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Ángel wakes up feeling… cold. He almost never wakes up cold, not with Oliver practically acting as a space heater beside him.
Or. With Oliver usually acting as a space heater.
But tonight, when Ángel rolls over in bed to re-cuddle with his lover, he’s met instead with an empty dip in the bed.
It feels
Like missing a step on the stairs.
In an instant, Ángel is awake, reaching out a hand and cracking open his sleep-crusted eyes to see if maybe, somehow, he was mistaken, and Oliver is just a little further away. He’s not.
He tries to get his breathing under control as it starts to pick up. Oliver's probably just getting water or something, there's probably no reason to panic. Ángel is probably just being silly, haha.
Haha…
…
He gets up anyway.
If he is being silly, and Beebo really is just in the kitchen (which is the likely reason, he reminds himself), Ángel will feel a bit stupid. But at least he'll have confirmation that his fears are irrational.
He opens the bedroom door and Jesus , it's even colder out here. Is the heater broken?
He walks through the apartment, darting his eyes around for any sign on Oliver, and then
Stops, frozen, in the living room.
Eyes fixed on the front door.
It's open.
Ángel's stomach lurches. He feels nauseous. Did someone break in? Did something happen to Oliver? Was he kidnapped?
Ángel finds himself moving mechanically through the house while numerous scenarios race through his head. He can't breathe. He has to control his breathing but he can't, he can't, he can't take the time to stop and breathe when Oliver could be hurt, or kidnapped, or worse—
Not in the kitchen—though he thankfully finds Mozilla Firefox there, snoozing on a chair. Thank god he didn't get out. His search for Beebo continues.
Not in the bathroom.
Nowhere.
Nowhere in the apartment.
Ángel grabs his phone for light—no emergency messages from Oliver, how lovely—tugs on his scarf from its hook near the doorway, shuffles his shoes on, then heads outside. No time to get properly dressed into warmer clothes—he can't afford to waste a second, not with what's at stake.
It's cold. It's so cold. Snow and frost dot the ground from a recent rare storm. Of course there had to be snow.
Wait, but that might mean—
He looks down. Footprints…!
Okay, okay, this is good, he at least knows where to go. The smallest weight lifts from his shoulders.
Unless this is an obvious trap, somehow.
He chases that thought out.
He allows himself a single deep breath before spurring into a light jog, following the footprint trail.
He can't help but find it odd that there is, indeed, only one set of footprints, as far as Ángel can tell. That probably rules out kidnapping, but makes it all the more confusing. Did Ollie leave without telling him? Why would he do that?
Finally, he sees a figure in the distance, walking, faced away from him. He'd recognize him anywhere.
His heart lurches. Something feels wrong. Something about Oliver's posture, the way he carries himself, doesn't seem right, even from this distance.
“OLIVER!”
Ángel's throat burns from exertion so soon upon waking up and the biting cold in his lungs. His fingers are freezing and his face hurts, but he can't care less about himself at the moment.
Oliver doesn't turn around at his shout. He keeps walking, walking, then—
“OLIVER?! ”
He suddenly drops to the ground, Ángel’s heart dropping with him. What's wrong, what's wrong what's wrong, what happened to him??
He catches up and falls to Ollie's side, sliding his arms under him to hoist him back to his feet.
“What's wrong? Are you okay??” Ángel asks, frantic.
Oliver says nothing. Ángel looks at his face to see wide, glazed eyes and a mouth slack and half open. Fuck, was he drugged?? How the hell would he get drugged???
Ángel shakes his shoulder. Bad idea—Oliver almost goes tumbling down again. Ángel tightens his grip.
“Beebs, c'mon talk to me,” he pleads. “Or—give me some kind of sign? Please? You're scaring me.”
Oliver’s head turns ever so slightly to face him, his eyes meeting Àngels in an intense stare that makes him shiver. Oliver rarely makes eye contact.
Oliver blinks at him, then turns his head to fix his look in another direction, gazing at something far, far in the distance.
“It's calling.”
Beebo’s voice is slightly hoarse and completely flat, like the words were drawn out from somewhere deep inside himself. Ángel feels so viscerally unsettled he nearly misses what's actually said.
“What?”
Oliver turns back to him. “It's calling.”
The repeated words do nothing to explain what's going on.
Ángel takes a deep breath. Okay, so. Beebo seems pretty out of it. Which makes sense! Because he's been walking in the freezing cold for god knows how long. Never mind why he's out here to begin with, Ángel needs to get him somewhere warm now. He has to do something, he can't be useless.
He takes one of Oliver's freezing cold hands in his, and to his immense relief, after a second of Oliver staring at their joined hands like this is a foreign thing to do, he returns the grip ever so slightly.
“Ok, Beebs, you just collapsed in the middle of the sidewalk in the freezing cold. I think whatever's calling can wait,” Ángel says gently.
Oliver seems… agitated at that. The change in his expression is small, but when you've gayly stared at a man's face as long as Ángel has, you can pick up the slight furrow of an eyebrow, the smallest tightening of lips. Whatever state he's in right now, he isn't happy about not doing whatever task he's set out to do—on his own, Ángel reminds himself. And without even bothering to close the front door.
He gently tugs on Oliver's hand in the direction of home, and after a few delayed moments, Ángel praying he won't straight up refuse because it'd kill him on the spot, Oliver finally puts a foot in front of himself and takes an unsteady step.
Right, he did collapse not long ago.
“Alright, I'm gonna pick you up, okay?”
In a pattern Ángel is starting to get used to (as much as it worries the shit out of him) Oliver doesn't respond.
Ángel lifts him up, bridal style.
While being carried home, Oliver looks back at that point in the distance again. Ángel squints in that direction, but can't really see anything of note.
“It's calling.”
“What's calling?” he asks.
Oliver pauses for so long that Ángel nearly gives up on getting an answer, until he's back home and struggling with the front door and he hears, quietly:
“The House.”
He nearly drops Oliver.
Ah.
He feels like all the blood in his body has turned into ash. Of-fucking-course they can't have it easy. Of course they can't just leave the House and be free, not having to think about it, let alone go back, for the rest of their lives.
Ángel clenches his teeth and opens the front door, stepping into their still-cold apartment. Before they can do anything, they need to get warm. This is something he can focus on so he won't have to think about the fact that the fucking House of Vera is maybe sort-of possessing his boyfriend right now??
He sets Beebo down on their couch before doing anything else.
“Don't run off again, we need to get you warm,” he says, trying to sound both firm and gentle and ending up kind of neither of those things. He feels fragile.
“It's calling.” Oliver sounds insistent.
Ángel runs his hands through his bedhead, starting to get more and more agitated at this whole clusterfuck of a situation. He wishes he had Oliver to help him, but Oliver is. Well. The obvious.
“I know, I know, but we can't have you freezing to d—getting hypothermia before you can go, right?” he tries to reason, simultaneously checking to see if the heater's on while keeping Oliver in his sights.
Oliver, or the House, or whatever's gotten into him, seems to actually stop and consider that. Ángel nearly lets out an audible sigh of relief as he slowly nods to Ángel’s words.
“Okay. Great. Awesome. Let me get some blankets and fresh clothes for you, I'll be right back.”
The next few minutes consist of: helping Oliver get dressed in warmer, drier clothes, throwing blankets on him, putting more blankets in the dryer to warm them up, then throwing those on him as well.
At some point, Oliver surprised him by holding up one of his copious blankets and giving Ángel an owlish stare so intense he could do nothing but accept it, draping it over his shoulders as he gathered things. He supposed he was also pretty cold, after all. Not as much now that he had been moving around a bit, but still. Something in his heart had eased at the kind gesture.
Beebo looks… comical, bundled in a million billion blankets. Even with the circumstances being what they are, Ángel can't help a small snort from escaping him as he steps back to look at his handiwork.
“You warm yet?” Angel asks, settling down next to Oliver on the couch to share a few blankets and properly warm himself up.
Oliver says nothing, so Ángel takes one of his hands in his to check for himself (and definitely not at all because he wants to hold his hand). It's still a bit cold, but not alarmingly so anymore—thank goodness.
Ángel keeps Oliver's hand for the moment, taking a second to just. Stop for a second and process the situation.
The House is calling Beebo. And presumably Beebo won't go back to normal until they've answered the call. (Hopefully Oliver will go back to normal, Ángel prays Oliver will go back to normal, he can't imagine what he'd do if he didn't please please please it's hard enough thinking about going back there he can't lose his love again to that godforsaken house please—)
He forces his jaw to unclench. He's squeezing Oliver's hand too tightly, so he loosens his grip.
They'll be fine. Oliver will be fine! Maybe the house just needs some maintenance, or something. Sometimes Oliver gets an itch when a bird decides to nest somewhere on the roof—maybe it's similar to that. They'll do whatever they need to do, Oliver will go back to normal, and then they'll go back home to their normal, regular life together.
It'll be fine.
And if it's not, then…!
Ángel doesn't know. He'll call Vivi, or something. For emotional support, if Oliver is unavailable.
…Okay.
Okay…! That's a plan! A plan that doesn't even involve curling up into a ball feeling like he's going to die for real if anything goes wrong! He's gonna get such a good grade in mental health!
He takes a deep breath. Just one more time he has to see the house. Just one step in front of the other, and he'll figure the rest out as he goes. And he'll be so brave about it.
He calls an uber.
The driver looks at them funny, but with enough cash thrown in his face—and with Ángel’s probably immensely uncomfortable expression—they get driving without comment.
Ángel doesn't let go of Ollie's hand the whole time, even as he can feel their hands getting clammy and damp with sweat. He looks at Oliver staring out the window at a fixed point, and, when the House finally peeks out in the distance, Ángel feels his hand tighten ever so slightly in his own. He swears he sees Oliver even lean forward in his seat like a child in anticipation.
Ángel squeezes his hand back, the sight of the awful building making his gut churn. He wants nothing more than to tell the driver to turn around this second and pay them double, but he can't. For one reason or another, Oliver needs this.
One foot in front of the other.
Before the car even rolls to a complete stop, Oliver has the car door yanked open, and Ángel feels the cool air on his damp hand as his lover briefly parts from him. His own door swings open shortly after, and he just barely placates Beebo’s tugging hands long enough so he can shove more than the correct total to the driver.
And then, Oliver is pulling him along towards the house’s magnetic field, any slowness or clumsiness from earlier burnt away by his current fervor.
They reach the door in no time at all, and then Oliver's pawing at the front door, locked with the probably-a-dozen safety mechanisms Ángel had implemented.
“Hold on, hold on…” he mutters as he pulls out his key ring and starts unlocking it, Oliver looking at him with somehow even more intensity than ever.
Ángel can feel his hands shake slightly, with both nervousness and something else he can't exactly place. Walking up to the house had felt… strange. Anticipatory. Like coming home after a long, long day.
Like seeing an old friend.
He shakes the feeling. Old friends wouldn't be murder houses. That would be stupid.
The second the door is open, Oliver practically collapses inside, taking a step in and inhaling deeply, like he's been deprived of oxygen until now. Like being inside the House is like taking a breath of fresh air.
Ángel wonders, is that not unlike what it feels like? Oliver and the house are connected, after all. What does it feel like, being united like this after so long?
He stands awkwardly outside the threshold, the old vision of Oliver collapsed in the snow, digging his nails into his skin and hyperventilating resurfacing to the front of Ángel’s mind after being buried for so long. He doesn't want to cause Oliver that discomfort, that pain—even as something deep in his heart, something unexplainable, tells him to follow his lover. He can't do that to him. He won't.
But,
Oliver once again tugs at his hand, pulling him almost off balance. Follow, follow me, please, he begs without saying. And who is Ángel to argue with that?
He falls into the magnetic pull of the accursed House, letting himself be guided through it by the one he was carrying home not too long ago. The tables have turned; he's in Oliver's territory now.
The house is warm, inviting, drawing him further in even without Oliver's promoting. You're welcome here, it says, you're safe, even as his heart wants to clench with anxiety. His feet move almost on their own, and he gains an inkling of understanding for what drew Beebo here to begin with.
It feels right.
Like fitting together puzzle pieces that had been long separated.
He only snaps back to the present to realize where they're going as his feet hit the stairs. Oliver looks down at him from a step above, expectant yet patient now that there's no rush to enter the house.
Ángel climbs. Inputs the code he knows by heart. Walks into the awaiting hall. And,
Stands
In front of the spot where the clock used to be. Where that man's body used to be. Where Ángel’s body used to be, in another time.
He feels sick.
He feels at ease.
He feels
Oliver's arms, wrapping around his midsection from behind. He feels him pull him, gently—always gently, even now—to the floor, at the same time turning both of them around so their backs are to the wall.
He feels Oliver's chest against his back, rising and falling with his steady breaths. He feels the floor underneath him. He feels the small tickle of air on his neck as Oliver exhales against him.
He feels
Whole.
Despite himself, he relaxes.
He feels Oliver do the same.
His eyes fall shut and he feels Oliver’s head fall onto his shoulder, hair tickling his neck.
He's content, in this moment. He really shouldn't be. The old smell of the House should sicken him, the warmth through the vents should feel stifling, the godforsaken effect the place has on his boyfriend should disgust him.
But he's content. Haaaa, this house is doing something to his brain, isn't it? It's messing with him the same way it's messing with Ollie. That thought should alarm him more than it does. The reality that he's probably being eaten as he thinks these thoughts should alarm him.
But he's with Oliver, so he's content.
He leans backwards into Oliver's embrace and relaxes.
Just in this moment, he lets go.
…
…
He doesn't know how much time passes, the pair of them sitting there on the floor, tangled and pressed together as closely as humanly possible. Ángel is still tired from his sleep being interrupted earlier, so he might've dozed off at some point. Eventually, though, he becomes aware of his surroundings again as he feels Oliver stir on his shoulder.
Oliver's breathing hitches for just a second, before settling to his normal, regular, not perfectly level and mechanical pace, and the thread of anxiety Ángel had held onto starts to unravel.
“Ollie?” he prompts quietly, and even with as low as he whispers it, it still feels like he's shattering something fragile in the once quiet air.
He feels Oliver tense slightly. Then slowly, very slowly, Oliver starts wiggling his stiff limbs around, squeezing and unsqueezing Ángel’s torso in the process like he's a teddy bear. The pressure feels nice. Teddy bears have it good.
After an eternity, finally, Oliver speaks.
“Ángel.”
A pause. Ángel can tell he has something else to say, so he gives him time. He feels Oliver squeeze him again, gently.
“Thank you.” I'm sorry, go the deafening unsaid words. Ángel’s hand finds Oliver’s around his waist and laces their fingers together, hopefully reassuringly.
“What happened?”
A pause.
“…I don’t think we can leave this place, Ángel. Not fully.”
Ángel feels a pit grow in his stomach. He doesn’t know what to say.
“It felt… I don’t know.” Oliver starts rubbing his thumb against Ángel’s hand, probably absentmindedly, while speaking. “Bad. Wrong. Being away from here for so long. The House, I think it—”
He pauses. Swallows. Takes a deep breath that disturbs a few hairs at Ángel’s neck.
“It needs me. And I need it. I’m its heart. What happens when you separate a heart from its body?”
“…Not great things, probably.”
He feels Oliver silently nod against his back. Ángel shivers. So what would’ve happened if they had taken longer to get here? Would Oliver have…?
“It must be some kind of… defense mechanism, or something.” Beebo starts theorizing out loud. “The… calling. It was the only thing I could think about, coming here. The house must do that when I'm away from it for too long.”
“So we'll have to visit here every once in a while?”
“…Most likely.” And Oliver might've felt the way Ángel tenses at that, because he adds: “Ah, but once every few months isn't, um, the worst, right? For the price of bringing you back, this isn't so bad.”
“…I wish we didn't have to come here at all. You—you really shouldn't have saved m—”
“Don't say that.”
“But you shouldn't have to deal with this! I'm not worth it—”
“Ángel,” Oliver says firmly, then continues, gentler. “I’d do it a thousand times over. You're more than worth it, to me. It was my choice.
“And what happened, happened. We can't change it now.”
They shouldn't ruminate over the past, or obsess about fixing things that can't be fixed. Look at what that got Eugene. A family that (mostly) hates him and a nice spot six feet underneath the ground.
Right now, what Oliver would have him do is focus on the present, on the positives, on what they can do. And what they can do…
Ángel takes a deep breath.
…Is talk about it.
“Okay.”
This is just going to be a thing now, and he has to accept it. He has to be brave about it.
“Okay?”
“Just every once in a while?”
“I think? I hope so.”
“How—” Ángel wets his lips, nervous to admit his bubbling terror. “How can I notice something's going on, before you just start wandering outside? You scared me, there.”
They hadn't lingered on it among everything else going on, but Oliver had come dangerously close to freezing, if Ángel hadn't found him when he did.
Oliver tightens his grip, silent for a moment.
“Sorry about that,” he says, softly. “Thank you for finding me.”
He takes a deep breath.
“It was… really disorienting at first, but got a little better over time. Maybe I'll just be? More ready for it next time?”
Ángel isn't sure if he's satisfied with that answer.
“…Do you think a baby lock on the door would work.”
“Ángel!?”
“It's a serious question!!”
Oliver seems to give the idea serious thought for a moment.
“I don't know about that specifically, but anything that would require any amount of brain power or fine motor skills might work? If it's easier to come to you to open it than to try opening it myself, I might just wake you up. Problem solved?”
“Good idea, good idea.”
Satisfied with that idea—for now at least—they grow silent for a minute.
Ángel doesn't know why he isn't itching to leave. They've solved the problem, at least for now, so theoretically they should be good to go home. Yet, he doesn't feel like leaving. He doesn't feel like budging from Oliver's warm embrace. And it seems Oliver doesn't feel like disengaging himself, either.
So he delays the idea of getting up. He stalls, for both of them.
“It was disorienting?” Ángel questions. Ollie is silent for a moment before answering, likely collecting his thoughts.
“…I couldn’t really tell where I was. I was home, but I was also in the house. Simultaneously far away and right here. I had to close the distance, it didn't feel right to be away from mysel—” Oliver cuts himself off at that, going still for a moment. Ángel holds his breath. “…I mean, from the house. I couldn't think of anything else other than getting here. Everything else was secondary.”
“Which included getting dressed and closing the front door. Or calling an uber.”
“Yeah…” Oliver pauses, eyes blowing wide with a realization. “Wait… Mozilla Firefox?! Did he—?”
“He didn't get out, I found him before I left to find you,” Ángel rushes to reassure him. Don't mention that you might've forgotten about him if you hadn't found him while looking for Ollie. It all worked out, so it's fine.
The moment of tension Oliver had relaxes.
“Oh, good, good. Thank you.”
“Laying it on thick with the thanks tonight.”
“Sorry, I'm just… really glad things didn't go worse. And I wasn't much use at explaining what I was feeling so you were all stressed, and…” Oliver sighs. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, you couldn’t help it!” Ángel insists. If anyone should be sorry, it'd be Ángel, for not being better, for not being stupid and getting himself killed in the first place—but he knows Oliver wouldn't accept that.
“Still…”
Oliver squeezes him again, and Ángel leans into him in turn. He swears he can hear Oliver's heartbeat this way.
It's nice.
…
“Beebster, I’m gonna fall asleep again. You’re too cozy.”
“AH? Ahh, I forgot it was this late!” Oliver sounds slightly startled, and his body had jolted when Ángel had spoken. Had he been close to falling asleep as well? Cute. “We should probably be heading home, huh?”
“True, true,” Ángel sighs sleepily, digging his phone from his pocket.
“Ack!” The full brightness of his phone in the dark of the house startles the both of them. Damn, had they really walked through the place in the dark? Ángel hadn't really thought about it until now. Guess it helps to have a haunted boyfriend to guide you through the house he’s in a symbiotic relationship with.
Once Ángel turns down the brightness to a not-blinding level, he navigates to the uber app,
And hesitates.
Do they really have to leave now? It's so warm and cozy here, and they're already so tired. Surely they can just stay the night. They should stay. They need to st—
Ángel inhales sharply as he snaps back to himself. No, no, that's the House talking. He doesn't—why would he want to—
“Ángel?” Oliver's voice is thick with concern. Ángel wants to laugh off his moment of hesitance and just open the damn app already to get out of here, but…
How scary is the house, really, with Oliver by his side, safe and sound? There's no Eugene Coli, there's nothing that could harm them here. Not without Oliver sensing it beforehand.
Is it wrong to not want to leave? Ángel knows that this place messed him up, he knows the house is probably at least partially making him feel this apprehensive about leaving, but… Knowing that doesn't get rid of the warmth he feels while he's here. A warm blanket of safety, like a comforting embrace.
Knowing that he shouldn't be feeling these things doesn't stop him from feeling them.
“Can we stay the rest of the night, actually?” he ends up asking, quiet, under his breath and barely audible if it weren't for the ever quiet House and Beebo right there with him.
And instantly, it's as if the words puncture a hole in the tension he hadn't even noticed in the room. A spring, uncoiled. A change in the air he swears he can physically feel, accompanied by a quiet sigh of relief from Oliver.
“Are you sure?” he asks. So he wants them to stay, too.
“Not really, honestly,” Ángel laughs. “But I'd say at least seventy percent.”
“Ángel.”
“I’m serious. I don't know why I feel like this, but it just…”
“Feels right? Or rather, it'd feel wrong to leave?”
“Exactly.”
Oliver sighs.
“…So you feel it too. I shouldn't feel happy about that but I do.”
“Hey, let's feel things we shouldn't be feeling together, yeah? We'll be weird together.”
Oliver snorts a short laugh and it's a beautiful sound to Ángel's ears, especially after the night they've had.
“Yeah, yeah, maybe just one night. We can talk more about this tomorrow.”
“If you insist, Beebest.”
…
“We should get off the floor, Ángel.”
“Sighhh… Yes, dear.”
“Did you just say ‘sigh’ out loud?”
“Hehehe.”
Giggling, they untangle themselves from each other and stand, then wince as their joints crackle from sitting on the hard floor.
“So, we’re definitely moving the beanbags over here next time, right?” Ángel jokes as he stretches his limbs out.
Is it too soon to say stuff like that? He worries. No, no, Ollie’s laughing at it, surely it’s fine.
Ángel’s heart soars at the sound. It flies even higher when he feels Oliver’s hand snaking into his again.
“Definitely.”
They choose the room with the not-Blåhaj—partially because it's the closest, and partially because it's not a room with any horrible memories attached to it. No phantom scent of blood or memories of a photobook being stolen, just a shark plushie and shittily-played keyboard music.
Ángel lets go of Ollie's hand to collapse face-first onto the bed—and promptly flips back over at Oliver's resulting yelp. Stupid, how could he have forgotten Oliver can feel that.
“Shit, sorry, I forgot you—”
“No, no, it's fine!” Oliver reassures, climbing into bed beside Ángel. “It just startled me, it didn't feel bad at all.”
“Oh. Huh.”
“It's…” Oliver suddenly blushes, and Ángel sees his hand twitch upwards to search for a hat kilometers away to hide his face. God, his boyfriend is so cute. “The house feelings are actually kinda nice, I think? When it's you.”
Oh. Oh, that's— it makes some sort of sense, Ángel supposes, with him being related to the new purpose and all, but—
“Ah, did I say something wrong??”
Ángel had buried his face in one of the pillows, his own face heating up rapidly.
“Oliver,” he says, voice muffled. “That's one of the most adorable things I've ever heard, I think?” He lifts his head from the pillow to look at Oliver's even redder face. “Can I say that?”
He drinks in the sight of Oliver’s wide eyes for all of two seconds before his beloved smothers his own face with a pillow.
“…………You can,” Beebo mumbles. Ángel smiles mischievously, scooting himself closer to his lover.
“And may this humble thief request to see his boyfriend’s handsome face, so he can plant one thousand kisses upon it?” he asks, with unnecessary dramatics.
“Ángellllll………” Oliver whines. “So mean to me…”
Hehehe, a flustered Beeb is a cute Beeb.
“May I?”
“…………………You may.”
With his permission granted, Ángel gently pries the pillow away from his beloved’s flushed face, and cups his hands around him. He takes a moment to just admire the sights, to brush a thumb across Oliver’s cheek, to appreciate the beautiful man he has in his hands.
He’s so, so lucky, to have met someone like Oliver. Perhaps the circumstances they had met in—and the circumstances they're currently living—aren’t the most ideal, but at least the House had given them this opportunity, this second chance, to be together. To be at each other’s side.
Before Ángel can feel the sting of tears he know will come if he dwells on this for much longer, he swoops in to softly peck a kiss onto Oliver’s cheek. Then another, then another, then dozens more all over his face until he loses count and he and Oliver are giggling together and everything is just…
Right.
He wraps it up with one final, delicate kiss on Oliver’s lips before pulling away, hands dropping from his face to wrap loosely around his waist. Their faces are still close enough to share air, feeling the warmth of the other’s breath on their faces.
They’re both smiling.
“I love you.”
Ah! An unexpected retaliation of affection from Beebo!!
“Love you, too,” Ángel returns, and it's the easiest three words he thinks he'll ever say.
Oliver plants a kiss of his own on Ángel’s lips, then slips away from his grasp to finally get under the covers. Ángel follows suit, and is enveloped by Oliver’s embrace the second he’s settled enough. Oliver’s head rests under his chin, right above his heart. The weight is comforting.
He feels warm.
He feels safe.
He feels loved. So, incredibly loved.
His eyelids are heavy, lowering further and further every time he blinks. The weight on his chest, the warmth of the bed, the comforting presence all around him—in his half-asleep state, it feels like a hug from everywhere at once. Is it the House, or Oliver making him feel this at ease? This relaxed?
Ángel doesn’t know. And in this moment, he’s too sleepy to care.
His eyes finally fall shut,
And he lets himself be carried away into a content, blissful slumber.
They're whole.