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There was nothing to it, truly. Felix had felt bad about Farleigh’s blatant attempt to humiliate Oliver, and he was hoping that he could dissolve the situation, somehow. He could admit that he felt a little guilty, but he loved both of them—perhaps not equally, but that was a whole rumination for another time—and so hoping that he could amend the cold war between them and make them at least civil towards each other.
But his tongue was tied as soon as he noticed Oliver’s head leaning far too close to Farleigh, an unfamiliar feeling he couldn’t put his finger on brewing in the pit of his gut, intensifying greatly the moment he spotted Oliver tip-toeing in the dark, disheveled and adorned with a flush high on his cheeks. He was inching away from what Felix knew was Farleigh’s room, and he wondered if his intervention was truly needed. It made something sour stick to the back of his tongue, but it wasn’t really his business, wasn’t it? Sure, a part of him, one that had been nurtured by the lack of hardships in life, felt affronted by Oliver’s audacity, but a bigger part of him took notice of how uncomfortable and- and angry it made him feel, to have the knowledge that Oliver might or might not have been touched by other’s hands—hands that weren’t Felix own, interlacing with the stubby digits, circling around the wrists and pinning them where he’d like them to be.
It wasn’t like he didn’t know the feeling of holding Oliver down, even if it wasn’t quite the same situation he undoubtedly know the man had with Farleigh just moments prior. But still. It made him restless, made him upset, like a toddler whose favorite toy was taken away and given to another. But it wasn’t like that, in this case, was it? Oliver had given himself away to be played by Farleigh’s clever fingers, all on his own accord, and Felix felt a myriad of emotions swirling around his chest.
He heaved a deep breath, and tried not to think about it, and ended up losing sleep because he did think about it. It just—he felt deceived. Wasn’t it him, who had taken Oliver’s hand in his and taken him away from his bland life, into something more colourful, more vibrant? Wasn’t it him, who had been there for the man in his plight, who knew his smiles and his frowns, knew his mood like the back of his hand, knew his thoughts as if it echoed his own? Wasn’t it him, whom Oliver gazed at with an adoring look and devotion that made something traipse up Felix’s spine? He knew Oliver, and yet he was clueless about this side of the man.
He felt—betrayed, and it was childish, really, because it wasn’t like he could dictate what Oliver should and shouldn’t do. Except that there was a thought, on the back of his mind, lurking beneath the shadow, that told him he did want to. Wouldn’t it be a sight to see, Oliver Quick with his blue, blue eyes and harsh features made delicate by the waning sunlight, obeying every command Felix gave to him, like a prayer answered by God itself to a devout follower? The thought made Felix feel uncomfortable, but he couldn’t deny that the merit was appealing to him.
But it wasn’t wise to think that way, to think of what had happened and what kind of marks Oliver retained from a night shared with Farleigh. Felix didn’t want to know, but there was a burning desire in him, to undress Oliver and demand him to present before him, kneel down and lay himself bare so Felix could condemn him for ever bruise, every mark, every stain on his pale skin that he didn’t ask whether it would be allowed by Felix or not. He wanted to erase them, and he wanted to put his own trace on Oliver, so the next time he came to someone else’s bed, he’d be reminded of Felix, would feel ashamed by his affair, would gather his clothes and run away in guilt. What a ridiculous thought, and yet it set his chest aflame, something behind his trachea slithering towards his lungs and constrict around the low ember of something he didn’t want to acknowledge yet.
And so, because he couldn’t enact what his wild thoughts told him to, he sulked. Oliver noticed, because of course he did. He was always attuned to Felix’s mood, his high and low, and he always had this uncanny ability to pinpoint what he was worrying about, what was eating away at his mind. It was unsettling, at first, before Felix just shrugged it off and put it as a benefit of his friendship with the man—it was nice having someone who could understand him with so little words, enough to be deduced just with a passing glance or the tensing of the shoulders. He expected Oliver’s presence to come sooner rather than later, as he lay on the chair and let the sunlight beat down on him, muttering under his breath as he sipped on whatever alcohol he could get his hands on first.
Oliver showed up, and it didn’t surprise Felix, really. It just spurred on his sulking, and he told himself that he didn’t want to glance at Oliver as the man took off his shirt. He wasn’t curious, and he certainly didn’t want to be reminded of the reason he was grumpy and sleep deprived. There was something in him that felt absolutely sickened at the possibility that he might see hickeys or bitemarks on Oliver’s pale skin, knowing full well that it would send him into bouts of rage for reasons he didn’t want to examine too closely at. It was just ridiculous, really, that he felt himself entitled enough to feel that way. But he was, wasn’t he? He knew, just like how he knew that his family was beyond salvageable, the exact shade of Oliver’s eyes, the taste of cigarette, the slow descent into madness that enveloped this whole estate, all the undeniable facts that he knew wholeheartedly, and it extended the courtesy to the truth that Oliver would give him that entitlement in a heartbeat.
Oliver didn’t say you’re mad about something, didn’t ask something he already knew. But then, Felix felt warmth on his side, and gave in to the temptation of looking. Oliver was there, sitting on the floor next to him, just within reach for Felix to tug on his hair, or the slope of his nape—glistening with sweat and made that much more inviting to touch. The feeling, the ugly one that started this whole childish behaviour, the atrocity of his selfishness that he tried to tamp down, reared up until it reached his throat, settling in like a stray fishbone he couldn’t gouge out. Because there was no mark, no bruise, nothing on Oliver’s skin that might signify what had transpired last night. He was unblemished, and there was no need for Felix to want to erase the marks that weren’t even there to begin with. It was, however, easier said than done, because now, ironically, the urge just got that much heavier, because what use was the vast expanse of smooth skin in front of him, bared by Oliver himself, if not for Felix to bruise? He heaved a deep breath, and told himself he didn’t need to say anything to dissolve the lingering awkwardness that oppressed them every so slowly in the continuing silence.
Oliver, bless his heart and his knowledge of Felix’s feelings, no matter how weird that was, talked first, because he knew that Felix’s pride wouldn’t allow him to. He said, “I wish that I was brave enough to ask for a change of song last night.”
Felix blinked, too deep within his mulling that he couldn’t expect the subject brought up so suddenly. Sure, it was the thing that started all of this, but it was outshined by the fact that Oliver had been in Farleigh’s bed by the end of the night. It was too crass, however, to point it out, now that the subject of conversation had been settled. He cleared his throat, and said, “What do you mean?”
“I was put in a difficult situation,” Oliver shrugged. “But I could do something better.”
“Like what?” he asked, intrigued now. He put down the bottle on his hand, and straightened himself, brought himself closer to Oliver’s fragile back and resisted the urge to trace the spine. “Are you saying that you lied, Ollie?”
“I couldn’t embarrass Farleigh, of course,” Oliver said, and it sounded like a blatant excuse that they didn’t say anything about. “But, perhaps, with another song, I could…”
There was a smile gracing Felix’s lips, and he knew beyond doubt that this was Oliver’s attempt at grovelling. Always with a touch of dignity, with a demure attitude, because it would be so scandalous if he begged, wouldn’t it? And yet, hadn’t he already? He might as well be kneeling before Felix and asked for redemption to a cruel god. Of course, Felix could wave him off, could accept the offering of proof that there was nothing left by Farleigh on Oliver’s skin. But how could he deny the heady feeling of having Oliver giving more offering towards him? It wasn’t everyday that a pretty boy begged for Felix’s silent forgiveness, after all.
And so, he said, “What song, Ollie?”
“You want to hear it?” Oliver asked shyly, glancing over his shoulder, his lush lashes cascading gentle shadows underneath his eyes. Felix had a feeling that he was being played with, but it was too late to back away from this particular cliff.
In lieu of an answer, he slid his fingers towards Oliver’s nape, fiddling with the hair he could reach, before grasping the slope of neck, a silent assent for him to continue. Oliver heaved a deep breath, a shudder that Felix could feel from beneath his palm wracked him softly. Suddenly, there was greed, sitting on the tip of Felix’s tongue—a need to lower his legs and have Oliver properly seated before his knees, singing whatever song he had in mind like it was a prayer. It would be a sight to see, the worship that Felix knew this man was capable of. And then, he thought, why the fuck not? What was stopping him? It wasn’t like he didn’t know that Oliver was notoriously incapable of refusing him anything.
He breathed slowly, and moved, stringing Oliver along with him and easily manhandled his body like he was a mere ragdoll. But, oh, how beautiful the doll was, now sitting between the nestle of Felix’s legs, slowly laying his head on his knee, staring up at him with those stupid lashes, too luxurious for a man so awkward and neurotic like him. It was cruel, to think of Oliver’s blatant shortcomings, but it just made him all the prettier in Felix’s eyes, because to have the kind of persisting beauty that was buried underneath all the weaknesses and could only be found with the right kind of coaxing, was something that no one should be in possession of. Oliver’s beauty wasn’t one to be perceived by the beholder, but one that had to be dragged from the depth it dwelled in, by the scruff of its neck and blood staining the fangs sunken into the skin. Only animals could do such thing to a boy like Oliver, and it was such a lucky coincidence that Felix’s whole family was wolves underneath their fancy clothing. He could see it, the moment they saw Oliver, and let him integrate himself within the family. They wouldn’t have done so if they didn’t see the potential. Sick fucks, all of them.
Felix was one, too, he realized. But that was alright, wasn’t it? Oliver would still accept him regardless, would accept him no matter what, and that was something he could flaunt, because he knew that not all people would be graced with the same kind of reverence by this person. He smiled, and watched as an answering smile unfurl on Oliver’s lips as Felix carded his fingers through the dark hair.
Then, Oliver started, voice soft, “Summertime, and the livin’ is easy.”
Felix sucked in a sharp breath. Oliver really could do better than the disaster that happened last night. This one song, he evidently was familiar with, because the words came so easily, the shape of the words forming effortlessly on his lips.
“Fish are jumpin’, and the cotton is high,” Oliver continued, and there was an indulgent smile he gave as Felix’s fingers cradled his face. “Oh, your daddy’s rich, and your ma is good lookin’. So hush, little baby, don’t you cry.” He placed his own palm, much smaller than Felix’s own, and finished with, “Don’t you cry…”
Felix looked down at him, at the flush on his cheeks, the way they were so inappropriately positioned, and he thought of someone catching them like this. Would he pull away, he wondered. He must, because he couldn’t afford to aid his parents in their gossips that they would spread for whoever was willing to listen. But could he do that? When that devotion was glinting in Oliver’s blue eyes again, when he was breathing a little shallowly as Felix touched him, when they were so perfectly slotted in a position befitting a god and his worshiper?
He brought down his fingers to swipe his thumb on Oliver’s lips. He whispered, “I ought to kick you out, Ollie. You came here by my invitation, and yet you bedded someone under my nose. What, Venetia is going to be next on your list?”
“No,” Oliver lied, and God, did he lie so prettily. “Won’t go anywhere but where you want me to.”
Felix’s fingers moved to clench tightly on Oliver’s jaw. “Don’t you know already, though?”
Those blue eyes twinkled with something wicked, something that made self-preservation instinct suddenly kicked into Felix’s mind. Perhaps, he was playing a dangerous game, but what was there to lose, really? Anything he lost, he could easily regain back. It always worked that way, all this time. And so, when Oliver brazenly nuzzled into his hold, closer still to Felix’s crotch, he let it be.
He asked, “Was that supposed to be a jab at me, your little song?”
The corner of Oliver’s eyes crinkled in delight. “If you want it to be.”
“Oh, Oliver,” he tutted. “What am I to do with you?”
“However you pleased,” Oliver answered lowly, grasping at his knees tightly. “Whatever you want.”
“Don’t you touch my cousin or sister ever again,” Felix said, nails digging into Oliver’s skin and leaving indents.
“Should I touch you, then?” Oliver asked, and there was defiance in his eyes, but it went beyond that, something that Felix recognized as a sly fox dwelling within the parlour of Oliver’s mind. “Should I warm your bed and spread my legs like your woman?”
He swallowed against the thickness in his throat. It was hard to breathe, mind reeling from the audacity of this boy, of this situation. But wasn’t that something to behold? Oliver, with his lush lashes, with his blue eyes, with a beauty buried underneath, like a silent creature put to earth to destroy men, waiting obediently by Felix’s bed, waiting to be defiled like many women Felix had fucked. That would be nice, he thought, to fool around with Oliver in the sunlight, and have him spread out on the linen at night.
He smiled, and ran his fingers through Oliver’s hair gently. “Perhaps, you should.”
“Perhaps, I should,” Oliver echoed, then closed his eyes and leaned his head back on Felix’s knee.
As the sun beat down on them, the height of summer pilfering right through their epidermis, with a pretty creature put to earth to destroy him, Felix thought, and the livin’ is easy, indeed.