[ 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.
[ Truth of it is, is that Connor never set out to break Oliver's heart. He really didn't. That was just an unfortunate side effect of his dickish (literally) behavior. He just thought that... Well, he's not really entirely sure what he thought, but it doesn't make one fuck of a difference right now. And he has no fucking clue what to do to make this right or make it better or stop the unshakable need to get his mouth on Oliver's.
That... is a problem. Considering he was just told no.
There's a moment here where Connor can make a choice and do the respectable thing and back off. He's lost the battle and the war and he should just admit defeat before he suffers another miserable and humiliating loss. Maybe it's because he isn't all that partial to losing and has a competitive streak buried just beneath the surface, but he wants to claim a victory. Oliver's still not pulling away from him even though he just said no. That's got to be a sign.
Doesn't it?
He decides to take one last chance. What's it really matter? ]
You said no sex. That's not what I'm asking for. [ His hand slides around so they're palm to palm and Connor slips his fingers between Oliver's; the other hand, his thumb never stops the gentle sweeping over his skin. ] Just a kiss. [ One corner of his mouth twitches into a facsimile of a smile that's got its own hint of sadness. ] One.
[ Had Connor done the respectable thing and backed off, Oliver wouldn't have believed it. He's almost positive he's the first person to ever say no to kissing Connor Walsh and it has to sting something fierce.
You could call it another unfortunate side effect of his dickish behavior.
Oliver doesn't quite have the same stubborn competitive streak as Connor, but this isn't a competition. This is Oliver protecting himself from getting hurt all over again. (If he'd really wanted to do that, he probably shouldn't have invited Connor over to begin with, but.) It feels like there's a fist in his chest when Connor laces their fingers—which, he'd argue, is something couples do—and there's a prickling heat crawling slowly up his neck into his face.
Connor's smile gets a pinched expression in response.
He doesn't say it won't be just one kiss, that if he kisses Connor he doesn't trust himself to stop, that it'll probably lead to sex, which would be a bad idea on so many levels.
Instead, he says: ]
Why should I? [ He wrests his hands from Connor so he can't keep confusing him with his laced fingers and the caresses of his thumb. ] I can't, Connor. I won't. You think just because you say a few nice things and- and hold my hand and give me that look, I'll do whatever you want?
And, to be truthful, he really kind of did. He knows Oliver isn't a complete pushover. He can take control and take charge when he wants to—that's part of what Connor liked about him. Likes. Still does. God, he wishes he didn't still, but apparently it's not that easy to stop liking someone.
How in the hell do people deal with this sort of bullshit nonsense??
When Oliver pulls away, Connor would swear he could feel something dislodge in his chest. His hands are held up in surrender and a strange look flickers across his face. (Even he'd be hard pressed to explain what emotion it was, perhaps a mix of several: resignation, depreciation, embarrassment, hurt, the list goes on.) It was a mistake to come here, but he stubbornly feels as if he can't leave now.
Tomorrow he'll realize what a goddamn idiot he's been. But right now that thought doesn't even fully take root. ]
No. You—you're smart. So, of course you'd say no.
[ Bending down, he snatches his jacket up off the floor, sniffing as he does so. He straightens and moves closer to the couch, dropping said jacket against the arm. Oliver is smart, there's no question. He's incredibly intelligent. But so is Connor. ]
[ Part of him expected Connor to keep pushing, possibly until Oliver had no choice but to throw him out again. But Connor does back down, and for a brief, insane moment Oliver feels bad for snapping at him. He also wonders if Connor's just going to leave on his own, which would be the actual worst, because it would leave Oliver with the impression that Connor really did just want to use him. So he's relieved when it seems like Connor's staying. It's easier to breathe now that there's some space between them. Easier to think.
Oliver scrubs his hands over his face as he turns the question over in his mind. Then, he drops his arms and meets Connor's eyes. ]
Because I... [ I missed you ] I thought— I was hoping...we could talk.
[ That's the crux of it. He hadn't lied when he said he was worried about Connor wandering around drunk, on a cold night, alone, and in a less than stable emotional state. He hadn't lied when he said he cared. But, beneath all that, he was also hoping that maybe he could find some closure of his own. If Connor had to be drunk for it, then so be it. ]
Did you mean it.. ? [ His voice is calmer. Quieter. ] When you said I was more than just sex.
[ It'd be easier if he did keep pushing. Then they could fight and he could leave and they'd never have anything to do with each other again. But, come as a surprise though it may be, apparently he respects Oliver. A little, at least.
Connor exhales a heavy breath, cheeks puffing out with the force. Suddenly he's not sure if he's drunk enough for this conversation. Or that he wants to be here in person for it. They should've done this over the phone.
Or never.
He sits on the edge of the armrest on the couch and stares at his knees. Absently, his fingers pick off lint—real or imaginary, it doesn't matter, he just needs a distraction. Though it's hardly helpful; it's as if he can feel Oliver looking at him and waiting. He doesn't want to know the sort of look that's on his face.
Slowly, he nods. He's already said it once tonight, shouldn't really be a big deal to fess up to it in person. ]
Yeah. [ Throwing caution to the wind, he does chance a glance up at Oliver. ] Yeah, I did.
[ In Oliver's ideal scenario, neither of them would've been drunk for this conversation. But he's afraid that if Connor walks out his door without them having it, they'll never have it. The same way he was afraid that if Connor hung up and went home, he'd never hear from him again. Either way Oliver would've been left wondering, so he's taking his chance while it's right in front of him.
It would be easier for him to just set Connor up on the couch and for them to both go to bed and not talk about it in the morning. It would be easier for them to have an explosive fight and end it right here and now. This, standing in his living room while he waits for Connor to answer, is terrifying.
The fact Connor takes so long has the cold tendrils of dread spreading through him. But then, he nods and some of the tension leaves Oliver's body. Not all of it, though.
His heart is in his throat, making it that much harder to speak, but he presses on. ]
Then... [ his arms move away from his sides, palms facing up in a helpless gesture, and it takes every ounce of courage he can muster to ask the question that's been running through his mind ever since— ] why did you have to sleep with someone else?
[ Being drunk is likely the only way Oliver's going to get a straight answer out of Connor. At least right now. He's just not willing enough to be honest while he's sober. Immaturity, maybe. Fear, possibly. Whatever it is, it stunts him before he can progress anywhere. It's never really bothered him before. Oliver just wrecked the curve.
He kind of hates him for it. But he also still really likes him. It's a confusing jumble of feelings he still doesn't know what to do with. And he probably never will.
Connor's gaze shifts back to the floor, which speaks of nothing but guilt. Were there a jury here, he'd be convicted of douchebag behavior of the third degree and no one to blame but himself. What in the hell is he even supposed to say? ]
I don't know. I—It's how I get what I want. [ A hand rises to rub at the back of his neck as he struggles with the partial thoughts trying to find a match inside his head. Nothing's making sense and he feels like he's about to say something stupid or something he shouldn't say. ] Maybe self-sabotage.
[ Well he kind of hates Connor too for what he did, but he also still likes him because he can't just turn that part off. So at least they're in the same boat there.
As he waits for a response, he's struck by how vulnerable Connor is in this moment and he almost feels like a dick for confronting him. He reminds himself he deserves an explanation, but he still wants to go to Connor and has to ball his hands at his sides to keep from doing just that. When the answer comes, it's about what he expected. The last admission surprises him a little, since he wasn't sure Connor had enough self-awareness for it. He suspects he wouldn't be admitting it if he weren't drunk. ]
So... [ he speaks slowly, choosing his words carefully, ] what do you want? Actually? Do you want a— a relationship, or...
[ His voice cracks. ]
Or is this it? [ A frown knits his brows and he throws caution to the wind, his heart pounding, his voice strained. ] I like you, a lot. And I-I can't... I can't be with you knowing you're screwing other people, too.
[ In his waking and sober hours, Connor had run through this conversation a few times. (A few times more than normal, but he was only admitting to a few.) He had everything covered, all his bases and sometimes things work out and sometime they don't. It's a difficult thing to admit to himself that he feels disappointed when they don't.
Has he mentioned yet that he's such an idiot? Because he is.
Connor winces at the crack in Oliver's voice and he exhales long and slow. Again he's silent for longer than necessary while he tries to recall things he's said while wrapped in the fantasy of relationship confrontation. Figures that nothing good is coming to him. ]
I don't know.
[ For someone always so sure of what he wants and where he's headed, he's really failing tonight. Both hands rise to card through his hair and they join together at the back of his head. Eventually, he looks over at Oliver. ]
I mean, I want you. I know that. I just don't want to— [ He gestures with one hand, one eye pinched closed. ] Would we have to have a label?
[ Yeah, Connor's an idiot. But that just makes Oliver a bigger idiot for trying to make him into something he's not.
They just want different things. Oliver should be able to handle it like an adult, he's thirty years-old, for Christ's sake. He should be able to break it off and move on, find someone who wants the same things he does. But instead he's digging his heels in like a child. Inviting Connor over in the middle of the night when Connor's drunk, hoping... what?
He tries not to let the disappointment crush him. That answer was expected, too, but Oliver's heart sinks anyway, and he folds his arms again like he can stop it from sinking to his feet. Hearing Connor say he wants him doesn't even help a little, because he knew that already. If he didn't know it from their phone conversation, he knew when the first thing Connor did once he came inside was try to kiss him.
One brow inches up, his expression drawn. ]
It's not about the label, Connor. It's about you sleeping with other guys.
[ At this point, Connor doesn't even know what he is. He's still young enough that he's finding his way. And along that path he's discovering things about himself that he didn't know. Probably some things that he didn't even really want to know. Mostly right now where he's kind of thinking that being in a relationship isn't the end of the world.
Even if he can't actually say the word and apply it to himself. The thought is there, at least.
Connor exhales again, but on the inhale he straightens. He's feeling too hang-dog and that's not him at all. So, he sits up more and makes all the attempt to face this like a man. A very drunk man that might regret everything he's saying tonight, but at least he won't be a coward. Sort of. Okay, he's totally one of those, too, for doing all this drunk, but whatever. He can lie to himself. ]
Okay. [ His shoulders twitch in an almost shrug. ] Okay. I won't. [ He stares somewhere over Oliver's shoulder, not really seeing anything. ] If you want to be in a— [ . . . ] thing [ he gestures between them ] with me. I won't. Just–uh, just you.
[ In the space between Connor's inhale and his next words, Oliver had been bracing himself for rejection. The events were already unfolding in his head, the terrible way he'd feel as he got a pillow and blankets for Connor and told him to go to sleep. At least he'd have closure. That's all he really wanted out of this conversation, anyway. It was stupid to hope for anything else.
His jaw is set as Connor opens his mouth, but the words that come out are so not what he expected that they take a moment to catch up with him.
But once they do, his arms drop and his jaw goes slack. ]
What?
[ His eyes have a guarded, flinty look, like he's not sure he heard right or he thinks there might be some catch. (Well, there's already one very big catch, and that's that Connor's drunk and can't necessarily be held accountable for things he's saying now, come morning, but.) He takes a half a step forward, his eyes narrowing as his mind scrambles to make sense of the turn of events. It's too late to stop the flickering flame of hope that's ignited in the pit of his stomach, but he might still be able to tamp it out if he has to. ]
You're not just saying that so I'll have sex with you... right?
[ Something about that, and he'll never be able to say what it is exactly, strikes him as funny. He tries not to laugh because he knows how serious this whole thing is (sort of), but... Well, he doesn't really make it. Connor barks out a laugh that seems to startle even him, and he claps a hand over his mouth immediately. ]
No. [ The word is muffled, and he's still sort of laughing, though he's still trying not to. Connor clears his throat and drops his hand. ] Sorry. No, I—
[ What was the question?
Oh. ]
Didn't come here for sex, Oliver. Besides, [ one shoulder lifts in a shrug. ] you said no already. Said it because I mean it.
[ As much as he wants to get up and go to Oliver, he doesn't. Connor's still staying there, unassuming as he can be in this state and allowing Oliver to have control. If he wants contact, he has to take it. ]
Must be something here, right? I came to apologize and got you flowers. Never cared enough to do that before. Missed you, you know?
[ The laughter should annoy him or put him off, but instead it creates a ball of warmth in his chest that slowly unfurls and reaches down his body. He missed that sound. A smile twitches on his lips but doesn't fully appear yet.
Connor's assurances are kindling to that hope fire in his stomach, so it burns higher and brighter. But there are still a few doubts clinging to his mind like cobwebs in corners he can't reach. ] Well that's what I thought. That...there must be something here. But then you...
[ He doesn't want dig into the wound by finishing that sentence. They hadn't said they were exclusive before but Oliver had still thought there was something there, and that's why he'd been so broken up when he found out Connor was still screwing around. That's why he'd felt like such an idiot.
That's why it's a little hard to believe Connor really means it now.
It'll take time, probably. But there's not much else he can ask of Connor tonight. He drops his eyes to the coffee table and his gaze slides off to the side as he processes. Then, his eyes close and he swallows, smiling to himself, at himself, his shoulders shaking with a soft, incredulous laugh.
After a moment, he moves around the coffee table to sit on the couch, leaving a space between him and the arm in case Connor wants to sit there. He leans his elbows on his knees and steeples his fingers, resting his chin on his thumbs. Finally, he turns his head towards Connor. ]
I missed you, too.
[ His voice is quiet and packed with every emotion he'd been trying to hold back until now. He lays a hand on the couch beside him, a silent offering for Connor to take if he wants. ]
[ Come tomorrow things are going to be weird. Connor isn't aware of that just yet, but it's going to be. There's going to be a thread of fear, not unlike a cornered animal, when he realizes what he's done here tonight. And tomorrow he might freak out, wondering just what in the fresh hell he was thinking in this moment, but he wont' want to hurt Oliver. And he does care for him. Really. Actually. Otherwise he wouldn't have gone through all this trouble. He just hopes he'll remember that Oliver's worth all that trouble tomorrow when he wakes up hungover and confused as to why he's here.
But, right now he can at least enjoy the moment. Which he is doing. Fully.
Connor watches as Oliver moves closer, the want still tingling within him to just grab him and kiss him, but he does nothing except sit still, shifting slightly when Oliver's on the couch instead. He still can't really explain why he did what he did with Pax. There was likely any number of ways he could've planted that bug, but... sex was just the easiest. Maybe he is a sex addict. Maybe that's going to have to be a conversation with Oliver down the line. He's going to have to put out a lot to satisfy Connor's urges. But, that's a conversation for another day.
There's a few seconds where he internalizes what he should do, but considering how often his body's been moving without any brain command, he's not entirely surprised to find himself sliding off the arm of the couch to sit fully beside Oliver. But, before he does, he scoops up his hand and laces their fingers together, resting them against his thigh. He leans back against the couch, head tipped upward to stare at the ceiling. ]
[ The things Connor said tonight aren't a binding contract, Oliver knows that. He knows tomorrow might come and Connor might regret everything, freak out or take it back. But it doesn't change the fact he said it, and Oliver thinks on some level he must mean it. He hadn't been hoping for an outcome quite this good; it's only a matter of time before something most likely gets screwed up again. But, he hopes this means they're on the right path at least.
It feels like they are when Connor takes his hand and entwines their fingers. It doesn't feel like a punch in the heart the way it did before. He really, really hopes it doesn't all go away tomorrow morning.
He gives Connor a sidelong glance and eyes the tempting line of his throat as he tips his head back. But before his thoughts can venture further down that path, Connor speaks. A genuine laugh bursts from Oliver, warm with mirth and reaching his eyes this time. ]
Antoine. [ His thumb brushes the side of Connor's hand. ] What about him?
[ He turns to face him a little more. ]
Don't tell me it's okay for you to sleep with... who knows how many guys, but I can't have a single rebound. [ But he's still smiling as he says it, clearly teasing. ]
[ There's going to be some fallback from this. There's no question. So, Oliver better just gird his loins and be a little patient. Connor's going to be embarrassed about this, especially when he realizes he can't remember everything he said and knows Oliver remembers. He might want some space, just to get himself together, but... he'll come back around. He can't not. There's just something about Oliver that Connor really likes. For some reason. Maybe one day he'll figure it all out.
Or maybe he'll just ignore it forever and superficially deal with everything.
The sound of Oliver laughing has a smile pulling up Connor's lips. That sound is far better than the upset that was there only minutes ago. Even if the topic is somewhat questionable and he doesn't actually want to hear about someone else Oliver was with. Giving this guy a name makes it actually real.
It's not that Connor's jealous or anything, that's stupid and hypocritical.
His head tips to the side so he can look at Oliver. It's very clear he's still entirely drunk from the relaxed repose he's in, the heaviness of his eyelids, and the way he smiles—it's still very smug and very much how Connor tends to smile, but it's also a little more genuine and unrestrained. ]
You talked to a rebound about me. [ He laughs because what the hell even. ] Oliver.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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.
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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.
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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?
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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.
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(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. ]
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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.
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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.
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That... is a problem. Considering he was just told no.
There's a moment here where Connor can make a choice and do the respectable thing and back off. He's lost the battle and the war and he should just admit defeat before he suffers another miserable and humiliating loss. Maybe it's because he isn't all that partial to losing and has a competitive streak buried just beneath the surface, but he wants to claim a victory. Oliver's still not pulling away from him even though he just said no. That's got to be a sign.
Doesn't it?
He decides to take one last chance. What's it really matter? ]
You said no sex. That's not what I'm asking for. [ His hand slides around so they're palm to palm and Connor slips his fingers between Oliver's; the other hand, his thumb never stops the gentle sweeping over his skin. ] Just a kiss. [ One corner of his mouth twitches into a facsimile of a smile that's got its own hint of sadness. ] One.
[ For closure. ]
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You could call it another unfortunate side effect of his dickish behavior.
Oliver doesn't quite have the same stubborn competitive streak as Connor, but this isn't a competition. This is Oliver protecting himself from getting hurt all over again. (If he'd really wanted to do that, he probably shouldn't have invited Connor over to begin with, but.) It feels like there's a fist in his chest when Connor laces their fingers—which, he'd argue, is something couples do—and there's a prickling heat crawling slowly up his neck into his face.
Connor's smile gets a pinched expression in response.
He doesn't say it won't be just one kiss, that if he kisses Connor he doesn't trust himself to stop, that it'll probably lead to sex, which would be a bad idea on so many levels.
Instead, he says: ]
Why should I? [ He wrests his hands from Connor so he can't keep confusing him with his laced fingers and the caresses of his thumb. ] I can't, Connor. I won't. You think just because you say a few nice things and- and hold my hand and give me that look, I'll do whatever you want?
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And, to be truthful, he really kind of did. He knows Oliver isn't a complete pushover. He can take control and take charge when he wants to—that's part of what Connor liked about him. Likes. Still does. God, he wishes he didn't still, but apparently it's not that easy to stop liking someone.
How in the hell do people deal with this sort of bullshit nonsense??
When Oliver pulls away, Connor would swear he could feel something dislodge in his chest. His hands are held up in surrender and a strange look flickers across his face. (Even he'd be hard pressed to explain what emotion it was, perhaps a mix of several: resignation, depreciation, embarrassment, hurt, the list goes on.) It was a mistake to come here, but he stubbornly feels as if he can't leave now.
Tomorrow he'll realize what a goddamn idiot he's been. But right now that thought doesn't even fully take root. ]
No. You—you're smart. So, of course you'd say no.
[ Bending down, he snatches his jacket up off the floor, sniffing as he does so. He straightens and moves closer to the couch, dropping said jacket against the arm. Oliver is smart, there's no question. He's incredibly intelligent. But so is Connor. ]
Why did you invite me over?
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Oliver scrubs his hands over his face as he turns the question over in his mind. Then, he drops his arms and meets Connor's eyes. ]
Because I... [ I missed you ] I thought— I was hoping...we could talk.
[ That's the crux of it. He hadn't lied when he said he was worried about Connor wandering around drunk, on a cold night, alone, and in a less than stable emotional state. He hadn't lied when he said he cared. But, beneath all that, he was also hoping that maybe he could find some closure of his own. If Connor had to be drunk for it, then so be it. ]
Did you mean it.. ? [ His voice is calmer. Quieter. ] When you said I was more than just sex.
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Connor exhales a heavy breath, cheeks puffing out with the force. Suddenly he's not sure if he's drunk enough for this conversation. Or that he wants to be here in person for it. They should've done this over the phone.
Or never.
He sits on the edge of the armrest on the couch and stares at his knees. Absently, his fingers pick off lint—real or imaginary, it doesn't matter, he just needs a distraction. Though it's hardly helpful; it's as if he can feel Oliver looking at him and waiting. He doesn't want to know the sort of look that's on his face.
Slowly, he nods. He's already said it once tonight, shouldn't really be a big deal to fess up to it in person. ]
Yeah. [ Throwing caution to the wind, he does chance a glance up at Oliver. ] Yeah, I did.
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It would be easier for him to just set Connor up on the couch and for them to both go to bed and not talk about it in the morning. It would be easier for them to have an explosive fight and end it right here and now. This, standing in his living room while he waits for Connor to answer, is terrifying.
The fact Connor takes so long has the cold tendrils of dread spreading through him. But then, he nods and some of the tension leaves Oliver's body. Not all of it, though.
His heart is in his throat, making it that much harder to speak, but he presses on. ]
Then... [ his arms move away from his sides, palms facing up in a helpless gesture, and it takes every ounce of courage he can muster to ask the question that's been running through his mind ever since— ] why did you have to sleep with someone else?
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He kind of hates him for it. But he also still really likes him. It's a confusing jumble of feelings he still doesn't know what to do with. And he probably never will.
Connor's gaze shifts back to the floor, which speaks of nothing but guilt. Were there a jury here, he'd be convicted of douchebag behavior of the third degree and no one to blame but himself. What in the hell is he even supposed to say? ]
I don't know. I—It's how I get what I want. [ A hand rises to rub at the back of his neck as he struggles with the partial thoughts trying to find a match inside his head. Nothing's making sense and he feels like he's about to say something stupid or something he shouldn't say. ] Maybe self-sabotage.
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As he waits for a response, he's struck by how vulnerable Connor is in this moment and he almost feels like a dick for confronting him. He reminds himself he deserves an explanation, but he still wants to go to Connor and has to ball his hands at his sides to keep from doing just that. When the answer comes, it's about what he expected. The last admission surprises him a little, since he wasn't sure Connor had enough self-awareness for it. He suspects he wouldn't be admitting it if he weren't drunk. ]
So... [ he speaks slowly, choosing his words carefully, ] what do you want? Actually? Do you want a— a relationship, or...
[ His voice cracks. ]
Or is this it? [ A frown knits his brows and he throws caution to the wind, his heart pounding, his voice strained. ] I like you, a lot. And I-I can't... I can't be with you knowing you're screwing other people, too.
[ Because it hurts too much. ]
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Has he mentioned yet that he's such an idiot? Because he is.
Connor winces at the crack in Oliver's voice and he exhales long and slow. Again he's silent for longer than necessary while he tries to recall things he's said while wrapped in the fantasy of relationship confrontation. Figures that nothing good is coming to him. ]
I don't know.
[ For someone always so sure of what he wants and where he's headed, he's really failing tonight. Both hands rise to card through his hair and they join together at the back of his head. Eventually, he looks over at Oliver. ]
I mean, I want you. I know that. I just don't want to— [ He gestures with one hand, one eye pinched closed. ] Would we have to have a label?
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They just want different things. Oliver should be able to handle it like an adult, he's thirty years-old, for Christ's sake. He should be able to break it off and move on, find someone who wants the same things he does. But instead he's digging his heels in like a child. Inviting Connor over in the middle of the night when Connor's drunk, hoping... what?
He tries not to let the disappointment crush him. That answer was expected, too, but Oliver's heart sinks anyway, and he folds his arms again like he can stop it from sinking to his feet. Hearing Connor say he wants him doesn't even help a little, because he knew that already. If he didn't know it from their phone conversation, he knew when the first thing Connor did once he came inside was try to kiss him.
One brow inches up, his expression drawn. ]
It's not about the label, Connor. It's about you sleeping with other guys.
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Even if he can't actually say the word and apply it to himself. The thought is there, at least.
Connor exhales again, but on the inhale he straightens. He's feeling too hang-dog and that's not him at all. So, he sits up more and makes all the attempt to face this like a man. A very drunk man that might regret everything he's saying tonight, but at least he won't be a coward. Sort of. Okay, he's totally one of those, too, for doing all this drunk, but whatever. He can lie to himself. ]
Okay. [ His shoulders twitch in an almost shrug. ] Okay. I won't. [ He stares somewhere over Oliver's shoulder, not really seeing anything. ] If you want to be in a— [ . . . ] thing [ he gestures between them ] with me. I won't. Just–uh, just you.
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His jaw is set as Connor opens his mouth, but the words that come out are so not what he expected that they take a moment to catch up with him.
But once they do, his arms drop and his jaw goes slack. ]
What?
[ His eyes have a guarded, flinty look, like he's not sure he heard right or he thinks there might be some catch. (Well, there's already one very big catch, and that's that Connor's drunk and can't necessarily be held accountable for things he's saying now, come morning, but.) He takes a half a step forward, his eyes narrowing as his mind scrambles to make sense of the turn of events. It's too late to stop the flickering flame of hope that's ignited in the pit of his stomach, but he might still be able to tamp it out if he has to. ]
You're not just saying that so I'll have sex with you... right?
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No. [ The word is muffled, and he's still sort of laughing, though he's still trying not to. Connor clears his throat and drops his hand. ] Sorry. No, I—
[ What was the question?
Oh. ]
Didn't come here for sex, Oliver. Besides, [ one shoulder lifts in a shrug. ] you said no already. Said it because I mean it.
[ As much as he wants to get up and go to Oliver, he doesn't. Connor's still staying there, unassuming as he can be in this state and allowing Oliver to have control. If he wants contact, he has to take it. ]
Must be something here, right? I came to apologize and got you flowers. Never cared enough to do that before. Missed you, you know?
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Connor's assurances are kindling to that hope fire in his stomach, so it burns higher and brighter. But there are still a few doubts clinging to his mind like cobwebs in corners he can't reach. ] Well that's what I thought. That...there must be something here. But then you...
[ He doesn't want dig into the wound by finishing that sentence. They hadn't said they were exclusive before but Oliver had still thought there was something there, and that's why he'd been so broken up when he found out Connor was still screwing around. That's why he'd felt like such an idiot.
That's why it's a little hard to believe Connor really means it now.
It'll take time, probably. But there's not much else he can ask of Connor tonight. He drops his eyes to the coffee table and his gaze slides off to the side as he processes. Then, his eyes close and he swallows, smiling to himself, at himself, his shoulders shaking with a soft, incredulous laugh.
After a moment, he moves around the coffee table to sit on the couch, leaving a space between him and the arm in case Connor wants to sit there. He leans his elbows on his knees and steeples his fingers, resting his chin on his thumbs. Finally, he turns his head towards Connor. ]
I missed you, too.
[ His voice is quiet and packed with every emotion he'd been trying to hold back until now. He lays a hand on the couch beside him, a silent offering for Connor to take if he wants. ]
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But, right now he can at least enjoy the moment. Which he is doing. Fully.
Connor watches as Oliver moves closer, the want still tingling within him to just grab him and kiss him, but he does nothing except sit still, shifting slightly when Oliver's on the couch instead. He still can't really explain why he did what he did with Pax. There was likely any number of ways he could've planted that bug, but... sex was just the easiest. Maybe he is a sex addict. Maybe that's going to have to be a conversation with Oliver down the line. He's going to have to put out a lot to satisfy Connor's urges. But, that's a conversation for another day.
There's a few seconds where he internalizes what he should do, but considering how often his body's been moving without any brain command, he's not entirely surprised to find himself sliding off the arm of the couch to sit fully beside Oliver. But, before he does, he scoops up his hand and laces their fingers together, resting them against his thigh. He leans back against the couch, head tipped upward to stare at the ceiling. ]
So.
[ . . . . . . ]
Spatula Guy.
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It feels like they are when Connor takes his hand and entwines their fingers. It doesn't feel like a punch in the heart the way it did before. He really, really hopes it doesn't all go away tomorrow morning.
He gives Connor a sidelong glance and eyes the tempting line of his throat as he tips his head back. But before his thoughts can venture further down that path, Connor speaks. A genuine laugh bursts from Oliver, warm with mirth and reaching his eyes this time. ]
Antoine. [ His thumb brushes the side of Connor's hand. ] What about him?
[ He turns to face him a little more. ]
Don't tell me it's okay for you to sleep with... who knows how many guys, but I can't have a single rebound. [ But he's still smiling as he says it, clearly teasing. ]
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Or maybe he'll just ignore it forever and superficially deal with everything.
The sound of Oliver laughing has a smile pulling up Connor's lips. That sound is far better than the upset that was there only minutes ago. Even if the topic is somewhat questionable and he doesn't actually want to hear about someone else Oliver was with. Giving this guy a name makes it actually real.
It's not that Connor's jealous or anything, that's stupid and hypocritical.
His head tips to the side so he can look at Oliver. It's very clear he's still entirely drunk from the relaxed repose he's in, the heaviness of his eyelids, and the way he smiles—it's still very smug and very much how Connor tends to smile, but it's also a little more genuine and unrestrained. ]
You talked to a rebound about me. [ He laughs because what the hell even. ] Oliver.
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happy tag, unhappy icon. laughing rn
LMFADJK i didn't know what you meant at first and then i saw
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