zealand, Antarctica…”

James hummed. Oliver's assumption was valid. To move to Illinois, the place where everything went wrong… James felt like staying would've driven him crazy. Maybe he was crazy, just not explicitly.

“Actually, I was going to move somewhere else. Del Norte.” He chuckles at the thought.

“So why didn't you? Why Illinois?” He presses.

James looks up into Oliver's eyes. He doesn't say; They both already knew the answer. 

The man in front of him swallows, his throat visibly bobbing. 

The rest of the meal is silent. 

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

It's raining. Hard.

They walk out the restaurant, the smell of Carne Asada lingering behind them. Fortunately, the restaurant has a small awning so they weren't immediately pelted by the rain.

“I didn't bring an umbrella,” James groans. Running through the rain? Yeah, something James could definitely do without.

Oliver, on the other hand, looks delighted. He puts a hand out from the awnings roof and laughs breathlessly when he feels the cold drops. 

James, of course, is enamored.

Oliver looks over at him, eyes crinkled, lips upturned. “Rain,” he whispers. 

It shouldn't be anything more than Oliver rediscovering rain. It shouldn't be a big deal. James is panicking, because yes, he was going to make it a big deal.

The smile on Oliver's face is contagious. There's a fluttering in his chest followed by a deep press against his ribs. He's laughing. 

Without a second thought, he grabs Oliver's hand, intertwining their fingers, before dragging him out from under the roof and running into the rain.

The water is gathering up into his shoes and soaking his clothes. He's sure the shower Oliver took earlier would be useless now.

Oliver is laughing so lovely behind him, James wants to bottle it up and display it on his shelf. 

The cold seeds are blurring James's vision, and it's getting into his mouth as he laughs, but he doesn't care. This moment where Oliver is laughing and holding his hand is everything he's yearned for years. 

He takes his free hand for his keys and quickly unlocks the car. The inevitable comes when Oliver lets James’s hand go in order to hop inside the passenger seat. James feels a sharp, quick pain from the loss of contact, but it's gone as fast as it came.

They're still laughing when the doors shut and the rain is gone.

“God, I haven't felt this alive in so long,” Oliver admits in between giggles. 

James lets out one final laugh before smiling and turning to Oliver. He thinks about how pathetic he probably looks right now: pink cheeked, dimpled smile, twinkling eyes. 

Oliver turns to his left and looks at James as well. His laughing fades, his grin melting into a ghost of what it was. His eyes trail over James's hair, eyes, before landing on his lips.

James knows that look. He's seen it plenty in horrible chick flicks right before the two main characters tongue each other in the rain.

Everything stills. The air feels hotter despite the way James's body trembles from the cold. 

Oliver's lips are right there. Pink, wet, probably as sweet as ambrosia. They're fucking begging to be ravished. James is pretty sure he's starting to salivate.

He's aware he's staring. Ogling. In his defense, Oliver was looking at him with those doe eyes and—

He would be crazy to just pass up the perfect opportunity!

There's a small rational voice in his brain that says, “You would be crazy to just kiss your best friend right after he got released from prison!”

So, of course, because James hates himself, he blinks out of the trance and pulls away. He ignores the way Oliver's face drops before it hardens.

The car ride back to the apartment is deafening. There's no Frank Sinatra to accompany them. Just the rhythmic beats of rain reminding James what he had just given up.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

James lets Oliver shower first. They decide to go shopping on Saturday for Oliver's stuff. In the meantime, James has to endure the way his shirt slips off Oliver's shoulders. 

The sun's already gone when James emerges from the shower. The living room and kitchen are dark, so he knows Oliver is already in his own room.

Closing the bathroom door, he trudged toward his room, turning off the hallway light in the process. 

He stops in front of Oliver's door and raps his knuckles onto the wood.

“Oliver?” He croaks out.

The door opens a few seconds later.  Oliver peeps out, only half his face visible. Slowly, he opened the door so that his whole body was visible.

Oliver's hair is dried now. He faintly smells of James's shampoo and bodywash. James wants to cry.

“Hey.” Oliver smiles.

“Hey. I just wanted to make sure you were… uh… I mean, do you need anything? An extra pillow? Blanket? Anything at all?”

Oliver chuckles and shakes his head. “I'm all good here. Thanks.”

“Okay. Good. If you need anything, you can just… ask. My room's right across yours.” James nods and points over his shoulder.

“Right.” Oliver nods. 

James nods again.

“So… was that it?” Oliver tilts his head. “Or was there anything else you wanted to say?”

James’s chest tightens. “Huh?” He thinks about talking about what happened in the car. If he had leaned in, would've Oliver allowed him? Even if there weren't any words spoken between them, was James correct when he noticed the change in their friendship? He stammers. “No, no, nothing. That was all.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” James parroted.

Oliver still hasn't closed the door, and James still hasn't turned away. They instead fiddle with their hands, glance around, and stall.

“Alright, well, goodnight.” James lamely puts a hand up as a wave.

“Oh, yeah. Goodnight, James,” Oliver says. He hesitates before slowly closing the door.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

James wakes up the next day disoriented. For the first time in years, the air feels warm.

He rubs off the sleep from his eyes and waddles out of his room. He squints when he turns the corner; the kitchen lights are on.

He's then very aware he's not alone.

“Oliver?”

Said man pops out. He's at the stove, catering a dish. The smell of food hits James like a tidal wave.

“Morning. Sorry, did I wake you?” Oliver asks apologetically. He sets the plate down on the counter. James doesn't miss the way his borrowed clothes wrap around Oliver.

“No,” James says. “What are you doing?”

“Oh! Uhm…” Oliver turns red. “I'm sorry, I just made myself some breakfast, but I should've asked you first–” he groaned. “I'm sorry–”

“It's okay, Oliver. I'd rather you cook than wait for me to wake up,” James sighs. “I'm fine with it. Go ahead and do what you want. You're living here as well.”

Oliver nods gratefully. “Thanks. Oh wait.” Oliver holds up a finger and turns around. He pulls another plate from a cabinet and piles some food onto it before placing it on the counter next to the other.

James raised an eyebrow.

“I made enough for two,” Oliver shrugs. “Come and sit with me.” 

James blinks. This is a weird way to start my morning. He takes his place across Oliver and looks down at his plate.

French toast and a fried egg. Something you'd find at a breakfast bar. It looked good.

“It looks good,” James smiles at Oliver.

Oliver clears his throat. “It's nothing special, but thanks.”

Breakfast is quiet, but not silent. James finds himself chuckling at a few things Oliver says. Oliver throws his head back in joy at something James quips.

After breakfast, Oliver proposes a movie. It's an odd time to watch a movie, but it would be rude to decline. James checks his watch. He only has about an hour before he should get ready for work.

“Oh, I forgot you work today,” Oliver sighs. “It's alright, movies can wait.”

“No.”

Oliver startles. “Huh?”

“I'll watch the movie with you,” James says. “I'll have to leave midway, but I can stay for a little bit. Is that okay with you?”

Oliver nods. “If you're okay with it, I am too.”

They settle onto the couch together. Oliver admits to James he had been craving a good movie since he was locked up. 

When James showed Oliver his Netflix account, the man was overjoyed.

James laid down on one end, Oliver the other. Their ankles brushed against each other. Oliver flexed his toes, wiggling them against James's leg. James flexed back, laughing.

They were a good twenty-five minutes in when his watch buzzed.

“Got to get to work,” he huffed and sat up.

Oliver sighed, sitting up as well. “Are you coming back for dinner?”

James nodded. “Shouldn't be out for longer than 6. I could come back with some takeout?”

“That sounds fine with me,” Oliver shrugs. 

When he's ready, James unlocks the front door. Oliver walks him out, waving.

“Have fun,” is all the man says.

Fun, James scoffs with a smile.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Take out is Thai.

The restaurant James goes to gives out wooden chopsticks. Oliver doesn't use them the way they should be used, instead stabbing everything he wants to eat.

“You're supposed to hold them like this,” James says, holding his own hand up.

Oliver narrows his eyes down at the way the chopsticks fit in between James's hand. He attempts and fails to replicate.

James gets a good laugh out of the way Oliver throws his chopsticks down in a fit of frustration.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

“You're glowing.”

“What?”

James's co-worker stares into him and smiles wickedly. “Nothing. Has anything exciting happened recently?”

James huffs, continuing his mopping. “No.”

“Liar,” she hisses. She giggles when James glares daggers into her.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

“What's that?”

James looks up from his phone. He was texting Alexander about Oliver's current condition. Alexander fretted over like a mother hen.

“What's what?” James asked. He pocketed his phone and turned to the general direction Oliver pointed at.

His face paled when he saw what caught the others' attention.

That stupid framed photo, James winced and risked a glance at Oliver. The man beside him hasn't shown anything other than surprise.

“It's a photo of us.”

“I…I can see that.” Oliver still hasn't looked away. He laughs in bewilderment. 

James watches as Oliver makes his way to the frame. He should've hidden it away before Oliver's arrival, but he had been so worked up on his appearance and figuring out what to say, he hadn't given the photo much thought.

“Where did you get this?” Oliver asked as he picked it up.

“Meredith gave it to me. Back when I turned twenty-six,” James admits.

Oliver flinched. “Meredith?”

“Yeah.”

Oliver turns around then, something akin to confusion and betrayal burning in his eyes. “I thought you said you didn't talk to her?”

“I don't! I honestly thought she didn't want to ever do anything with me anymore, and I still think so. That picture was the only time she reached out to me. We didn't even meet up. She gave this to Alex.”

Oliver's guarded posture slowly relaxed. He looked back to the picture.

“You look good here,” Oliver says quietly.

“I could say the same to you,” James says.

The other man puts down the frame. Oliver's eyes look red and glossy, but one thing that separates him and James is that he doesn't cry.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

One night, James comes home to the apartment dark. He frowns and checks his watch. It wasn't even 7 yet.

He walks down into the living room and stops in his tracks when he makes out a blurry figure on the couch.

“Oliver?” He treads quietly. The other doesn't respond.

James makes his way as he sets down his bag. He can see Oliver asleep on the couch, a small fleece blanket wrapped around him. One of Oliver's hands is limp on the side of the couch and there's a remote on the floor right below it.

“Oliver, you shouldn't sleep here,” he hushed. 

Oliver stirs but doesn't wake. 

James hesitates before gently shaking the man. “Come on, let's get to bed.”

“No…” Oliver whines. “Later.”

The words are mumbled out, unfortunately incomprehensible.

“What?” James hisses. “Come on–”

“No…!” Oliver huffs. “Not moving… Carry me…”

“O-Oliver.” James rubs his temples. “I'm not gonna–”

Oliver doesn't even respond.

James groans. He looks down at body, unsure of what to do. He could just leave Oliver on the couch, but he wouldn't be comfortable with himself for allowing that.

So of course, he ends up carrying Oliver.

It turns out Oliver isn't as asleep as James thought, because as soon as he lifts Oliver's body off the couch, arms wrap around his shoulder and neck.

He feels a warm puff of air hit his chest as Oliver snuggles against him. A part of James withers away. 

Oliver whispers so low, James might've missed it. 

“...love you…”

Ice is thrown over his head. Hard, cold pieces of solid ice bruise his skin.

He doesn't say a word, only silently propping Oliver down on his respective bed before slipping out.

He hyperventilates when he closes his own bedroom door. Had he heard that right? Was his brain making up completely fake scenarios? Was he dreaming right now?

James had had plenty of weirdly domestic dreams with Oliver before. It wouldn't be the first time.

He drags a face down with one hand and stops over his mouth to force himself to breathe through his nose. 

He was so fucked.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

The month comes and goes. 

James and Oliver don't touch during those handful of days. 

They consist of polite greetings, lingering stares, and heavy breathing whenever they're within less than a feet radius of each other. 

James thinks he's dying inside.

Most of the time, James is at work. He doesn't work a 9 to 5, but it does still take his time out from seeing Oliver. When he comes back from home, however, Oliver is splayed out on the sofa, remote in hand. He lights up when James comes in and sits up from the sofa, asking how work was.

It is incredibly domestic. The only parts missing are the cuddles and kisses goodbyes.

They go grocery shopping on a Friday. 

Oliver runs the cart as James plucks things off the shelves and plops them inside. James is proud to say that ramen is no longer the dominating food source from the pantry.

On Saturday, James takes Oliver shopping. He buys bags and bags of shirts, sweaters, trousers, socks, underwear…

Oliver starts to complain when James asks him to get fitted for a suit. They end up scrapping the suit idea after a too-interested tailor slides a sneaky hand over Oliver's inner thighs. Oliver hadn't noticed himself, but James zeroed in on the contact.

James buys Oliver two pairs of sneakers, boots, sandals, and slippers. He also buys Oliver a pretzel from a food stand.

On Sunday, Oliver gets a haircut. They go to the salon and splurge.

Well, that was how it was supposed to go. Of course, Oliver had to take the wheel and do a complete 180.

“Can you cut my hair?”

James almost dropped a plate. Key word: almost. Sure, he fumbled, but he thought he was relatively smooth. 

Oliver raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

It was only after breakfast did Oliver ask the damned question. James was in the middle of gathering the dishes off the table. 

“I'm sorry?” 

“I said, ‘Can you cut my hair?’”

James placed the dishes down into the sink before turning and staring at Oliver. 

“I thought we were going to the salon?”

“I don't want to.” Oliver shrugs. He doesn’t look an inkling mad or annoyed, not even a drop of petulance in his voice despite his request.

James sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, if it's about the money thing–”

“It's not.”

James frowns. He inspects Oliver, unsure of what to make of the situation.

“I just want you to cut my hair,” Oliver continued. “Please?”

James’s mouth hung open, but he snapped it shut when he realized Oliver wasn’t going to take back his request. He set the dish down into the sink and gave jerky nods.

“Yeah, okay, sure, why not? I just want to let you know I’m not the most experienced at cutting hair—“

Oliver scrunched his eyebrows. “You used to cut your own hair at school all the time.”

James threw up his hands in indignation. “Well! I was—you know—in a phase! It didn’t even look that good.” He shivered at the memory of his botched haircut. He could’ve afforded a trip to the nearest salon without a problem, but—you know—he was in a phase!

Oliver smiles. “It'll only be a trim. I won't mind if you mess up. It's not like I'm going out on an interview the next day.” He shrugs.

So that’s how James ended up sitting on the side of the tub while Oliver sat in between his thighs. Scissors in hand, James awkwardly ran his hand through Oliver’s hair. It was soft and tickled his fingertips. 

Oliver was sitting down in front of him with his legs brought up to his chest. The man leaned his head between James’s thighs to look up at him. Jamed was sure that Oliver could only see the upper part of his face, as he had to bend his neck backwards to see.

“Nervous?” 

James swallowed. Yeah, he kind of was. The way his groin could touch Oliver’s nape was an odd turn on.

“No,” he lied. He hooked the plastic bag onto his left pinky as he held a comb. He held the scissors on his right. “Look straight, I’m going to start now.”

“Alright,” Oliver smiled and obeyed. 

James took a silent deep breath as he brushed Oliver's hair. He could feel the vibrations radiating off Oliver when he hummed. 

Do not, I repeat, do not get a boner with your friend right in front of you, James Farrow, he chastised himself.

He placed the plastic bag wide open on his lap so that it would catch the hair. Carefully, he started to cut off the hair curling around Oliver's nape. He tried to focus, but every time his fingers brushed against Oliver's skin, he thought he might lose it.

He stroked through Oliver's hair, gently pulling the overgrown bangs back. Oliver's head swayed back, allowing James to take full control. 

James didn't think twice. He grabbed a handful of Oliver's hair and tugged.

He wasn't sure what made him do that—actually, scratch that. He knew exactly why he did it when he heard the obscene gasp slip out from Oliver's lips; that was what he was looking for.

Something clicked, and suddenly, James was hungry. He licked his lips, craving to see Oliver's face. He was satisfied when Oliver cautiously turned his head around.

Oliver was flushed and his eyes were as big as saucers. He looked up at James from under his eyelashes, and stammering, he pleaded, “Be gentle…” 

James could hear his resolve about to snap. He knew that if he didn't get out right now, he was going to make a mistake. A very big irreversible mistake.

James swallowed, trained in on the way Oliver seemed to pulse with want. He took a deep breath, averting his gaze to the ceiling. 

He knew what Oliver was trying to do. He wanted so badly to fall for it, but something inside him, a quiet parasite chewed on him. He couldn't. He couldn't do the things he's suppressed, shouldn't. 

It was only an invitation for trouble and heartbreak. 

Oliver deserved better. James knew that whole-heartedly. 

Back in Dellecher, James had always preened at the attention Oliver gave him. He had taken it for granted, had tried to keep every second of it all to himself. He had been greedy. Now, it seemed like taking more was only disrespect to Oliver. 

“James?” Oliver's voice grounded him. “Are you okay?”

James looked back down. Oliver's previous demeanor had been struck down with concern. He sniffed, suddenly aware of the way his eyes stung.

“Yeah. I'm fine,” his voice shook. 

Oliver's frown only deepened. “What's wrong? Did I do something–?”

“You didn't do anything,” James whispered, rubbing his face after he put down the scissors. “I'm fine, trust me.”

Oliver faltered. “I'm sorry, you must be disgusted–"

“What? No–!”

Oliver was rising from the floor, a hand running across his cheek. “Asking you to do this was a mistake–”

James blanched. “A mistake?”

Oliver froze for a second. “No, no, that's not what I meant! No, I mean, James, I can’t–”

“Don't apologize.” James clenched his fist, looking away. Embarrassment shot through as a tear managed to escape. 

Oliver snapped his jaw shut, looking helpless. He looked around, as if trying to see if anything around him could help. They were in a bathroom for Christ's sake.

James's eyes widened when Oliver sank to his knees. Oliver closed his eyes and leaned his head against James's thighs. 

“I hate it when you're sad,” Oliver admits quietly. His hands are now on the sides of James's legs, running up and down.

James's heart rate elevates rapidly. He sucks in a breath, focusing on the way Oliver opens his eyes and blink up in devotion.

He knew then: to Oliver, James was his god.

Holy shit.

James blinks. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck–

Another tear drops down, tickling James's cheek. A warm hand wipes it away.

“James?” 

“Oliver,” James says. He can barely hear himself with the way his blood seemed to stream up his face.

The man below him smiles. Oliver clears his throat, wiggling as he gets comfortable on his knees. 

“Is this okay?” Oliver asks, his eyes locking back onto James.

James stutters, unable to answer immediately. He just nods lamely.

“Were you upset because… of what I did earlier?” Oliver asks, his cheeks tinting pink at the mention of his earlier conduct. “You don't have to speak. Just let me know. Nod, shake your head, whatever,” he says when he sees the way James's body shakes.

James swallows the bile down and shakes his head.

Oliver hums, his eyes focused on James's clothed stomach. “Were you upset because you had to cut my hair?”

James shakes his head.

“Did it have anything to do with cutting my hair?”

No.

Oliver's hand travels up to the sides of James's thighs. He cocks his head, as if asking for permission.

Whatever it was, James just nods. All he wanted to do right now was give everything to Oliver anything he asked for.

Two large, warm hands slid up from his thighs to his hips. They squeezed gently, oddly comforting James.

“Do you want to tell me why you're upset?”

James hesitated. No.

Oliver frowns, but it quickly disappears. “Alright. That's fine. Are you mad at me?”

No.

Oliver smiles at that. “Is this okay?” He squeezes James's hips.

James nods. 

“Does touching make you uncomfortable?”

James shakes his head. He should've nodded because that would mean whatever game was going on between them would end. He should've said yes because then everything would've gone back to normal, back when all they were were friends.

Instead, he says no.

Oliver visibly brightens. His back straightens and there's a confidence in his voice that bounces off the walls.

“Do you like it when I touch you?” He asks, more boldly than before.

Something in the way Oliver is on his knees makes everything else feel insignificant. His mind is mush. Nothing else matters except Oliver.

He slowly nods his head.

Oliver's lips split into a grin. 

“Can you say it? Can you say you like me touching you?”

James nods. Why does he subject himself to further humiliation? James wishes he could say.

Oliver's eyes glimmer, as if seeing stars. “Yeah? Go on then.”

“I… I like it.” James brings a hand up to his cheek. It feels feverish. 

Oliver's smile widens, his canines glinting as his lips part. 

“Would you be okay if I kissed you right now?”

James short-circuits. Shit.

His eyes land on Oliver's lips. 

“Yes.”

The last thing James sees before he closes his eyes is the way Oliver's eyes soften.

Oliver's lips are warm. That's the first thing James thinks when they kiss.

The second thing he thinks of is that they're starving.

Oliver groans, the noise shooting down tremors in James's body. He almost falls back into the tub when Oliver pushes and deepens the kiss. He's rescued by a steady hand on his back. 

Oliver alternates between licking, nibbling, and full on biting James's lips. The mix of pleasure and seconds of pain has touch-starved James panting for more.

The kiss is everything and more, but not enough. James lets a needy whine slip out and wraps his arms around Oliver’s shoulders, scrunching up the fabric of Oliver’s new cotton shirt. 

James can smell Oliver’s chewy mints, the ones they picked up from the gas station a few days ago. He can smell the remnants of Olivers breakfast: Syruped bacon. James had told him before it’s an abomination of a breakfast meal, but Oliver had retorted it was a family tradition (which James highly doubted). He could smell puffs of orange and amber, an odd combination of shampoo and conditioner. It smelt heavenly.

Oliver doesn’t let James breathe, continuingly pushing deeper, slipping his tongue and thoroughly ravishing his keep. There’s small gasps and grunts exchanged in the little space between them and it seems to be one of the main things spurring Oliver into driving his body against James. 

When Oliver pulls away, it could've easily been a few seconds or a few hours. James is left dizzy, grabbing onto the side of the tub for stability. Had that really just happened? He lifts up a finger to his lips, his eyes unblinking at the sight of Oliver, breathless and flushed.

He feels the sensation of his finger against his numb lips. There’s a prickling over the skin of his mouth that leaves James—otherwise skeptical over what just happened—having reasonable doubt over his previous deprecating thoughts on his rose-colored lenses. 

Did that really just happen?

James must’ve said what he thought out loud because all of a sudden Oliver’s eyes soften, and then he’s taking a hold of James’s hand.

“You don’t understand how long I’ve wanted that,” Oliver says, his gaze unbreaking from James’s lips. 

James is still reeling from previous matters. Was he hallucinating? Because if so, this was certainly not the first time—

“James?”

Oliver is looking at him with concern.

“Oh…uh—”

“I didn’t read any of this wrong, did I?” Oliver looks like he’s a second away from sprinting out the door. “You—Was this a ‘caught-in-the-moment’ type thing?”

James breaks out of the spell and quickly shakes his head to placate Oliver. “No, I mean—yes—well, no, I mean, it was kind of a ‘caught-in-the-moment’ type thing, but not in the way where—”

The word vomit seems to alarm Oliver, and he quickly squeezes James’s hand in an attempt to calm the man down. 

“You’re freaking out more than I am, James. Take a breather, I know what you meant.”

James meant to ask, “You do?” but the sight of Oliver nibbling on his bottom lip, makes him shudder silently—like Oliver was trying to savor the taste of James on his lips.

Oliver huffs a small laugh, stepping back, and in doing so, sliding his hands off of James’s back a bit too quickly for the other to find his balance.

In an attempt to stay upright, James grabs at the shower curtains, but with his weight, the curtain shuffles and then— The next thing he knows, James is falling back into the tub with a yelp, and there’s a deep thunk when he hits his head on the hard tiles.

“Agh!” James groans, the rod making an unpleasant sound as it lands on his head. He thinks he might’ve heard Oliver calling out in concern, but there’s a dull ache in the place where the rod hit him.

“Shit!” Is the first thing James hears when he finally has his bearings. Oliver is looking down at him. “James! Are you alright?”

“Fuck… Hurts…” Is all he can say.

There’s another babble of curses, and then James lets out another groan as a hand snakes around his waist. The pressure of the rod is being moved away, and the curtain that had been draped over his body slides off him. He shuts his eyes, the bathroom light suddenly blinding him. He lets another undignified whine when he’s hauled up to his feet. Oliver is supporting him on his waist and his ribs, whispering motivations to get him up.

“Come on, James, let’s get you out of here.”

James complies, finding himself leaning his body weight onto Oliver. He guides his feet over the tub's side and freezes the cold tile against his bare feet. 

“Alright, let’s go,” Oliver huffs, gently nudging James toward the open door.

James whines, and he knows he sounds like a child, but he’s sure Oliver doesn’t mind. When they had roomed together, there had been a weird dynamic between the two boys: James would get whiny when he didn’t get the things he wanted, and Oliver would know he was only being dramatic but indulged him anyway.

James sighs out in relief when he feels the plush sofa underneath him. As much as he regrets pulling away from Oliver, the need to lie down overrides any sense of thought.

“James? Stay with me now, come on—”

“Hurts…”

“I know, I know. Can you tell me if you have a first aid kit? You’re bleeding.”

James moans, a hand slapping over his forehead. Then, he feels it. Warm, sticky blood, seeping out from a cut on his head. He frowns, feeling around the tender soreness on his head, and maps out the injury. When he pulls his fingers away, he’s less than surprised when he sees a red mess.

“James? The aid kit?” Oliver asks a little more impatiently.

James motions toward the kitchen languidly. “Under the cabinet… sink...”

He hears Oliver mutter to himself, but he doesn’t keep his eyes open to watch as the other man stalks toward the kitchen.

It’s only a few seconds until James feels the mattress dip beside him. He cracks open an eye, peeking at Oliver who’s fussing the aid kit open.

“Trust you’re the only man that gets injured right after I kiss them,” Oliver mutters to himself. James hears the opening of a glass container.

James lets out a delirious laugh which makes Oliver shoot him an amused look.

“Shut it,” Oliver hisses, but there’s not a hint of venom in his voice. “Calm down and look at me.”

James’s laughter dies down but doesn’t go away. His body hiccups with something akin to adrenaline and endorphins. He giggles when he sees the way Oliver purses his lips.

It must’ve been the happy chemicals affecting his brain, because never in a million years would James have leaned in and stolen a peck on the lips, even if he were drunk. But that’s exactly what he did.

He pulls away and makes a kissing noise, to which Oliver almost chokes.

“James–”

James doesn’t hear it. He flops his head down against the sofa and whines incoherent complaints.

“That rod must’ve struck you real hard,” Oliver mumbles. “Come on, sit up. I got to stop the bleeding.”

James sits up reluctantly and then leans in to steal another kiss. A calloused palm presses up against his mouth before he could connect his lips with Oliver’s.

“Why?” James frowns.

“You’re bleeding. I’d rather kiss you while you’re in your right mind.”

“I’m fine, Oliver,” James sighs, kissing Oliver’s palm. “Kiss me, please.”

“No,” Oliver sighs. “Come on, cooperate with me here.”

“Please? Pretty please? With a cherry on top?”

Oliver only responds with an exasperated look.

James pulls away, pouting, but he stays still to the best of his ability. That is, with his banged up state. 

He closes his eyes when he feels a cool fabric wipe around the top of his head. The cloth quickly gets warm and red, but is switched out with a drier cloth. It’s fuzzy.

“Can we kiss after? I liked you kissing me,” James hums, his eyes closed.

“Maybe when you can handle walking by yourself, yes. I want to patch you up and then check the back of your head. From the looks of it—”

James tunes out and lets Oliver’s concern turn into pleasant white noise. He flops his head to the side when his neck aches. 

“No, no—” Oliver sighs. “Alright, I’ll work with what I can.”

James giggles when he feels a cold paste swipe over his injury. It cools the inflamed skin, making him uncharacteristically giddy.

“What’s so funny, hmm?” Oliver says absent-mindedly while he closes the cap of the salve container.

“It’s cold,” James moves a hand to touch it, but his hand is quickly restrained by the wrist.

“Don’t touch it. I still need to cover it.”

It’s followed by an itchy tissue which sticks itself around the injury. James tries to peel it off, but Oliver quickly swats his hand away.

“You have to let it heal.”

“No—”

“If you don’t, we won’t be able to kiss.”

Of course, that’s the tie-breaker for James. He lets his hand drop. Oliver stifles laughter, but it’s done very poorly. James is rewarded with a kiss on the cheek.

“Can you turn for me, James? I think you’re bruised in the back.”

James nods, and turns slowly away. He closes his eyes when he feels warm hands grope at his neck and hair. 

There’s a gentle poke at the back of his head, but the squish makes James groan.

“I can see a bit of purpling…” He hears Oliver whisper.

“It hurts.”

“I gathered. Let’s get you an ice pack…”

The mattress is lifted and there's a sudden drop in temperature as Oliver moves away. James’s eyes are shot open, his hand darting out and gripping around Oliver’s wrist.

“Stay,” he requests, and he pulls Oliver against him. He nuzzles into the warmth against him, finding himself enjoying the plush flesh of Oliver’s clothed stomach against his cheek. “Don’t need an ice pack.”

There's a deep vibration in Oliver’s belly as he laughs. James looks up to see Oliver's fond eyes on him. He preens at the attention.

“Stay with me,” James whispers. He kisses the stomach, which rewards him with a strangled noise from Oliver. Wanting to hear more, he nudges the shirt over his head with his cheek and mouths the exposed skin. He lets out a moan, licking and nipping at Oliver’s skin.

There’s a hand on his hair pulling him back. 

“James…” Oliver gasps out. “Don’t… Not when you’re hurt…”

“Later?”

“Later,” Oliver promises. 

“But you’ll stay with me?”

“If that’s what you want.”

James smiles at the prospect. He pats on his thigh and watches expectantly. “Stay.”

The feeling of Oliver straddling his thigh nearly sends him into a rampage. He can see it in Oliver too, the want, the need. It would be so easy to just ignore Oliver’s previous protests and take him there, on the sofa…

“You’ve changed a lot, James,” Oliver whispers. There’s a hand caressing his hair.

“You’re going to make me acquire some kind of… hair kink. Hand kink? Is that what you’re talking about? My new kinks?”

“Shut up,” Oliver groans. “No, I’m not talking about your kinks. I didn’t even know you had kinks…”

James hums.

“No, I was just… I was talking about before and after my arrest.”

James feels a quick sobering effect wash over him. He blinks out of the haze and looks up. The mention of Oliver’s arrest makes him… well, it makes me feel a lot of things.

“How so?” James frowns.

Oliver contemplates for a moment. “Well, for one, you frown a lot,” He muses while a thumb strokes in between James’s eyebrows. “You used to smile a lot before…” and then there’s two fingers pinching his cheeks.

“Ow.” James’s voice is altered from the cheek-pinching, so really, he kind of sounds like a duck.

“And you’re much more quiet,” Oliver notes. The pinching is gone, but it’s replaced with a thumb stroking his lips. He kisses the pad of Oliver’s finger.

“What else?” James murmurs against the thumb.

“Hm,” Oliver hums. “You’ve gotten more… rugged.”

James laughs. “Rugged?”

“Yeah… I mean, you still had your baby face when you hit twenty-two. Barely an armpit hair on you.”

“What if I had shaved?”

“I dormed with you for four years. I think I would’ve known if you shaved.”

James huffs. “Should I start shaving more frequently? Do you like my baby face?

Oliver kisses the top of his hair. “It’s good. They’re not bad changes. Well, maybe the first one is, but it’s kind of sexy.”

James lets out a small whimper.

“Oh, and you’re much more sensitive,” Oliver teases. “Always so easy to rile up.”

James responds with a tweak at the fat of Oliver’s hips, The other lets out a squeak.

“Alright, I’ll stop with the teasing,” Oliver sighs in defeat. He slumps against James, who’s eager to hold him closer.

James doesn’t think he minds the pressure of Oliver’s body against him. In fact, he had craved it day after day before, and now he was finally feeding.

There’s a lapse of silence as drowsiness overtakes both men.

“I might fall asleep like this,” Oliver admits.

“Mhm.”

“We should go to bed. Our respective beds, I mean.”

“Mhm.”

“If we stay here, we’ll get cramps.”

“Mm…”

“And then you’ll wake up with a killer headache.”

“Don’t care.”

“Hmm.”

The puffs of hot air against James’s neck slows, and that’s when he knows he’s caught Oliver. He closes his eyes, unable to keep the smile off his face.

“I love you.”

…

“I love you too, James.”

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟