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Oliver Putnam is a flamboyant, nosy, smarmy, perpetually broke braggart who can't stop running his mouth even when his life is literally dependent on doing so. He's definitely got a drinking problem, and quite probably some sort of eating disorder. He's prone to fantastical plots and irrational flights of fancy that somehow, sometimes, once in a blue moon actually work out. He is, in short, the sort of disaster that Charles-Haden Savage has tried his whole life to avoid.
Oliver Putnam is also, incidentally, currently in Charles's bed—or more precisely, in Charles's arms— snoring softly with his fluffy hair tickling Charles's nose as he curls around the smaller man as if— as if Charles wants to protect him from something even more dire than the lack of heat in the building which has precipitated these unlikely events.
To be clear, Charles didn't make the offer, because Oliver is not the sort of person who waits for an invitation. No, he'd showed up of his own volition a few hours after the building's furnace broke down, as weak winter sunlight ceded to the light-polluted city night, swathed in a plush robe and flannel jammies and bearing a litany of reasons that it only made sense for them to keep each other warm, didn't it? It would be silly to wait until they were already individually freezing, wouldn't it? Charles wouldn't leave a friend to shiver himself to death and make for an incredibly boring episode of the podcast, would he?
Charles made a show of conceding though he really hadn't needed to be convinced to allow the other man into his home. That Oliver had showed up at dinner time was unsurprising to Charles, who had found himself playing host to a peckish Oliver more than a couple of times during their podcast investigations; that Charles had an assortment of dips neatly arranged in his fridge came as a delightful surprise to Oliver, who hadn't expected to be accommodated with such ease this time around.
"You must like having me around after all," Oliver said playfully as he nibbled his way through a container of kalamata hummus, batting bright eyes up at Charles.
"Like and used to aren't the same thing," Charles said dryly. "I can be hospitable without craving your presence here." His turkey sandwich had been made with a thick layer of that hummus before Oliver's contamination of the rest of the container, the only taste of it Charles had planned to get.
When their lips met, about an hour later, Charles went breathless at how Oliver's mouth was tangy and yielding, opening with no hesitation to Charles's tentative tongue. After finishing dinner, they'd sat together on the couch to make best use of the soft heating blanket that Charles used all winter long even when the heat was working fine. Even though they didn't need to sit quite so close, they'd ended up leaning together.
Charles wasn't entirely clear on when his arm had curled around Oliver's shoulders, or when their quiet banter had lapsed into fond murmuring; he was, however, extremely clear on when their comfortable closeness became the first kiss they shared, because some long-stifled part of his mind whooped with joy when it happened.
"Charles," Oliver breathed into his lips, "oh thank god," and then there was a second kiss and a third, there was Oliver's hands wrapped in the soft knit of Charles's cardigan, there was his sly smirking mouth assertive on Charles's chapped lips, the faint olive brine fading from under his tongue as they tasted each other with a hunger wholly separate from the meal they'd just shared.
One thing led to another, the way things had a way of doing, from the couch to the comfortable bed where the heating blanket spread above them allowed liberties in the chilly room that wouldn't have otherwise been taken. Oliver showed off a more praiseworthy use for his clever mouth than half-truths and outright lies; Charles got to demonstrate that his talent at working things open extended beyond picking locks. They surprised each other over and over, not only with their actions but with the tenderness of their touches that said more clearly just what they'd come to mean to each other than either man would admit aloud.
So. Here he is, awake in the middle of the night, arms full of Oliver's narrow shoulders and face full of Oliver's unruly hair, and Charles knows exactly how he got here but he still doesn't believe it—that despite his clear and lengthy list of reasons to keep Oliver at a friendly distance, despite all his resolve to not lose his heart to a smooth-talking charlatan with luck worse than even Charles's own, he's still wrapped around Oliver like paper around a pretty, breakable gift, like bubble wrap swaddling that deceptive fragility against a world which hadn't managed to shatter Oliver's spirit in seventy-some-odd years.
It's stupid— Charles knows it's stupid, knows that Oliver has gone this long without being coddled or cherished and certainly doesn't need Charles's awkward attempts to do so, but then—
But then Oliver stirs in his embrace, fumbles one hand around Charles's wrist and pulls his hand up to kiss the hollow of his palm, murmurs, "I can feel you fretting, Charlie."
"Didn't mean to wake you," Charles whispers into the fluff of Oliver's hair.
"Mm, it's alright. C'mere..." Oliver wriggles around, pushes at Charles in a sleepy way until it's Oliver who is wrapped around Charles, until Oliver presses his lips to the thinning hair at the crown of Charles's head and breathes, "I got you. Close your eyes, honey, I got you."
There are so many reasons this is a terrible idea, but with his head laid on Oliver's chest and the steady thump of that foolhardy, indomitable heart under his ear, Charles can't find a single reason to resist the softly hummed lullaby and the soothing stroke of Oliver's thumb back and forth over the nape of his neck. Warm and sated and too tired to resist, Charles still can't help coming up with one counterpoint to his list of contraindications before he succumbs to sleep:
For all his numerous faults and foibles, Oliver doesn't hold any of Charles's many flaws against him. For all that any sane person would have a list of reasons to avoid Charles, Oliver likes him, seeks him out, makes him smile, makes him feel included, makes him feel alive.
Around them, the building chills, the occupants shiver, the windows rime with frost. But in Charles's bed, wrapped in plush and flannel and each other's arms, something hot and bright is kindling to life between Charles and Oliver, something unexpected and infinitely precious to two men who had feared themselves unlovable.