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“You should grow your hair out.”
Connor smirks as he unbuttons Oliver’s dress shirt. The other man sways slightly from where he sits on the bed, and makes no moves to help as Connor continues to undress him.
“Yeah?” Connor asks with a raised eyebrow. “You like having something to tug on?” He says slyly.
Oliver laughs as he continues to watch Connor while he undresses him. Their faces are mere inches apart. Close enough that he could easily reach up and tug on those short strands of hair to his heart’s content.
“I like it long,” Oliver says with a grin. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’re fucking gorgeous either way… but I think I like it a bit longer.”
Connor finally removes Oliver’s shirt and pushes him back onto the bed. “Tell me what else you like,” he says in a low voice. A playful grin graces his face as he kneels down to remove Oliver’s shoes and socks. Oliver certainly isn’t drunk to the point where he can’t undress himself, but it’s nice to be able to take care of the other man. And Oliver seems to be enjoying himself.
“I like it messy,” Oliver says, a slight slur to his voice. He’s leaning back against the pillows, propped up slightly so he can look down at the other man. His bare chest heaves slightly as he watches him, and Connor tries not to get any ideas from his position on his knees. “I like when it’s falling into your face, and you have to brush it back with your hands.”
Subconsciously, Connor runs his hand through his hair. It’s definitely short enough that he never has to worry about it getting into his eyes. But after a long day, the product he put in it has faded, and messy is a good way to describe it’s current condition.
“You just like seeing me disheveled,” he jokes.
Oliver laughs softly and doesn’t disagree. A moment passes before he speak agains, and his words now catch Connor off guard. “Remember that night you showed up, high on… whatever?”
Connor instantly freezes. They never talk about that night. And he doesn’t ever want to talk about that night, possibly the worst one of his life. When they ‘accidentally’ killed someone, and burned the body to cover it up. He hacked it to pieces with his own hands. It was the worst thing he’s done in his life, and he was a mess when he showed up at Oliver’s door. So no, he doesn’t want to think about that night, ever again. But Oliver doesn’t know that. And in his state, he doesn’t seem to notice his discomfort either.
“You were a dreadful mess that night,” Oliver says nonchalantly. “Whatever drugs you were on…”
Connor looks away, refusing to make eye contact. He’s undone Oliver’s belt buckle, and works on removing the garment from the other man, anything to avoid the subject at hand. But Oliver doesn’t seem to take the hint.
“I remember your hair kept falling into your face,” he mumbles as he lifts his hips so the other man can slide the pants off his legs. “I kept wanting to brush it back, but… given where we were at that point, I didn’t dare try to… you know…”
Connor swallows nervously as discards Oliver’s pants onto the floor. He reaches around for the covers and quickly pulls it over the other man. He desperately wants to change the subject so he just laughs hesitantly, “I think you’ve had a few too many tonight.”
“I still don’t know why you showed up here,” Oliver slurs.
Connor freezes again. His breath catches in his throat, and he has to take a moment before he straightens and makes his way over to his own side of the bed. A short reprieve if nothing else.
“It was the last thing I expected,” Oliver mumbles. “And then with the mess that happened afterwards… your professor accusing her own husband of murder, and then his body being found not long after…”
Connor’s breath hitches as he removes his own clothes. Now he’s facing away from the other man. Who knows what might happen if he meets Oliver’s eyes. He might say something he’ll regret. And however much he wants to confess his deepest, darkest secret to the man that means more to him than anything, he can’t. It’s too dangerous, to himself, and more importantly to Oliver. He can’t bring him into this, as much as it kills him.
And there’s always the chance that if he tells Oliver everything, the other man won’t be able to accept it. Oliver looking at him differently, pushing him out that door again, and telling him to leave and never come back… it’d kill him.
Hastily, Connor climbs into bed next to the other man. He’s about to shut off the light, ready to end all conversation and go to sleep when Oliver’s hand brushes against his arm.
“I always thought it was weird that you turned up the same night your professor’s husband went missing.”
Connor freezes, his arm half way to the light on the bedside table. His blood runs cold. What can he do? His greatest fear is practically unfolding before his eyes. Does Oliver suspect something? Does he know? The man has never brought up the subject before, and now, it’s completely catching him off guard and he doesn’t know what to do.
He slowly turns to look at the other man. Oliver is gazing at him strangely, not accusatory by any means, but differently all the same.
“I always thought it was a weird coincidence, you know…” Oliver chuckles softly. “The husband’s body was burnt, and you showed up reeking of smoke…” He sluggishly moves closer and wraps his arm around Connor’s waist, snuggling close to the other man. “But I know it was from the bonfire, right?”
Connor laughs nervously, but it sounds fake to his own ears. “Yeah, the bonfire.”
“Just a weird coincidence that it happened the same night?” The other man jokes lightly.
“Yeah,” Connor whispers. “Just a coincidence.” He had never imagined the other man suspected anything. But it makes sense now. Oliver’s a smart guy, clearly he can put two and two together. The clues are obvious.
If it weren’t for his drug addiction lie… yet another reminder why he has to keep up the pain in the ass facade.
“Let’s go to bed,” he whispers quickly.
“You trying to change the subject or something?” Oliver jokes, a heavy slur to his voice.
Connor chuckles nervously. “I’m just tired… And I’m sure you must be as well, drunkie.”
“Mmm, yeah,” Oliver closes his eyes. “Mmkay.”
Connor waits a moment before reaching over to turn off the lamp, shrouding the room in darkness. He only feels slightly better under the dark cover. Oliver’s arm is heavy around his waist, and he can feel the other man’s slow, even breath, signaling that he’s already fast asleep.
He draws a slow, shaky breath, willing himself not to freak out, not to panic. Oliver doesn’t know. He may suspect something but he doesn’t know. And while he longs to tell the other man, every fiber of his being wishes to just be honest with him, and tell the truth, lay his heart out and hope, pray, beg that the other man understand and forgives him.
There’s just never a good moment.
There’s never a right moment.
So he closes his eyes, and focuses on the feeling of Oliver’s arm wrapped tightly around him, the feeling of being warm, safe, and secure. Anything, and everything else fades away so long as he has Oliver.
As long as he has Oliver, he feels okay.
The truth can wait for another day.