[ Silence stretches between them after Connor's done. Oliver sits upright in bed, as awake as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over his head, and stares at a square of silver light on the wall as he processes. Each new piece of information had been more shocking than the last until he just didn't know where to begin to respond.
His mouth moves without permission from his brain. ]
You brought me flowers...?
[ His voice sounds small and faraway. He can't even imagine Connor with flowers in his hands, but when he tries (white lilies like he said) and imagines him standing outside Oliver's door with them, looking like a hopeful puppy, it wreaks havoc on his heart.
Before he can dwell on it, his mind jumps to the next thing Connor said—your new boyfriend—and he figures out pretty quickly who Connor's talking about. Unlike Connor, he doesn't have a long history of hook-ups to comb through. The night after he kicked Connor out, he'd dreaded the thought of going back to the place where it all happened (unsustainable in the long run, he knew), so he'd gone out instead. Not to the bar his coworkers liked to go after work (where he met Connor), but to one closer to his apartment. It wasn't nearly as upscale as the other place but knowing Connor would most likely never step foot inside it was somehow a comfort.
Oliver knew he stood out in his suit, and probably not in a good way, but he hadn't been looking for anything more than to drink and wallow alone. For a while, he'd done just that. He'd been about to call it a night when the bartender set a fourth beer in front of him and said it was from the guy on the other end of the bar.
A laugh finally wrenches free from his throat, sounding thin and incredulous. ]
He's not my boyfriend, Connor. And you— Why didn't you tell me?
[ In that stretch of silence, Connor doesn't know what to do. Maybe he fucked it up? Maybe Oliver doesn't believe him? Who would, though, really? He was an outrageous asshole and he knows he was. So, what logical reason would Oliver have to believe what Connor is even saying right now? Of course, there's a witness to the flowers—that dick Spatula Guy, possibly Oliver's doorman. Connor can't remember if he was paying attention or not. Maybe there's some security footage of him available. The receipt from the florist. He certainly doesn't have the flowers anymore, he'd tossed them as soon as he left the building. Why is he even thinking about proof at a time like this?? Connor's set to apologize for calling and hang up, when Oliver finally speaks.
And Connor can't read what his voice sounds like. Maybe if he were more sober he could, but right now he can't tell his ass from a hole in the ground, let alone try to navigate the intricate threads of tone of voice. He wishes he could, though. Just like he wishes he could believe that Handsome Man Who Answered The Door isn't his boyfriend. There's no other logical explanation. (Suddenly, right then, he wonders if they used that spatula during sex. It's such a bizarre thought and mental image that a strange laugh wrestles itself free from his throat, though it sounds a little too strangled to be anything remotely filled with mirth.) ]
M'telling you now! Brought you flowers.
[ His steps slow until he's standing still and he sighs again. This is so stupid. This was such a dumb, stupid mistake and he should hang up. But, he can't because he's weak and still wants to hear Oliver's voice. He knows this is the last time he'll ever hear it and he wants to indulge in being a glutton for punishment so he has something else that can echo inside his mind other than "Get out." ]
He said if I really cared about you [ and if his voice sounds a little tight, a little sarcastic, that's probably true, but it's directed at that guy and not Oliver ] that I'd leave you alone. Thought I could do it. Guess I couldn't. Doesn't mean I don't care, though. That guy— [ He hiccups, swallowing his words. They sound a little angry, rushed. ] That guy can't tell me what to do. I'm—I...
[ The words stick in his throat, like it's too difficult to get them out. Then he deflates and sounds almost defeated. ]
I'm sorry. I'm an asshole. Meant what I said, though, that day. You're more than sex.
[ The thing is, though, Oliver does believe him. It doesn't sound like Connor's brand of manipulation. Sounds like a lot of trouble to go through for someone just so they'll keep illegally hacking things for you. There have to be at least a dozen other guys in IT Connor could seduce into helping him instead. And then he'd have one more notch in his belt, and that's the part he really seems to enjoy.
Basically, his acting out of character is grounds for Oliver to believe him. Unless he's just really that desperate.
There's really only one way to find out. Oliver shouldn't still be on the phone, he shouldn't be trying to have a serious conversation with Connor when he's this drunk, but he can't help hanging on every word. His chest aches at the way Connor's voice sounds, the raw emotion underlying his words. When he gets to the last part, though, for a bright, painful moment Oliver relives the betrayal and humiliation of the first time Connor said it. ("You're more than sex.""I like you, actually.") He gives a short, sharp laugh. ]
Right. I was also your tech support.
[ When he swallows, he tastes bitterness on the back of his throat. ]
Look. About... that guy. He— [ Pathetically, his voice wavers and he takes a moment to collect himself. He can feel his heartbeat in his throat. ] It wasn't his place to say any of that.
[ But he was right, and Oliver doesn't know if he's more annoyed or grateful. ]
[ If it was manipulation, it's an entirely new brand of it. Maybe he should incorporate it. If he were of mind and cared enough to do it. But he's not, so he's not even giving it a second thought. He did that for Oliver because he actually felt sorry.
Still feels.
Actually.
He can at least tell that the laugh isn't one of amusement, but pain and Connor knows that's his fault, but he's already forgotten why. Just knows that the sound sits on his shoulders as heavy as any other guilty burden. ]
I liked you doing it, though. Liked watching you do it. You get this look on your face... [ A strange sigh escapes him. On anyone else it might have sounded content or dreamy. On Connor it just sounds out of place. ] It was cute. Is.
[ Connor starts walking again and trips over his own two feet, uttering a curse under his breath before he rights himself. ]
I don't... [ know; he doesn't know anything ] Probably not his place but somebody had to, right? [ His breathing is a little shallow and he feels like he's on the verge of having some sort of weird mental breakdown. Over a guy. Who the fuck even is he anymore?? ] Sorry. Sorry, I shouldn't have called. I should've left you alone. Because I do care about you. Don't know how to handle that or what to do with it.
[ His hand cards through his hair and he curses under his breath again. ]
I should go. Sorry. For everything. For waking you up.
[ A smile tugs on the corner of Oliver's lips and almost takes hold at Connor's confession. It's stupid. He shouldn't care so much when Connor clearly never did. (Though he seems to now; if he cared before, he had a funny way of showing it.) Oliver presses his thumb and fingers into his eyes, like he can press the telltale prickling heat behind them back into his skull, and then drags his hand down his face.
The longer he stays on the phone, the more confused he gets.
He counts the number of times Connor has apologized (four, so far) and it's more times than he ever expected to hear it after the first few days of radio silence. A drunk apology isn't the most ideal kind, but it does something to Oliver anyway. Or maybe it's not the apologies, but the shallow breathing and the desperate edge to Connor's voice that's doing it, that's breaking down his defenses.
He shouldn't have answered the phone.
But as Connor prepares to hang up, panic seizes Oliver's chest. ]
Wait, Connor. Seriously, where are you? [ He didn't get an answer the first time, either because Connor hadn't wanted to give one or hadn't heard him. But despite everything, Oliver still wants to make sure he's safe. ]
[ That's the problem, he does have a funny way of showing he cares. He doesn't know how. He's told himself a million times that it doesn't matter and he doesn't need to be in a relationship. He's a hot red-blooded American male in the prime of his life! Why shouldn't he fuck around while he's still able?? He should be mad at Oliver for coming in and fucking it all up, for making him think that maybe a boyfriend wouldn't mean the end of the world.
Jesus Christ he's pathetic on every fucking level.
He shouldn't have called.
Again he stops in the middle of the sidewalk and a moment later, someone can be heard walking by and calling him an asshole for stopping short in front of them. But, he doesn't pay it any mind. Instead, Connor just glances around, recognizing where he is but also not really. ]
Outside.
[ In an instant, he realizes he's walking toward Oliver's place, not his own. And he just laughs, a breathless, crazy thing, that probably just makes him sound more like a lunatic than he already does. ]
M'going home. [ He casts a strange, forlorn look down the street before turning around and backtracking. ] Home.
[ Honestly? There's nothing wrong with fucking around. Even Oliver thinks so. And it would've been fine, if it had just been the one or two times it happened between them. But when Connor kept coming over, bringing him dinner, confiding in him, making him think he generally cared and insinuating himself in Oliver's life, then it became a problem.
Oliver thought they actually had something, until he realized he was just another in a string of hook-ups whose tech skills Connor found useful in a pinch. He was no more special than that Pax guy (Oliver doesn't want to think ill of him, since he killed himself and all, he feels bad), the only difference being he'd been smart enough to play Connor right back.
He frowns at the voice in the background, as much as at the unhelpful response. He's half-tempted to use the phone's GPS to pinpoint Connor's exact location (make sure he really gets home safe and doesn't fall asleep on some park bench), but that sounds crazy even to his tired and emotionally wrung-out brain. ]
Hey. I don't know where you are exactly, but... you can crash here if you want.
[ Apparently, inviting his completely wasted ex over isn't crazy. (It definitely is.) As soon as the words are out, he winces and palms his forehead, trying to convince himself he only did it out of concern for Connor's safety and not some other reason. ]
[ That's how it started, no question. Oliver was meant to be just another body in an endless string of random hookups. That's it. No more. Then Connor realized Oliver could be pretty useful in his climb to the top of Keating's class and get that damnable trophy. So, he'd come back a few times with a smug smile and a heated look in his eyes, murmured words of empty promises and poison on his tongue with every kiss.
But somewhere between here and there, the path split. It deviated from his original plan and Connor got comfortable with Oliver. It was nice, really. Nice in a way he never expected and Connor was the one who got too comfortable, thinking he could continue to fuck around on the side like he always had while still keeping nice, comfortable Oliver in the forefront. He got greedy; he wanted that cake and wanted to eat it, too.
Something warm bursts inside his heart and he wonders, in that moment, if it's some sort of stroke or something. It's difficult to recognize it as hope, even though that's exactly what it is. Even though he knows the offer means nothing. He wants to say yes, he wants to say it immediately, and yet again he stops on the sidewalk, turning around to face the direction he was traveling before. As if he could squint hard enough and see Oliver's apartment from here even though it's still three more blocks away.
A shaky exhale that he doesn't even recognize as his tumbles out over his lips before he swallows thickly and tips his head back to stare at the sky. ]
Why are you doing this?
[ The words are strained against his throat, quiet, under his breath. As if it's Oliver's fault that Connor called him and initiated contact between them again. As if he expected anything less than something sweet offered after the snark and anger. He's an idiot. But so is Connor.
He rights himself, but still stands there while his heart wrestles with the last cognizant sliver of his brain. ]
I'm three blocks away.
[ It's an out. Oliver can change his mind. But Connor's hoping he's not going to. ]
[ He recognizes the out, but even as he contemplates it he knows, deep down, he's not going to take it. Not after making the offer in the first place. And not after receiving the confirmation that Connor is, in fact, closer to Oliver's place than to his own.
He doesn't stop to dwell on the implications of that. Raking his hand through his hair, he sighs. ]
Because. [ He says it like it should be obvious, like it's Connor's fault he's even doing this (which it totally is). ] You drunk-called me at one o'clock in the morning, you don't sound that great, and now I'm— worried! I'm mad at you, sure, but—
[ He takes a deep breath, and as he exhales his shoulders slump in defeat and his voice softens. ]
I still care about you.
[ Idiot. ]
So, just, come over. [ There's an unspoken please hanging off the end of his words. ]
[ To be fair, they don't live that far apart. (Apparently? idefk.) So it's not completely out of the ordinary to go to a bar nearby because that's also close to his own. The reason he was heading toward Oliver's instead of his own apartment is simple. He just wasn't paying attention and missed the turn. That's all. Totally simple. No hidden meaning or anything.
Besides desperation.
But that's not really much of a secret either.
Before he even realizes it, he's walking again, toward Oliver's place (again) instead of his own. What a jackass. This will probably turn out to be a terrible idea. He's not even sure right now if he can control himself the moment he sees Oliver. But, he also kind of doesn't care and the thought makes him a little bit giddy. ]
What'd'you mean? I sound fine.
[ He doesn't, but Connor doesn't realize that. And right now he doesn't care. Tomorrow he might. But fuck tomorrow. Tonight he's got this. And "this" is Oliver admitting he still cares and inviting him over to his apartment. Even though Hot Spatula Guy With The Arms is his new boyfriend.
[ It might turn out to be a terrible idea (it definitely will), but Oliver would feel better knowing Connor's safe rather than lying face down in a ditch somewhere. Okay, so that probably wouldn't have happened, but it's one in the morning and the worst-case scenarios running through his brain would've kept him up for the rest of the night.
Besides, he's wide awake now. It might not be any easier to go back to sleep with Connor in his apartment (on the couch where Oliver's going to put him), but at least he'll have peace of mind.
Or so he's telling himself.
Swinging his legs to the floor, he flicks on the lamp beside his bed and squints at the sudden brightness. ]
Because— I'm not a total dick? [ That's part of the reason. He utters a self-deprecating laugh, leaning his elbows on his knees and hanging his head between his shoulders. His next words are quieter, muttered, like he's speaking to himself. ] And I'm probably out of my mind.
[ No, shh, it's a great idea. It's a great idea because it's giving Connor a strange hope fluttering around in his insides. Hope is a weird thing; he's hard-pressed to remember the last time he actually felt hope. Probably when he was just a kid and didn't know any better or how the world actually worked. Once he got old enough, he definitely learned his lesson.
But, now Oliver's giving it to him—probably without even realizing it—and Connor is greedily going to eat it up.
He's clutching his phone as if it's a lifeline, wanting to pick up on every last little detail. Though, that's a little difficult what with how fast he's actually walking and beginning to breathe a little heavier. So, he almost misses that last part. But, he hears enough to wager a guess. ]
Little bit, maybe. For both. [ He laughs a little, sounding as if it was startled right out of him. ] But I like it. You. Like you.
[ He really shouldn't be giving Connor hope after he crushed Oliver's. But, honestly, Oliver just doesn't have a vindictive bone in his body, or if he does it's really small. Like a pinky bone.
It's also possible that he really does want to see Connor. He knows he shouldn't. Antoine (because that's the name I'm giving Handsome Man) told him as much, and he knew he was right. It's his voice (that smooth baritone voice that honestly gave him shivers even if he couldn't offer more) he hears in his head now, telling him what a mistake he's making.
Connor's laugh (familiar-sounding) breaks over the phone, and Oliver tunes the other voice out. If this is a mistake, it'll be the last one he makes with Connor.
A small smile curves his lips as he stands up and goes to the mirror on his wall, stupidly and for no reason at all checking his hair to make sure it's not sticking up. (It's not.) When he sees his expression, the smile falls. ]
Actually, right?
[ It doesn't come out quite like he intended, sounding less heated or bitter and more affectionate, if a little sad. And hurt. ]
[ And that's why people like Oliver get used by people like Connor. He's too nice, too open, too everything any smart person would want as the other half of their relationship. Connor isn't nice, definitely too closed off, and any sane person wouldn't want him. Well, in terms of a relationship. They'd want him based solely on superficial reasons alone. For so long he's been fine with that.
And yet...
His pace slows a little when he hears Oliver's tone. Even like this he can hear the hurt twisted within each letter of that godforsaken word. Things he wishes he could take back. But, it's been put out there and there's little he can do now except maybe try to make up for it. If Oliver lets him. If this one time turns into another and maybe another and another after that. It's that damnable hope that's got him locked up and locked down. ]
Actually. Literally. Absolutely. For real. Honestly. Proven de facto that Connor Walsh likes Oliver Hampton.
[ The hazards of being too nice and too open are very real, Oliver's experienced them numerous times now at this point in his life, but he keeps letting people in anyway. Maybe he should learn, but he can't help it. At first the thing with Connor might've been just superficial, and maybe Oliver went along with it because he liked the attention, liked feeling wanted.
But somewhere along the way, it became something more. He began to see other facets of Connor aside from being hot and charming and really good at sex. He wound up liking him, a lot, and he thought it was mutual until.. Until.
His chest tightens to the point of aching—in a good or bad way, he can't tell—at the confession. The drunken confession. Connor probably won't even remember saying it in the morning.
There's a question on the tip of Oliver's tongue, one he's been wanting to ask ever since the night he kicked Connor out, but he doesn't want to ask it on the phone. He doesn't want to hate the answer and regret inviting Connor over, which he might wind up doing anyway but as of right now he doesn't. He's a little anxious, though, which is why he's pacing his living room, turning on the light, as he keeps the phone pressed to his ear. ]
Proven, huh? [ A wry smile twists his lips as he walks to a bookshelf and adjusts the bookend for no reason. ] Just... get here in one piece. Okay?
[ That's the thing. It was mutual. Is, maybe. Connor doesn't know right now. For sure, at least, as he's still questioning Spatula Guy with the Voice and the Arms and the Broad Shoulders. He knows what Oliver said (he remembers it right now), but he also is having a little trouble taking that as fact. Would just a friend say something like that? Connor has no idea, he hasn't been in a situation like this before.
It's true—it's a very real and true thing that Connor is drunk right now. Very much so. But, he's going to remember this conversation. He's going to remember everything with an excruciating clarity that he won't want to have. That'll get followed up rather quickly with embarrassment, then possibly denial if he feels like it. Definitely all depends on how the night's going to go. ]
Don't hang up.
[ The request is blurted out before Connor even realizes he said anything. As nervous as he'd felt calling Oliver, it's nothing compared to right now. A thread of fear winds around his heart that if they hang up now, Oliver will come to his senses in the next few minutes that it takes to get to his apartment and when Connor gets there, he won't let him in.
That can't happen. ]
I'm almost there. Just... I want to hear you. Still.
[ He wasn't lying when he said "Spatula Guy" wasn't his boyfriend. Right now Oliver feels just confident enough to call him a friend. And maybe he opened up to him more than he should have, but a) he never expected Connor and Antoine to actually meet, b) when he stopped them in the middle of making-out, he had to give a reason why, and c) Antoine was so sweet and understanding, once Oliver started talking about it he just kept going, like water through a broken dam. He may have let Connor's name slip a few times.
He's still hung up on Connor. That much is obvious. Antoine knew it, and Oliver knows it, no matter how much he tries to deny it, hoping one day it'll be true. It's like some kind of weird role reversal now that Connor's the one sounding drunk and needy, practically (but not explicitly) begging Oliver not to hang up on him. Never in a million years did Oliver think he'd find himself on the other side of things.
He trails a fingertip down the spine of a book on Java script, listening to Connor breathe on the other end. ]
[ If Connor were a different sort of guy, he could use this as a means of manipulation. He could seriously be a huge asshole and play the poor begging type to get the other guy to feel sorry for him and get whatever he wanted from it.
But, he's not that bad. And he wouldn't do it to Oliver.
Probably.
Even if they did start out as strange bedfellows.
He laughs, the sound breathless if not a little ridiculous. He knows he's being that right now but he also can't stop himself. Doesn't even know if he would were he able. Everything just feels like it's hinging on this last stretch. As if he doesn't play his cards right, there won't be anything and things will continue to be strained between them until Connor moves on—since apparently Oliver already did.
Maybe.
The last block, Connor babbles about nothing. By the time he reaches the door to Oliver's apartment building, he has no idea what the fuck he just talked about for the last three minutes. His breathing is strained as he takes the stairs two at a time and then he's there. Right outside 303. His heart is beating a wild rhythm in his chest and it sort of makes him feel a little sick. For an entire minute he doesn't say anything, just stares at the numbers on the door. Then, finally, he raises his hand to knock while speaking quietly into the phone. ]
I'm here. Which you probably knew since I knocked. But.
[ Open and trusting though he may be, part of Oliver is wondering if this is all a ploy to wring forgiveness out of him. That small, distrustful part might always be there from now on in his dealings with Connor, even if they get on good terms again. But, if Connor's faking it all now, well. Oliver would never speak to him again, but he'd also tip his hat off to him for an impeccable performance.
As he listens to Connor's rambling, responding here and there, it hits him how much he missed hearing his voice. More than that, he misses hearing it and not associating it with the sting of betrayal and humiliation.
He can't imagine how it's going to feel seeing him again, but he supposes he's about to find out. ]
Hold on.
[ Finally, he hangs up, the side of his face warm where the phone was pressed against it. When he opens the door, he discovers seeing Connor's face is nothing but a punch to the heart. All the feelings he's ever had for him, the good and the bad, hit him square in the chest at the velocity of a pro pitcher's baseball.
His mouth moves on autopilot. ]
Come on. [ He steps back so Connor can enter. One hand is still on the door, grounding him, like he's the one who's drunk. ]
[ A second before the door opens, a moment of clarity hits Connor hard in the back of the head. He shouldn't be here. At all. And he almost turns tail and runs, just to get out of here and attempt to get some sanity filtering back in his mind. So when the door does open, he looks a little like a deer caught in headlights, the phone still being held against his ear; frozen in that moment in time.
He feels something squeeze tight around his lungs and his heart, a vice grip that makes it hard to breathe. It passes soon enough—or, rather, he forces it away, pretends it's not there and pockets his phone. The cold air from outside lends to the flush of color on his nose and the apples of his cheeks. And thank god for that, because Connor feels a warmth flooding to his face and that's just stupid. ]
Hi.
[ His voice sounds too low, too tender for the moment and he averts his eyes to the floor as he walks inside the familiar space. Connor's hands itch to grab hold of Oliver and pull him in, crash their mouths together in a kiss that steals his breath before they know what's going on, but instead he just balls his hands into fists and slides them into the pockets of his jacket. If he's looking Oliver over, he'd lie about it, but he definitely is. ]
You, uh, you look good. [ . . . ] Tired. [ He exhales heavily, idly running a hand through his hair before shoving it back into the confines of the pocket. ] Shit.
[ The door closes behind Connor and the lock clicks into place. In a gesture that mirrors Connor putting his fists in his pockets, Oliver folds his arms and tucks his fingers into the crook of his elbows. If he thought Connor might've been faking the extent of his drunkenness over the phone, seeing him in person disperses those doubts. He can even smell the alcohol on him.
But under that is a familiar scent, the one that clung to Oliver's sheets for days until he finally stripped his bed and put new ones on.
A rush of warmth sweeps him from head to toe as Connor looks him over. He wants to tell him to cut it out, but the words won't come. He gives a small smile instead. ]
Thanks. I think? It is the middle of the night. [ But his tone is teasing instead of reproachful. ] You look... [ as devastatingly attractive as always, even wind-bitten and piss-drunk; but, unlike Connor, Oliver has a filter on his mouth ] cold. And drunk off your ass.
[ Without permission, his feet take a shuffling step towards Connor. ]
[ It does absolutely nothing for his heart rate when Oliver moves closer. In fact, he gets such a terrible palpitation that he winces at the force behind it. This is ridiculous. And unfair. And stupid. Oliver shouldn't still have such a ridiculous, unfair, stupid control over his emotions like this. Least of all when he's drunk. At least sober he can ignore anything. But right now alcohol has painted his heart and his tongue with honesty.
He wets his lips and his body, too, moves before he realizes his brain gave the command. So. His hands are suddenly open and curling around Oliver's elbows. It's a mistake to touch, of course it is. But it also isn't and Connor is focusing more on that. There's a chill in his fingers, his skin leeching warmth from Oliver's; he swallows thickly as if that will somehow help him breathe easier. (It doesn't.) ]
I am those things, yes. [ One shoulder lifts in the semblance of a shrug. ] Sorry. [ He smiles a little, one corner of his mouth curling in a slight smile. It's obvious he's not apologizing for touching Oliver. ] I had. A lot. Very much.
[ There's a pause and he tips his head, looking at Oliver through his lashes. ]
[ Touching is a huge mistake, and Oliver didn't prepare for it even though he should've after partway closing the bit of distance between them. His skin jumps, his nerves tingling up and down his spine, but it might just be from Connor's cold fingers.
(He knows it's not. Not just from that.)
Despite the warning bells ringing in his head, he doesn't pull away from Connor and instead continues to stand in his personal space. He can better smell that familiar scent underlying the alcohol now, the notes of clove and musk from his cologne. He wants to lean into it until he reminds himself Connor was sleeping with other people behind his back.
It's hard to look Connor in the eye after that, especially with how he's watching him in a way Oliver knows all too well. It's a look that charmed him out of his pants—literally—on more than one occasion, and he just can't afford that right now.
He untucks his hands and slides them up Connor's arms from elbows to shoulders, and he means to put some space between them. He doesn't. He thinks about Connor drinking until he's drunk and thinking about him and bringing him flowers, and his stomach feels floaty and heavy all at once. His mouth opens to say something, but instead of the words he wanted to say, in a momentary panic he blurts- ]
I didn't invite you here to have sex. [ Snapping his mouth shut, he swallows and meets Connor's gaze again, and then continues more calmly. ] You know that, right?
[ It feels important to make that clear, to remind himself as much as Connor, with how drunk Connor is and how drunk Oliver feels standing this close to him. ]
[ To be fair, they never said they were exclusive. Oliver knew that's not what they had going on; they were never in a relationship. That's Connor's defense and he'll cling to it until the last dying embers fade away. The guilt is something he struggles with every single day, but he ignores that. Because... because. He doesn't do boyfriends.
Even if that's exactly what Oliver should've been.
Oliver's touching him and he's beginning to hate that he's still wearing his jacket. That should've been taken off already. It's warm in the apartment and getting warmer because Oliver isn't pushing him away like he should. That little flicker of hope is doing its certifiable best to make sure Connor is paying attention to it. ]
I know that.
[ And he does. Connor might be nursing that small hope fire that's still alive and well in the pit of his stomach, but he's not entirely stupid. He's not that drunk.
Almost. But not fully.
There's only a second wasted as he withdraws his hands long enough to shrug out of his jacket, uncaring as it falls to the floor by his feet; his eyes never leave Oliver's face. A second later, he's reaching for Oliver's hands—one of which his fingers curl around a wrist, the other, Oliver's fingers. It's used as leverage to pull them closer together. Connor knows he's treading on dangerous grounds here and runs the risk of for real being thrown out (again), but the alcohol is pushing him to be a little more daring. Slowly, his thumb rubs against the side of Oliver's wrist; his voice is still low, a murmur of a sound that's wrapped a little too closely with heat. ]
Tell me no now. Otherwise I'm going to kiss you on the mouth. [ a beat ] Now. Right. Now.
[ Right. They never said they were exclusive, and Oliver was an idiot for believing otherwise. He's to blame for his own humiliation. He saw the signs but he denied them until they were right in front of his face and he couldn't deny them anymore, just like he couldn't deny that it broke his heart.
But he doesn't have to let it happen again.
He's not going to let it happen again.
Except Connor makes it difficult to think when he takes off his jacket (like a prelude to the thing Oliver explicitly said they're not doing) and grabs Oliver's hands. The warning bells ring louder, but he's paralyzed. His pulse is beating fast under Connor's thumb, jumping every time it passes over his wrist. The sound of his voice is heady and enticing, drawing him in like it's done a dozen times before, but he won't. He can't do this again. ]
Connor.
[ It comes out breathless and rough around the edges with a sad, helpless strain woven deep in the fabric. ]
I already told you— [ he wants to, god he wants to, but he can't, he can't he can't he can't ] no.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
His mouth moves without permission from his brain. ]
You brought me flowers...?
[ His voice sounds small and faraway. He can't even imagine Connor with flowers in his hands, but when he tries (white lilies like he said) and imagines him standing outside Oliver's door with them, looking like a hopeful puppy, it wreaks havoc on his heart.
Before he can dwell on it, his mind jumps to the next thing Connor said—your new boyfriend—and he figures out pretty quickly who Connor's talking about. Unlike Connor, he doesn't have a long history of hook-ups to comb through. The night after he kicked Connor out, he'd dreaded the thought of going back to the place where it all happened (unsustainable in the long run, he knew), so he'd gone out instead. Not to the bar his coworkers liked to go after work (where he met Connor), but to one closer to his apartment. It wasn't nearly as upscale as the other place but knowing Connor would most likely never step foot inside it was somehow a comfort.
Oliver knew he stood out in his suit, and probably not in a good way, but he hadn't been looking for anything more than to drink and wallow alone. For a while, he'd done just that. He'd been about to call it a night when the bartender set a fourth beer in front of him and said it was from the guy on the other end of the bar.
A laugh finally wrenches free from his throat, sounding thin and incredulous. ]
He's not my boyfriend, Connor. And you— Why didn't you tell me?
no subject
And Connor can't read what his voice sounds like. Maybe if he were more sober he could, but right now he can't tell his ass from a hole in the ground, let alone try to navigate the intricate threads of tone of voice. He wishes he could, though. Just like he wishes he could believe that Handsome Man Who Answered The Door isn't his boyfriend. There's no other logical explanation. (Suddenly, right then, he wonders if they used that spatula during sex. It's such a bizarre thought and mental image that a strange laugh wrestles itself free from his throat, though it sounds a little too strangled to be anything remotely filled with mirth.) ]
M'telling you now! Brought you flowers.
[ His steps slow until he's standing still and he sighs again. This is so stupid. This was such a dumb, stupid mistake and he should hang up. But, he can't because he's weak and still wants to hear Oliver's voice. He knows this is the last time he'll ever hear it and he wants to indulge in being a glutton for punishment so he has something else that can echo inside his mind other than "Get out." ]
He said if I really cared about you [ and if his voice sounds a little tight, a little sarcastic, that's probably true, but it's directed at that guy and not Oliver ] that I'd leave you alone. Thought I could do it. Guess I couldn't. Doesn't mean I don't care, though. That guy— [ He hiccups, swallowing his words. They sound a little angry, rushed. ] That guy can't tell me what to do. I'm—I...
[ The words stick in his throat, like it's too difficult to get them out. Then he deflates and sounds almost defeated. ]
I'm sorry. I'm an asshole. Meant what I said, though, that day. You're more than sex.
no subject
Basically, his acting out of character is grounds for Oliver to believe him. Unless he's just really that desperate.
There's really only one way to find out. Oliver shouldn't still be on the phone, he shouldn't be trying to have a serious conversation with Connor when he's this drunk, but he can't help hanging on every word. His chest aches at the way Connor's voice sounds, the raw emotion underlying his words. When he gets to the last part, though, for a bright, painful moment Oliver relives the betrayal and humiliation of the first time Connor said it. ("You're more than sex." "I like you, actually.") He gives a short, sharp laugh. ]
Right. I was also your tech support.
[ When he swallows, he tastes bitterness on the back of his throat. ]
Look. About... that guy. He— [ Pathetically, his voice wavers and he takes a moment to collect himself. He can feel his heartbeat in his throat. ] It wasn't his place to say any of that.
[ But he was right, and Oliver doesn't know if he's more annoyed or grateful. ]
no subject
Still feels.
Actually.
He can at least tell that the laugh isn't one of amusement, but pain and Connor knows that's his fault, but he's already forgotten why. Just knows that the sound sits on his shoulders as heavy as any other guilty burden. ]
I liked you doing it, though. Liked watching you do it. You get this look on your face... [ A strange sigh escapes him. On anyone else it might have sounded content or dreamy. On Connor it just sounds out of place. ] It was cute. Is.
[ Connor starts walking again and trips over his own two feet, uttering a curse under his breath before he rights himself. ]
I don't... [ know; he doesn't know anything ] Probably not his place but somebody had to, right? [ His breathing is a little shallow and he feels like he's on the verge of having some sort of weird mental breakdown. Over a guy. Who the fuck even is he anymore?? ] Sorry. Sorry, I shouldn't have called. I should've left you alone. Because I do care about you. Don't know how to handle that or what to do with it.
[ His hand cards through his hair and he curses under his breath again. ]
I should go. Sorry. For everything. For waking you up.
no subject
The longer he stays on the phone, the more confused he gets.
He counts the number of times Connor has apologized (four, so far) and it's more times than he ever expected to hear it after the first few days of radio silence. A drunk apology isn't the most ideal kind, but it does something to Oliver anyway. Or maybe it's not the apologies, but the shallow breathing and the desperate edge to Connor's voice that's doing it, that's breaking down his defenses.
He shouldn't have answered the phone.
But as Connor prepares to hang up, panic seizes Oliver's chest. ]
Wait, Connor. Seriously, where are you? [ He didn't get an answer the first time, either because Connor hadn't wanted to give one or hadn't heard him. But despite everything, Oliver still wants to make sure he's safe. ]
no subject
Jesus Christ he's pathetic on every fucking level.
He shouldn't have called.
Again he stops in the middle of the sidewalk and a moment later, someone can be heard walking by and calling him an asshole for stopping short in front of them. But, he doesn't pay it any mind. Instead, Connor just glances around, recognizing where he is but also not really. ]
Outside.
[ In an instant, he realizes he's walking toward Oliver's place, not his own. And he just laughs, a breathless, crazy thing, that probably just makes him sound more like a lunatic than he already does. ]
M'going home. [ He casts a strange, forlorn look down the street before turning around and backtracking. ] Home.
[ He breathes deeply again, in and out. ]
I should go.
no subject
Oliver thought they actually had something, until he realized he was just another in a string of hook-ups whose tech skills Connor found useful in a pinch. He was no more special than that Pax guy (Oliver doesn't want to think ill of him, since he killed himself and all, he feels bad), the only difference being he'd been smart enough to play Connor right back.
He frowns at the voice in the background, as much as at the unhelpful response. He's half-tempted to use the phone's GPS to pinpoint Connor's exact location (make sure he really gets home safe and doesn't fall asleep on some park bench), but that sounds crazy even to his tired and emotionally wrung-out brain. ]
Hey. I don't know where you are exactly, but... you can crash here if you want.
[ Apparently, inviting his completely wasted ex over isn't crazy. (It definitely is.) As soon as the words are out, he winces and palms his forehead, trying to convince himself he only did it out of concern for Connor's safety and not some other reason. ]
no subject
But somewhere between here and there, the path split. It deviated from his original plan and Connor got comfortable with Oliver. It was nice, really. Nice in a way he never expected and Connor was the one who got too comfortable, thinking he could continue to fuck around on the side like he always had while still keeping nice, comfortable Oliver in the forefront. He got greedy; he wanted that cake and wanted to eat it, too.
Something warm bursts inside his heart and he wonders, in that moment, if it's some sort of stroke or something. It's difficult to recognize it as hope, even though that's exactly what it is. Even though he knows the offer means nothing. He wants to say yes, he wants to say it immediately, and yet again he stops on the sidewalk, turning around to face the direction he was traveling before. As if he could squint hard enough and see Oliver's apartment from here even though it's still three more blocks away.
A shaky exhale that he doesn't even recognize as his tumbles out over his lips before he swallows thickly and tips his head back to stare at the sky. ]
Why are you doing this?
[ The words are strained against his throat, quiet, under his breath. As if it's Oliver's fault that Connor called him and initiated contact between them again. As if he expected anything less than something sweet offered after the snark and anger. He's an idiot. But so is Connor.
He rights himself, but still stands there while his heart wrestles with the last cognizant sliver of his brain. ]
I'm three blocks away.
[ It's an out. Oliver can change his mind. But Connor's hoping he's not going to. ]
no subject
He doesn't stop to dwell on the implications of that. Raking his hand through his hair, he sighs. ]
Because. [ He says it like it should be obvious, like it's Connor's fault he's even doing this (which it totally is). ] You drunk-called me at one o'clock in the morning, you don't sound that great, and now I'm— worried! I'm mad at you, sure, but—
[ He takes a deep breath, and as he exhales his shoulders slump in defeat and his voice softens. ]
I still care about you.
[ Idiot. ]
So, just, come over. [ There's an unspoken please hanging off the end of his words. ]
no subject
Besides desperation.
But that's not really much of a secret either.
Before he even realizes it, he's walking again, toward Oliver's place (again) instead of his own. What a jackass. This will probably turn out to be a terrible idea. He's not even sure right now if he can control himself the moment he sees Oliver. But, he also kind of doesn't care and the thought makes him a little bit giddy. ]
What'd'you mean? I sound fine.
[ He doesn't, but Connor doesn't realize that. And right now he doesn't care. Tomorrow he might. But fuck tomorrow. Tonight he's got this. And "this" is Oliver admitting he still cares and inviting him over to his apartment. Even though Hot Spatula Guy With The Arms is his new boyfriend.
That means something, doesn't it? ]
Why do you care?
no subject
Besides, he's wide awake now. It might not be any easier to go back to sleep with Connor in his apartment (on the couch where Oliver's going to put him), but at least he'll have peace of mind.
Or so he's telling himself.
Swinging his legs to the floor, he flicks on the lamp beside his bed and squints at the sudden brightness. ]
Because— I'm not a total dick? [ That's part of the reason. He utters a self-deprecating laugh, leaning his elbows on his knees and hanging his head between his shoulders. His next words are quieter, muttered, like he's speaking to himself. ] And I'm probably out of my mind.
[ That's the more accurate reason. ]
no subject
But, now Oliver's giving it to him—probably without even realizing it—and Connor is greedily going to eat it up.
He's clutching his phone as if it's a lifeline, wanting to pick up on every last little detail. Though, that's a little difficult what with how fast he's actually walking and beginning to breathe a little heavier. So, he almost misses that last part. But, he hears enough to wager a guess. ]
Little bit, maybe. For both. [ He laughs a little, sounding as if it was startled right out of him. ] But I like it. You. Like you.
no subject
It's also possible that he really does want to see Connor. He knows he shouldn't. Antoine (
because that's the name I'm giving Handsome Man) told him as much, and he knew he was right. It's his voice (that smooth baritone voice that honestly gave him shivers even if he couldn't offer more) he hears in his head now, telling him what a mistake he's making.Connor's laugh (familiar-sounding) breaks over the phone, and Oliver tunes the other voice out. If this is a mistake, it'll be the last one he makes with Connor.
A small smile curves his lips as he stands up and goes to the mirror on his wall, stupidly and for no reason at all checking his hair to make sure it's not sticking up. (It's not.) When he sees his expression, the smile falls. ]
Actually, right?
[ It doesn't come out quite like he intended, sounding less heated or bitter and more affectionate, if a little sad. And hurt. ]
no subject
And yet...
His pace slows a little when he hears Oliver's tone. Even like this he can hear the hurt twisted within each letter of that godforsaken word. Things he wishes he could take back. But, it's been put out there and there's little he can do now except maybe try to make up for it. If Oliver lets him. If this one time turns into another and maybe another and another after that. It's that damnable hope that's got him locked up and locked down. ]
Actually. Literally. Absolutely. For real. Honestly. Proven de facto that Connor Walsh likes Oliver Hampton.
no subject
But somewhere along the way, it became something more. He began to see other facets of Connor aside from being hot and charming and really good at sex. He wound up liking him, a lot, and he thought it was mutual until.. Until.
His chest tightens to the point of aching—in a good or bad way, he can't tell—at the confession. The drunken confession. Connor probably won't even remember saying it in the morning.
There's a question on the tip of Oliver's tongue, one he's been wanting to ask ever since the night he kicked Connor out, but he doesn't want to ask it on the phone. He doesn't want to hate the answer and regret inviting Connor over, which he might wind up doing anyway but as of right now he doesn't. He's a little anxious, though, which is why he's pacing his living room, turning on the light, as he keeps the phone pressed to his ear. ]
Proven, huh? [ A wry smile twists his lips as he walks to a bookshelf and adjusts the bookend for no reason. ] Just... get here in one piece. Okay?
no subject
It's true—it's a very real and true thing that Connor is drunk right now. Very much so. But, he's going to remember this conversation. He's going to remember everything with an excruciating clarity that he won't want to have. That'll get followed up rather quickly with embarrassment, then possibly denial if he feels like it. Definitely all depends on how the night's going to go. ]
Don't hang up.
[ The request is blurted out before Connor even realizes he said anything. As nervous as he'd felt calling Oliver, it's nothing compared to right now. A thread of fear winds around his heart that if they hang up now, Oliver will come to his senses in the next few minutes that it takes to get to his apartment and when Connor gets there, he won't let him in.
That can't happen. ]
I'm almost there. Just... I want to hear you. Still.
no subject
He's still hung up on Connor. That much is obvious. Antoine knew it, and Oliver knows it, no matter how much he tries to deny it, hoping one day it'll be true. It's like some kind of weird role reversal now that Connor's the one sounding drunk and needy, practically (but not explicitly) begging Oliver not to hang up on him. Never in a million years did Oliver think he'd find himself on the other side of things.
He trails a fingertip down the spine of a book on Java script, listening to Connor breathe on the other end. ]
I'm not going anywhere.
[ Against his better judgement. ]
no subject
But, he's not that bad. And he wouldn't do it to Oliver.
Probably.
Even if they did start out as strange bedfellows.
He laughs, the sound breathless if not a little ridiculous. He knows he's being that right now but he also can't stop himself. Doesn't even know if he would were he able. Everything just feels like it's hinging on this last stretch. As if he doesn't play his cards right, there won't be anything and things will continue to be strained between them until Connor moves on—since apparently Oliver already did.
Maybe.
The last block, Connor babbles about nothing. By the time he reaches the door to Oliver's apartment building, he has no idea what the fuck he just talked about for the last three minutes. His breathing is strained as he takes the stairs two at a time and then he's there. Right outside 303. His heart is beating a wild rhythm in his chest and it sort of makes him feel a little sick. For an entire minute he doesn't say anything, just stares at the numbers on the door. Then, finally, he raises his hand to knock while speaking quietly into the phone. ]
I'm here. Which you probably knew since I knocked. But.
no subject
As he listens to Connor's rambling, responding here and there, it hits him how much he missed hearing his voice. More than that, he misses hearing it and not associating it with the sting of betrayal and humiliation.
He can't imagine how it's going to feel seeing him again, but he supposes he's about to find out. ]
Hold on.
[ Finally, he hangs up, the side of his face warm where the phone was pressed against it. When he opens the door, he discovers seeing Connor's face is nothing but a punch to the heart. All the feelings he's ever had for him, the good and the bad, hit him square in the chest at the velocity of a pro pitcher's baseball.
His mouth moves on autopilot. ]
Come on. [ He steps back so Connor can enter. One hand is still on the door, grounding him, like he's the one who's drunk. ]
no subject
He feels something squeeze tight around his lungs and his heart, a vice grip that makes it hard to breathe. It passes soon enough—or, rather, he forces it away, pretends it's not there and pockets his phone. The cold air from outside lends to the flush of color on his nose and the apples of his cheeks. And thank god for that, because Connor feels a warmth flooding to his face and that's just stupid. ]
Hi.
[ His voice sounds too low, too tender for the moment and he averts his eyes to the floor as he walks inside the familiar space. Connor's hands itch to grab hold of Oliver and pull him in, crash their mouths together in a kiss that steals his breath before they know what's going on, but instead he just balls his hands into fists and slides them into the pockets of his jacket. If he's looking Oliver over, he'd lie about it, but he definitely is. ]
You, uh, you look good. [ . . . ] Tired. [ He exhales heavily, idly running a hand through his hair before shoving it back into the confines of the pocket. ] Shit.
no subject
But under that is a familiar scent, the one that clung to Oliver's sheets for days until he finally stripped his bed and put new ones on.
A rush of warmth sweeps him from head to toe as Connor looks him over. He wants to tell him to cut it out, but the words won't come. He gives a small smile instead. ]
Thanks. I think? It is the middle of the night. [ But his tone is teasing instead of reproachful. ] You look... [ as devastatingly attractive as always, even wind-bitten and piss-drunk; but, unlike Connor, Oliver has a filter on his mouth ] cold. And drunk off your ass.
[ Without permission, his feet take a shuffling step towards Connor. ]
How much did you even have?
no subject
He wets his lips and his body, too, moves before he realizes his brain gave the command. So. His hands are suddenly open and curling around Oliver's elbows. It's a mistake to touch, of course it is. But it also isn't and Connor is focusing more on that. There's a chill in his fingers, his skin leeching warmth from Oliver's; he swallows thickly as if that will somehow help him breathe easier. (It doesn't.) ]
I am those things, yes. [ One shoulder lifts in the semblance of a shrug. ] Sorry. [ He smiles a little, one corner of his mouth curling in a slight smile. It's obvious he's not apologizing for touching Oliver. ] I had. A lot. Very much.
[ There's a pause and he tips his head, looking at Oliver through his lashes. ]
Couldn't stop thinking about you.
no subject
(He knows it's not. Not just from that.)
Despite the warning bells ringing in his head, he doesn't pull away from Connor and instead continues to stand in his personal space. He can better smell that familiar scent underlying the alcohol now, the notes of clove and musk from his cologne. He wants to lean into it until he reminds himself Connor was sleeping with other people behind his back.
It's hard to look Connor in the eye after that, especially with how he's watching him in a way Oliver knows all too well. It's a look that charmed him out of his pants—literally—on more than one occasion, and he just can't afford that right now.
He untucks his hands and slides them up Connor's arms from elbows to shoulders, and he means to put some space between them. He doesn't. He thinks about Connor drinking until he's drunk and thinking about him and bringing him flowers, and his stomach feels floaty and heavy all at once. His mouth opens to say something, but instead of the words he wanted to say, in a momentary panic he blurts- ]
I didn't invite you here to have sex. [ Snapping his mouth shut, he swallows and meets Connor's gaze again, and then continues more calmly. ] You know that, right?
[ It feels important to make that clear, to remind himself as much as Connor, with how drunk Connor is and how drunk Oliver feels standing this close to him. ]
no subject
Even if that's exactly what Oliver should've been.
Oliver's touching him and he's beginning to hate that he's still wearing his jacket. That should've been taken off already. It's warm in the apartment and getting warmer because Oliver isn't pushing him away like he should. That little flicker of hope is doing its certifiable best to make sure Connor is paying attention to it. ]
I know that.
[ And he does. Connor might be nursing that small hope fire that's still alive and well in the pit of his stomach, but he's not entirely stupid. He's not that drunk.
Almost. But not fully.
There's only a second wasted as he withdraws his hands long enough to shrug out of his jacket, uncaring as it falls to the floor by his feet; his eyes never leave Oliver's face. A second later, he's reaching for Oliver's hands—one of which his fingers curl around a wrist, the other, Oliver's fingers. It's used as leverage to pull them closer together. Connor knows he's treading on dangerous grounds here and runs the risk of for real being thrown out (again), but the alcohol is pushing him to be a little more daring. Slowly, his thumb rubs against the side of Oliver's wrist; his voice is still low, a murmur of a sound that's wrapped a little too closely with heat. ]
Tell me no now. Otherwise I'm going to kiss you on the mouth. [ a beat ] Now. Right. Now.
no subject
But he doesn't have to let it happen again.
He's not going to let it happen again.
Except Connor makes it difficult to think when he takes off his jacket (like a prelude to the thing Oliver explicitly said they're not doing) and grabs Oliver's hands. The warning bells ring louder, but he's paralyzed. His pulse is beating fast under Connor's thumb, jumping every time it passes over his wrist. The sound of his voice is heady and enticing, drawing him in like it's done a dozen times before, but he won't. He can't do this again. ]
Connor.
[ It comes out breathless and rough around the edges with a sad, helpless strain woven deep in the fabric. ]
I already told you— [ he wants to, god he wants to, but he can't, he can't he can't he can't ] no.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
happy tag, unhappy icon. laughing rn
LMFADJK i didn't know what you meant at first and then i saw
(no subject)
(no subject)