Chapter Text
Oliver sat at the table he’d booked in Quo Vadis, checking the time on his fob, then looking at his messages, making sure – once again – that he hadn’t got the time wrong. No, they had agreed to meet at half past seven. It was now ten to eight. And he hadn’t heard anything from his ‘date’.
Oliver contemplated the very real possibility that he’d been stood up. His dating life was, admittedly, something of a disaster, but he’d never actually been stood up before. He looked down at his hands, trying to tell himself it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. It would be a story. How did it go? His friends would text him tomorrow. And Oliver would reply, Rather badly. He stood me up. And they’d all be terribly sympathetic, cursing Lucien O’Donnell’s name to hell and back, telling Oliver he was too good for someone like that, anyway. And Oliver would try to convince himself it was true.
He should have known.
***
The first time he’d met Lucien was at some awful work function of Bridget’s. Oliver had arrived on time, which he should have realised beforehand was an error, because it meant Bridget herself was not there. Oliver hadn’t ever managed to get the hang of ‘fashionably late’ – he always felt unforgivably rude, even if he knew it was the kind of occasion where a later arrival was expected.
Still, he was an adult. He could make polite conversation with people he didn’t know. He chatted for a while with one of Bridget’s colleagues, who he’d met once or twice before. At some point, he realised that she might be flirting with him, and he decided it would be judicious to hint at his sexuality via the mention of an ex-boyfriend.
“Oh, you’re gay?” she asked, wide-eyed. “I’d never have guessed. You don’t look gay.”
Which was how Oliver knew he was in for an enchanting evening.
He never understood what people expected him to say to comments like this. He suspected it was intended as a compliment – and sometimes his brain would respond, just momentarily, as if it was one – until Oliver reminded it that such assumptions were based on homophobia and heteronormativity and a little sprinkling of misogyny, too.
Thankfully at this juncture, Sophie arrived to rescue him.
“How are we still here before Bridget?” she asked, as they meandered over to the drinks table. “She fucking works here.”
“Perhaps there’s been a disaster,” Oliver suggested wryly, and she grinned.
“I hope so. Bridget’s disasters are always so entertaining. Anyway, how are you doing, darling? Shaken off the break-up blues yet?”
Oliver sighed. Truthfully, he’d had a very rough couple of weeks. He’d genuinely thought things were going well between himself and Adeel, who he’d liked perhaps a little more than average. They were just coming up to the six-month mark, everything had seemed fine, and then…well. Clearly, they hadn’t been. Oliver was trying to be philosophical about it, he really was, but he couldn’t deny feeling somewhat…bruised.
On top of that, he’d spent last weekend at his parents’ for a cousin’s wedding. His father had had one too many sherries, and made quite a lot of jokes about Oliver’s sex life for the amusement of the general company, which would have been embarrassing at the best of times, but had a bit of extra sting given he’d just been dumped.
Not that that was his father’s fault, obviously.
Then to top it all off, he’d lost an important case.
“I’m fine,” he told Sophie. “I just…” He faltered, looking for the right words. “I’m tired of dating,” he managed at length, trying to make it sound like a joke, rather than the statement of despair it truly was.
Sophie grimaced sympathetically. “Of course you are, darling. It’s fucking dreadful.”
“How would you know? You’ve been with Ben since university.”
“So? I’ll have you know we have a very progressive and open-minded relationship. Or we would have, if either of us had the fucking time.” She winked at him, and Oliver made an exaggerated expression of horror. “Still,” she continued, eyeing him shrewdly over the rim of her nearly empty glass. “Best way to get over someone is to get under someone.”
“And they say romance is dead.”
“Romance, my dear, is overrated.”
“That’s easy to say when you’ve got it.” Other words crowded in Oliver’s throat – I’m lonely; everyone else is getting married and I’ve still never had a long-term partner; I’m worried no one is ever going to want to be with me – but they were too vulnerable to say aloud, let alone in the middle of a crowded party.
Sophie shook her head. “It’s tragic, really. I’d make a much better singleton than you. I’d be fucking strangers with wild abandon and spending every Wednesday afternoon at an orgy.”
“My apologies,” Oliver said wryly. “Truly, I am squandering my potential.”
“You are. And while we’re on the subject,” Sophie went on, a smirk curling her lip. “Bridget has some plot to set you up with her friend tonight.”
“Oh, I’m aware.”
Bridget had been trying to set him up with this ‘Luc’ for years; every time Oliver was dumped, the subject seemed to arise again. Oliver wouldn’t have objected, but from everything she’d been able to tell him, the only thing he and Luc had in common was their sexuality.
“Speak of the devil,” Sophie said. “Here she is, at last.”
Oliver followed her line of sight to where Bridget had just clattered into the room, hugging and air kissing a woman Oliver thought was her boss, presumably launching into an explanation of whatever disaster had held her up. For anyone else, Oliver would have been worried, but Bridget was too charming to really be at risk of getting in trouble.
Behind her trailed a tall man, looking warily around the room from beneath a messy crop of dark hair. As Bridget turned back to him, he smiled down at her – and Oliver felt his heart do something odd in his chest. Oh.
“Is that Luc?” he asked Sophie, who squinted, and shrugged.
“I don’t know. He’s rather pretty, isn’t he?”
Oliver would have gone much further than that. The stranger was beautiful in an unusual, languid, long-limbed way, and somehow managed to have a faint air of mischief about him even in the stuffy function room, sparkling in his bright eyes and curling around the corners his mouth. Oliver’s mouth felt a little dry.
“We should say hello to Bridget,” he said, to avoid answering. But Bridget and her friend had been swallowed up by the crowd, and Sophie was being tugged into a conversation with one of Bridget’s author friends, leaving Oliver to stare into the crowd, catching glimpses of the tall stranger every now and then. It was hard not to look at him, as he lounged beside Bridget, laughing sharply and gesticulating with abandon, at one point nearly knocking over a tray of drinks.
He was captivating. Oliver felt like he’d been knocked over the head with a mallet. He hoped it wasn’t too obvious he was looking, but at one point he glanced up and the man was staring right back, leaning down to listen to Bridget as she said something in his ear.
Shit. Oliver looked down at his drink. A few seconds later, Bridget came shoving through the crowd to stand in front of him, her friend – who Oliver now thought must be Lucien – trailing along behind her.
“Oliver!” she beamed, swooping in to give him a squeeze. “How are you doing? I’m so sorry I was late, there was this huge disaster just before I left the office. I can’t really talk about it, but we ordered four hundred tote bags to promote one of our new sustainability books, and we sent them all out to influencers, but it turns out the company that made them is operating illegally and the bags all contain very high levels of this toxic chemical, so we had to ask the influencers to send them back and now it’s all over Instagram! I was so convinced I was going to get fired.”
“Hello Bridget,” Oliver said, squeezing her in return. “I take it you’re not fired, since this is your work function?”
“No. We’ve decided to lean into it, we’re emphasising how responsible we are because we told the truth rather than letting them all poison themselves in some big cover up.”
“You are the very picture of corporate responsibility. Of course, tote bags are in themselves really rather bad for the environment. Their production consumes disproportionately large quantities of water.”
Bridget looked comically shocked. “Oh no! We’ll have to make another statement. Anyway, Oliver, this is my friend Luc O’Donnell. You know, who I told you about?” She gave him a look of such exaggeratedly conspiratorial significance, it would have been visible from space. “And Luc, this is Oliver Blackwood. Why don’t you two, you know, get to know each other, I need to go and talk to someone about this terrible tote bag situation. I’ll see you both later!”
And with that, she vanished back into the crowd, leaving Oliver to stare awkwardly at Lucien, whose answering gaze was one part challenge, one part…something else, light dancing in his blue-green eyes. Up close, he was even more striking, all long dark lashes and wide, about-to-laugh mouth.
“Hello,” Oliver said, his tongue feeling oddly swollen. “Are you having a nice evening?”
Lucien shrugged. “Straight people standing around blowing smoke up each other’s arses isn’t really my thing.”
Oliver was just going to say that they shouldn’t really assume everyone in the room was straight, when the woman he’d been speaking to earlier wandered over, looking a little pink and tipsy.
“Oliver!” she exclaimed when she saw them. “Is this your boyfriend?”
A flush of annoyance washed over Oliver, mixed with the heat of embarrassment. Either the assumption was homophobic – or his face had been giving him away. Or, possibly, both. “No,” he said curtly. “This is just another homosexual I’m standing next to.”
“Oh,” the woman said, looking a little taken aback. “Well, alright then.”
And she tottered off. Oliver turned back to Luc, only to find his expression had changed from one of mild interest to marked dislike.
“Easy way to fix that problem,” he snapped – and stalked off, leaving Oliver gaping after him, desire and shame and regret burning in his gut.
***
Oliver had agreed to meet Bridget a few days later for coffee. Almost as soon as she’d sat down, she demanded, “So, what did you think of Luc? Did you like him?”
“I…” Oliver struggled to think what to say. Liked didn’t really feel like the right word for what Lucien O’Donnell made him feel, but neither did anything else. “He’s very… engaging.”
Bridget clapped her hands and gave a little squeal. “I just knew you’d be perfect for each other.”
“That’s not quite what I said.” Oliver swirled his coffee back and forth, feeling exposed and embarrassed, but unable to quite stop himself. “What did he… Did he say anything about me?”
Bridget hesitated. Oliver’s heart sank.
“He said you were hot,” she said slowly.
That was, at least, mildly cheering, but Bridget’s tone implied it came heavily qualified. “I’m sensing a but.”
“Well, he just – the thing you have to know about Luc is, he’s very prickly and he has terrible taste, and the more he likes someone, the meaner he is about them.”
Oliver raised an eyebrow. “How reassuring. What did he say?”
Bridget winced. “It’s possible he said he thought you were just a tiny bit… pompous.”
“Oh.” Oliver tried not to let that hurt, but it was too late, the word settling over him like a cloud of dust. It wasn’t exactly a surprise, after how badly their very limited interaction had gone, but… Pompous. Pompous Oliver Blackwood. Nowhere near good enough for someone as captivating as Lucien O’Donnell.
“But like I say,” Bridget pushed on. “That’s just Luc. He’s mean about everyone he likes. You should ask him out, once he spends time with you, he’ll realise—”
“Bridget, I appreciate your concern, but I’m not quite desperate enough to start asking out men who hate me,” Oliver interrupted, trying to keep his frustration out of his tone, and mostly succeeding.
Bridget stared at him, eyes brimming with earnest sorrow. “Oh Oliver, of course he doesn’t hate you. He’s just a bit of a dick sometimes.”
“I thought you were trying to convince me to ask him out.”
“It’s – he’s been through a lot, okay? And he really is lovely, and so funny, and sweet, once you get to know him.”
Oliver heaved a deep sigh. “If he’s not interested in getting to know me, there’s not much point, is there?” It was bad enough being dumped by men he was only averagely attracted to. Being rejected by Lucien O’Donnell would be something else entirely. “If he’d like to go on a date, you can give him my number. But otherwise… I think it would be for the best to just forget about it.”
And Oliver tried to take his own advice. He really did.
***
About a year later, he’d met Lucien again. It was Bridget’s birthday party, and Oliver had been unavoidably late this time, held up with something urgent at work. By the time he arrived, the party was in full swing, Bridget dancing tipsily with Tom on the dancefloor.
Oliver bought himself a drink, made a few rounds chatting to his friends, then returned to the bar for another. Just as he was about to go in search of the Birthday Girl herself, his eyes landed on a familiar figure. Huddled in a corner, drinking deeply and watching Bridget and Tom with a strange expression on his face, was Lucien.
Oliver remembered, suddenly, that Bridget had met Tom because he was dating Luc. A pang of pity went through him – as well as an odd, unaccountable jealousy. Of course Lucien wasn’t going to go out with someone like Oliver, if his usual standard was men like Tom.
Perhaps he could, at the very least, make up for the bad impression he’d made last time.
“Hello,” he said, sliding into the seat beside him.
Lucien blinked, looking a little dazed. “Oliver Blackwood,” he slurred. “We must stop meeting like this.”
“We’ve only met once,” Oliver retorted automatically – before realising Luc had been joking. Fuck. Why could he not say a single pleasant, normal thing to this man?
Lucien rolled his eyes, then turned back to watching Tom and Bridget on the dance floor. “Tom and I used to date,” he said after a beat.
“I know,” Oliver said. “That must be very strange for you.”
Luc shrugged. “It wasn’t serious. And Bridge is the best person, you know? She’s my best friend, and the best overall person.” He hiccoughed. “So, I guess Tom made the right choice.”
“I don’t know that it’s wise to rank people from best to worst,” Oliver said, trying for a wry, joking tone. He wasn’t the most objective judge, being about as gay they came, but as much as he loved Bridget, he couldn’t imagine giving up Lucien’s interest for anyone, if he were ever lucky enough to have it. Which he wouldn’t be.
Lucien did, against all odds, let out a small laugh. “I’m not a very wise person.” He took another long sip from his drink. “Will you dance with me?”
“I’m afraid dancing is not my forte.”
Luc shrugged and vanished off into the party, leaving Oliver slightly dejected in his wake.
Not for long, though. Every song or so, Lucien would circle back – often with another drink in hand – to try to tempt him up to the dancefloor.
“I can’t dance,” Oliver said, for perhaps the fifth time, as Lucien reappeared again, this time brandishing two rum and cokes, one of which he thrust at Oliver. Oliver took it.
“Anyone can dance,” Lucien said, smiling hazily at him. God, even plastered, he had an incredible smile, sharp and sweet all at the same time. He put his hand on the lapel of Oliver’s jacket and pulled him close. Oliver could smell the alcohol on his breath. “Iss easy,” he slurred against Oliver’s neck. “I’ll show you.”
Before he could protest, Oliver found he was being dragged onto the dancefloor. He stood, stock-still and awkward, as Lucien slunk and twirled around him, his movements turned clumsy by drink. Somehow, he’d already finished his rum and coke. Oliver watched uneasily as he slammed the glass down on a nearby table.
Luc turned back and pressed himself close. “Yourreally hot,” he murmured into Oliver’s ear.
Oliver swallowed. His heart was thudding loudly, his skin flushed all over. But this was the alcohol talking. He already knew what Lucien thought of him. Pompous.
“Thank you,” he said. “But I tend to take compliments given in a state of inebriation with a pinch of salt.”
“Inebriation,” Luc repeated, still holding Oliver flush against him. “Do you always talk like that?”
“Yes. Is it a problem?”
“Iss kinda sexy.” Luc grinned lopsidedly. He was really going to have to stop doing that, because Oliver was at serious risk of losing his heart if he didn’t. “You should come home withhme.”
Oliver took a deep breath. His latest relationship had broken down a few months ago, so he was fairly newly single – although at this point, he might as well get that printed on his business cards.
Suffice to say, it had been a while since anyone had touched him, since anyone had wanted to touch him. And yes, perhaps sometimes, just sometimes, when he was laying awake at night, he found his thoughts straying to Luc O’Donnell, his intense eyes, his sensual mouth, the long lines of his body…
But he didn’t want it like this, Lucien too drunk to know what he was doing. Oliver liked sex, but the things he liked about it were almost completely incompatible with doing it casually, or drunkenly, or with men who – alcohol aside – thought he was a pompous arsehole. He liked the specificity of sex; the ways it was different with every person. He liked being with someone, getting to know their body, what they liked and didn’t like, the ways he could make them feel good. He liked feeling close, being trusted.
“You’re drunk,” he said, as Lucien wound an arm around his neck. “I – it’s not really…”
Luc swayed where he stood, then made to pull away. “Your loss,” he muttered, but there was something in his expression – something almost hurt.
“Lucien—” Oliver began. He was saved from having to decide what to say next by Luc tripping over his own feet and plunging headlong towards the floor. Oliver leapt forward, catching Lucien around the waist as another partygoer steadied his arm.
“Whoops,” Luc laughed, as Oliver helped him right himself. “Wow, yourreally strong.”
He was even drunker than Oliver had realised. Sleeping with him would not only be profoundly unethical; it would be actively criminal. In a way, that was a relief. It made it so much clearer what Oliver needed to do.
“I’m going to take you home,” he told Lucien firmly.
Luc looked surprised for a moment, then gave a flirtatious smile. “Alright,” he said, winding his arm around Oliver’s waist. Oliver was really trying not to let it feel good. “Take me home.”
Oliver called a cab – not Uber, a proper black cab – and helped Lucien into it.
“What’s your address?” he asked.
Lucien, who’d had his eyes closed, jerked upright. “Shepherd’s Bush.”
“Where in Shepherd’s Bush?”
Luc thought about this for much longer than he should have needed to before finally rattling off a building number and post code. The taxi started to drive, as Oliver vaguely wondered how he was going to get home after all this. Shepherd’s Bush was halfway across London from Clerkenwell.
Lucien edged closer, hooking a finger into the top of Oliver’s shirt. “Howdyou feel about shocking a taxi driver?”
“Unenthusiastic,” Oliver told him firmly, closing a hand around his trailing fingers.
Lucien shrugged and laid his head on Oliver’s shoulder, throwing an arm across his stomach. The contact was warm, and made Oliver’s skin fizz with something he’d never quite felt before. “Yoursooooo boring.”
And he fell almost instantly asleep.
In spite of himself, Oliver felt the urge to stroke a hand over his hair. He resisted. What was wrong with him? What was it about Lucien that made every sensible part of his brain go into meltdown? Even drunk, Lucien thought he was boring. God only knew what he’d think about all this tomorrow – if he even remembered. He probably had no idea who Oliver was.
It felt good, though, just being close to someone. Oliver had missed the warmth of another person’s body against his own. The loneliness had been creeping up on him recently, an itching, tearing feeling beneath his skin that no date or pleasant conversation or dinner with his friends could assuage. He wanted to be touched. He wanted to be held. He wanted—
There were so many things he wanted.
At last, they pulled up outside Lucien’s front door. Oliver gently prodded him awake, then half supported, half carried him over the road and up the stairs into his flat.
“So…” In the dark, Luc pressed a messy kiss to Oliver’s throat, just beneath his ear. Oliver felt the an electric thrill of its heat through his whole body. “What are you into?”
You. “I – Lucien, nothing is going to happen.” Oliver felt around desperately for a light switch. He couldn’t find one, but Lucien seemed unphased, tripping through the darkness towards a room at the end of the hall. Oliver followed him, stumbling repeatedly over mystery objects on the floor.
Luc flung open a door into what was clearly his bedroom, then immediately turned and reached for Oliver again. Oliver let him wrap an arm around his neck, then slowly guided him over a curiously clothes-strewn floor towards the faint silhouette of the bed.
Lucien sat, then slowly reclined in what he clearly thought was a provocative fashion, smiling up at Oliver. Then he frowned, shifted, and produced something from beneath his body. He stared at in dazed surprise for a moment. “Whoops,” he giggled, dropping it to the floor. “Vibrator!”
Oliver really needed to get out of there. Immediately.
“Come on then,” Lucien continued. “What are you waiting for?”
“Just – give me one moment.” Oliver backed away slowly, tangled his feet in what might have been a t-shirt and nearly fell on his backside. Lucien let out a surprisingly infectious laugh.
“One moment,” Oliver breathed, mortified but also oddly pleased to have made Lucien laugh like that. He darted out of the room and felt his way along the wall until he reached the kitchen, then fumbled around for a few minutes in the cupboards. They were all empty. It seemed like everything Lucien owned was stored on the surface next to his sink – dirty plates and takeaway containers in particular. Oliver frowned. Perhaps Lucien had been having a bad week.
He thought briefly about washing them up for him – but maybe Lucien wouldn’t like that. Unbidden, a memory surfaced of one his ex-boyfriends, Peter. Their relationship had lasted longer than Oliver’s average – almost eight months – until one day, Peter had text to say he was having a busy day at work. Oliver had tidied his flat for him, thinking it would be a nice surprise. Instead, Peter had exploded and dumped Oliver on the spot.
“Do you have to be so fucking passive aggressive? I’m sorry I’m not as perfect as you, Oliver!”
He found the biggest glass he could, quickly washed it and filled it with water, then returned to the bedroom.
To his utter lack of surprise, Lucien was sound asleep on top of the covers. Oliver put the glass down on the cabinet beside him.
“Goodnight, Lucien,” he whispered, before slipping out of the door again.
As he reached the threshold, he hesitated. Would it be so terrible to leave his number, in case Lucien…?
Almost as soon as the idea had struck him, he shook it away. Pompous. Lucien thought he was pompous. He wouldn’t remember any of this in the morning, and if he did, he’d probably just be relieved that nothing untoward had happened. He wasn’t going to spontaneously develop an interest in Oliver that he’d never shown before. And Oliver didn’t want to spend the next few weeks anxiously pining, hoping for a text that would never come.
So he left.
***
A week or so later, he found himself at dinner with Bridget. As soon as the conversation allowed, she fixed him with an intent look.
“So,” she said. “I saw you leaving my party with Luc.”
“Nothing happened,” Oliver assured her quickly. “I just saw him back to his flat.”
Bridget rolled her eyes. “Well I know that. Even if Luc hadn’t told me, I know you wouldn’t do that.”
“What did…Did he…What did he say?”
Bridget’s face cracked into a delighted grin. “Oh my god, you do like him, don’t you? I knew it. I just knew you’d get on.”
Oliver blushed, looking down at his plate. It felt silly to deny it when he hadn’t been able to put aside the memory of Lucien’s mouth on his throat for days, when the memory of that giddy laugh lit up every time he closed his eyes. “Perhaps a little,” he admitted. “Who wouldn’t?”
“You’d be surprised,” Bridget mused. “He’s so lovely, but like I said before, he can also be a bit of a dick.”
Oliver had noticed. Weirdly, he found it didn’t bother him that much.
“This is so great,” Bridget went on. “You should totally ask him out!”
“Do…” God, this was so embarrassing. Why was this so embarrassing? “Do you think he’d say yes?”
“Of course!” Bridget said, far too quickly and squeakily. Oliver looked at her sceptically. “Okay, I told you before, he’s got terrible taste in men and only dates people who are bad for him.”
“Didn’t he date Tom?”
“Yes. Tom’s the exception. Although, I suppose dating someone who then goes off with your best friend isn’t a sign of great taste.” Bridget made a guilty face. “But if you just ask him…He did say you were hot.”
“And pompous,” Oliver reminded her.
“He didn’t mean it.”
“I think he did. The other night he also said I was boring.”
Bridget put her head in her hands. “Luc!” She hissed. “He’s terrible. I mean,” she added quickly, “terribly lovely. But also terrible. Please just give him a chance, Oliver, I promise you he’s wonderful when you get to know him.”
Oliver rubbed a hand over his brow. “It’s not me giving him a chance that’s the issue. I really don’t think he’s interested. If he wants to go on a date, I’d be very…I’d like to get to know him better. But I’d rather leave it up to him.”
Bridget beamed her beamiest beam. “Oh don’t worry. I’m brilliant at this sort of thing. Just leave it to me.”
***
And that was the last Oliver had heard of it…until three days ago.
He looked at his fob again. Seven fifty-five. When should he call it and leave, he wondered? He could feel pitying looks coming his way from the staff and other diners. This was so embarrassing. Why did every interaction he had with Lucien end up being so embarrassing?
He’d been so surprised when Bridget called the other day to say Lucien wanted to go on a date. Surprised, but pleased. He wasn’t naïve enough to think it was a spontaneous request – Bridget had never abandoned her hopes of setting them up – but still, it was…flattering. It had been almost a year since they’d last seen each other, and although Oliver had been dating someone for part of it, he’d never quite been able to put Lucien from his mind. There was just something about him, his freedom, his smiles…
And now he’d stood Oliver up.
Which was fine. Oliver would get over it. He always did.
Two minutes to eight. He’d give it until ten past. Forty minutes was plenty of time for a text message, at the bare minimum.
Unless he was stuck on the Tube…?
The door banged open, and Oliver looked up instinctively, not feeling particularly hopeful. But it was Lucien, looking slightly dishevelled and sweaty, his eyes darting around the restaurant until they rested on Oliver. Feeling some combination of relieved and irritated, Oliver rose to greet him.