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The unspoken rule between Connor and Oliver is that they’re not boyfriends, but they’re dating. This is obvious, because words matter a lot with the two of them - Connor’s generally shit at keeping his mouth shut about anything, just keeps on talking when really, he doesn’t have anything important to say. Around Oliver, it’s a bit different. He really, really cares about what Oliver thinks of him, and as simple as that is, it seems to have set in motion an automatic progress that keeps silly rants from happening.
So basically, words have a lot of value nowadays, because of the aforementioned phenomena, and because of all the secrets Connor’s holding onto these days. He’s good with keeping secrets, though. He’s totally, totally keeping all of his insane secrets and totally, totally keeping off silly rants.
If he would let himself start talking aimlessly, then he’d probably point out to Oliver that he wants them to be boyfriends, except they kind of almost in-a-way decided they were just taking it slow, dating slow. That’s fine. It’s fine. As long as Connor shuts up about it, Oliver will feel comfortable and they’ll take it slow and it will all be--
“Do you wanna go out?”
Would Connor not be so preposterously relaxed, his body stretched out over the couch and his head comfortably resting in Oliver’s lap, he would’ve jumped up, or flinched at the very least. But he’s full from dinner and his head’s sort of spinning with this fog of-- spark-like feelings in his chest. Because Oliver is so, so close and stroking his hair and it’s so perfect.
“Out?” He turns his head and, with some effort, rolls over to face Oliver. He sounds sleepy. Was he falling asleep? “But we just had dinner.”
Oliver laughs, that quiet, breathy giggle that signalises that Connor is being silly somehow. Or that Oliver is smitten with him, but that’s just ridiculous. Even if he’s claimed he is. It’s just ridiculous. Oliver smitten by him? Makes no sense.
“I mean for a walk, or something,” he says. “We can grab coffee, maybe? Or just walk. I don’t know.” His smile flickers a bit, and Connor can’t keep his own smile away.
“Yeah,” he agrees, “sounds great.”
* * *
It sounded great. When his head was all mushed up with Oliver’s smile and the picture of holding hands while beautiful, white flakes sprinkled around them.
He didn’t consider the cold that comes with snow, and how the weather is in no way merciful, but tries to effectively tear your face off using the power of wind and ice.
“You should write horror fiction,” Oliver suggests when Connor’s verbalised a fifth synonym for ‘snowflakes’ (‘splinters from the gates of Purgatory’).
Connor reaches out and pulls Oliver’s hat down, covering his glasses with bright yellow, thickly knitted yarn.
“Hey, it was a compliment!” Oliver protests, pulling the hat up again. “And you shouldn’t use the hat to mess with me. I’m wearing it for you, you know.”
“Can’t believe you kept it,” Connor mumbles and sounds deeply grumpy, even though he’s really very flattered. Throwing a glance at Oliver, he can feel the corners of his mouth (which are yet to be frozen to a paralysed state, surprisingly) twitch upwards. “You look adorable.”
Oliver doesn’t seem to have any objections to that. He reaches out for Connor’s hand, and everything gets warm suddenly. Sort of. Less cold, anyway.
“So how far is it to Mount Doom?” Connor asks, referring to the coffee shop Oliver promised earlier.
“Stop complaining, alright? It’s like, really close.”
Connor considers more fantasy related jokes, but on second thought, decides against it. He’s definitely being a bit of a twat, and the walk isn’t that bad. He just doesn’t do well with cold, is all. Besides, Oliver’s obviously trying hard here - this is a date. An outdoors, in-public date.
When they reach the coffee shop, it turns out to be closed since an hour ago.
Connor scoops up a handful of fresh snow and places it carefully on top of Oliver’s head.
“I think that’s punishment enough,” he decides patiently.
“What’s wrong with you,” Oliver wants to know, keeping completely still so that the snow won’t fall on him. “Get it off my head.”
“No, it’s a punishment,” Connor insists. “You should’ve thought about the consequences before you sent me out on this deeply traumatising fool’s errand.”
Oliver smiles then. It’s definitely not his most familiar smile - it’s mischievous, and his eyes glitter with, with something. Something like childishness. A moment later, he’s let go of Connor’s hand and pulled the hat off his head. Quickly, Connor backs off, hands held up in surrender.
“Don’t come near me with that, okay, we agreed,” he says, eyes set on the hat in Oliver’s hands.
Oliver doesn’t reply, but instead comes at him, trying to catch the collar of his jacket. When Connor manages to get away in time, he only does so to then immediately back into the closed and locked front door of the coffee shop. Trapped, he soon finds himself sitting on the freezing cold ground with the hat warming his scalp and ears as well as his entire face and chin.
“I surrender,” he says weakly. “I’m blind and everything smells like grandma.”
“It’s too late. I already won.” Oliver giggles, and Connor can feel his legs get slightly warmer (well, a hell of a lot, actually) as Oliver carefully straddles them.
“You’re very confident today,” Connor observes without removing the hat.
“I just know how to defend myself,” Oliver says, and his voice is cheerful, loving.
“You really do, don’t you.” Connor smiles behind the layers of yarn. “Well, here I am, at your mercy.” The darkness gradually disappears as Oliver pulls the hat up to reveal himself and, oh. Everything is really quiet. The small bit of roof lining the store building seems to keep some of the snow away, and the wind has definitely calmed down. When did that happen? And the snow isn’t really raging down any more, it’s gently falling, taking its time to reach the ground. All this and the sight of Oliver looks surrealistic. Way too good to be true. Must be, Connor decides, because there’s no way he could be so lucky to see this, experience this.
“At my mercy?” Oliver picks up, and one of his eyebrows shoot up suggestively.
“Yep.” Connor swallows hard and kind of remembers what they were talking about, kind of doesn’t at all because of the whole surrealistic thing. Manages anyway, “all yours.”
The last sound is cut off when Oliver leans in to kiss him, and damn, Connor doesn’t do well with cold, but right then, he can’t feel it at all. He’s heated up to the core, all yarn and kisses and that feeling of how even if he’s on the ground at some street he doesn’t even know the name of, he’s safe. It’s a good feeling. He could get used to that feeling.
When Oliver pulls away, everything gets just a bit colder, and oh, who is he even kidding.
He’s already used to that feeling.