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If Oscar could be something other than a human, he would choose to be the words whispered during the right moments. Those words that curl with the autumn’s wind, billowing along the balcony’s curtains and the cigarette smoke exhaled from chapped lips.
But wishing for that would be too selfish of him, when actions speak louder than any words ever will.
The house is silent, and the living room is even quieter, night slowly falling. The lone, little lamp on the coffee table illuminates the gentle smile tugging at the corners of Alex’s mouth, the little dimple to the side casted in shadows.
Oscar blinks, unsure where to focus his attention on.
Alex is reclined on the couch, a book in his hand, looking all relaxed, and soft, and cuddly. Oscar is experiencing that silly fluttering feeling in his belly, his chest warming with every stolen glance.
Oscar fully turns his head toward Alex, his gaze settling on the tiny specks scattered among the high of Alex’s cheeks, spreading toward the bridge of his nose. Alex’s hair falls over his forehead, the longer strands obscuring some of his view.
Oscar like the length; how it frames Alex’s face, curling toward the edges. The ticklish feeling in the morning, when Alex buries his hair right in Oscar’s face or shoulder. It’s the perfect size for Oscar to thread his fingers through and tug, guide, move Alex however he wants. Then comes the rare length competition between Alex and George before they cut their hair, when Oscar gets to be the judge, rating the softness under his palms.
He loves all of it.
Oscar scoots closer, the plush upholstery rubbing on the back of his bare thighs. He puts a hand atop Alex’s knee, patting it until he looks away from the book. Alex raises his head, his smile spreading until the lines framing his mouth are more prominent, capturing Oscar’s attention.
Alex’s happiness is and will always be contagious. It makes Oscar’s bottom lip tremble subtly as he fights the urge to mirror the smile.
Alex hums, tilting his head to the side. His eyes are soft, crinkled at the sides, his cheeks tinted a soft red.
Oscar blinks. Because wow.
Late nights like this always remind him of the early days when they were dancing around each other until the hesitancy eventually wore off. When he first got to see Alex’s freckles under the warm light and the streaks of the golden hour in George’s hair. When he was still shy about letting them know that he stares at what he loves, trying to steal glances as inconspicuously as possible.
Alex puts the book upside down on the table, barely leaning toward the table to place it properly.
Oscar blinks again, suddenly overwhelmed by the thoughts muddling in his mind. He feels as if none of the words he could say will ever convey a quarter of what he’s feeling, and it’s bothering him.
Alex doesn’t hesitate to part his legs, letting Oscar come closer. Everything is always simple with them, Oscar finds again and again.
He easily fits himself between Alex’s legs, hovering above him. Alex’s thighs are warm where they sandwich his own, relaxed muscles barely flexing when he shifts closer.
Oscar cups Alex’s face. The stretch of his smile is under his thumbs, the curled strands of hair wrapping around the rest of his fingers like a blanket. He admires each freckle with curiosity, his gaze flitting toward the discoloration in Alex’s eye before settling back on the freckles.
He runs his thumbs over Alex’s jaw, appreciating the coarseness of his stubble. The nose scrunch he gets in return warms him further, his lips pursing as he tries not to squish Alex’s cheeks.
“Like what you see?” Alex asks. Oscar feels the way he forms each word under his fingers, hears the amusement in his tone.
Oscar doesn’t say anything. He tilts his head to the left and leans down, pressing a kiss on his nose. Alex scrunches his nose again, closing an eye as his warm hands settle on Oscar’s waist.
The pressure is amazing, long fingers digging in his back, palms tracing the curve leading to his hips. Oscar presses a kiss to the side of Alex’s nose, lips brushing over the uneven skin of his cheek.
He pulls back for a second, stopping to observe.
Alex’s hair is faintly ruffled, despite Oscar not threading his fingers further than the strands at the nape, his cheeks flushed a lovely red.
He bends down again, his attention solely on Alex’s mouth. He wants to see the flush spreading lower, toward his chest, the color almost bruising his lips.
Alex’s smile doesn’t waver much under Oscar’s touch.
-
Oscar stands next to the chair in their room, watching how George blends a subtle brown under his eyes. He cards his fingers through the hair at George’s nape, staring right at the reflection in the mirror.
It’s interesting, how even the subtlety of a nude eyeshadow pallete can make George’s eyes the center of everyone’s attention. They demand to be noticed, more insistent now when George is looking away than when the clear blue is pining Oscar in place.
Oscar craves the heavy gaze, the flutter of long lashes over high cheekbones, the defined brows arching as George assesses him.
He looks where his fingers are threading through the hair strands, the length noticeably shorter than Alex’s. He splays his hand over George’s nape, brushing his thumb over the ridges trailing down his spine.
George shivers, his brows twitching. Oscar takes in the reaction to his touch, tracing the curve backward.
The sound of George tapping his brush to the side of the eyeshadow palette is louder than the buzzing in Oscar’s ears. He wonders just how much longer until the buzz will overbear the moment, until he will be forced to take a step back to collect himself.
He bends down, brushing his lips over the bare skin. He revels in the myriad of goosebumps slowly appearing with every kiss placed more insistently, leading to the collarbones. The angle doesn’t deter him from sucking on George’s jaw, grazing his teeth over the adam’s apple, following the rise and fall of his throat.
“What are you up to?” George asks. When Oscar flits his eyes to the mirror, he’s met with red splotched all over George’s face.
And, like always, Oscar doesn’t answer. He doesn’t let George know what’s going through his mind, how the intensity of each sensation is much bigger than him.
George’s skin is burning under Oscar’s hand, palm pressed flush to the front of his neck. The redness can be seen even lower, when Oscar fits his middle and ring fingers underneath George’s shirt, pushing it away.
The warmth is comforting on his lips, the curve of George’s shoulder hard underneath them.
-
Oscar is on the couch, right where Alex was staying a few hours ago. The place was still warm after Oscar waited for Alex to leave the room to take his place.
George’s baby blue blanket is pulled all the way to Oscar’s chin, Alex’s book in Oscar’s hand. He’s been stuck rereading the same passage for minutes now, trying to understand the plot through the sleep creeping up on him. He doesn’t even know what genre the book is, and the cover is not of any help, when Oscar flips it around.
Despite the efforts, Oscar ends up dozing off barely a few minutes later. He puts the book on his chest, inky pages facing down as he closes his eyes, nuzzling the blanket.
The material is soft underneath his cheek, a mere brush of harsh lines under his nose. The weight pressing down on him is comfortable, the added heaviness of the hardback perfect on his chest.
He’s not sure if he slept for long, but he’s certain that at some point a hand had caressed his head, and the aroma of spices had wafted from the kitchen.
Oscar is awoken by a pair of hands cradling his face, followed by a kiss to his forehead.
“Dinner is ready, baby,” George says, his voice hushed.
Oscar slowly opens his eyes, his hands coming to rub the sleep away. He belatedly registers that George is... cooing at him, fingers squeezing his cheeks almost painfully.
“So cute,” George murmurs, shifting closer to the couch. “You are like a kitten, when you wake up.”
Oscar pushes himself away from the armrest, the blanket sliding down his chest and pooling in his lap. The book falls to the ground just as he sits up, nothing but a muffled thud on the plush carpet.
Oscar stares at it for moment before looking up at George. The swoop of his hair has fallen into his eyes, obscuring the view of George in oversized pyjamas, of long fingers covered by sleeves.
Oscar shakes his head, trying to move the hair away from his face. Some strands fall back right in his eye, tickling him above the cheekbone. His arms feel sluggish when he tries to raise them from where they hang next to his body, partially covered by the blanket.
George picks up the book, placing it on the table. Oscar averts his gaze after he spots just how large George’s hand is in comparison with the book, even when he’s holding it by the spine. It’s a little too distracting for his sleepy mind.
“C’mon. Up you go,” George prompts, already bending down before Oscar can fully orient himself.
George fits his hands underneath Oscar’s underarms, effortlessly pulling him up from the couch. The blanket drags across Oscar’s legs before falling back in a sad lump on the seat, crinkled where Oscar had held it in a vice-like grip.
George’s fingers are firm where they curl around Oscar’s shoulders, steadying him. Oscar can’t bring himself to look at George’s face when most of his attention is caught by skin meeting material, a thick neck on display.
Oscar should probably focus more on the smell of food coming from the kitchen rather than the defined lines leading to George’s chest.
He traces the contour of the shirt that is slipping down one of George’s shoulders with a thumb, revealing his clavicle. He has half a mind to do something about it, like digging his nails in the divot forming at the base of George’s neck.
“Alex had finished dinner a while ago,” George says. He’s too close, the drag of the words insistent in Oscar’s ears. “You know that he does not like it when the food goes cold.”
“Yes,” Alex agrees, his voice sounding pretty close. When Oscar looks behind George, he finds Alex in the threshold, a tea towel in his hand. “It tastes better when it’s still hot.”
Alex’s forearms flex when he wipes some water droplets clinging to his skin, fingers tensing when he drags the towel between them. Suddenly, Oscar’s mind is too quiet as he fixates on the motion, on the strain of the sleeve around Alex’s bicep.
Oscar hums. He’s not thinking too much about the food when he places his hands on each side of George’s jaw, feeling the sharpness underneath his palms.
“That’s too bad,” Oscar intones, pulling George down.
The flutter in his belly is back when one too many hands rest on his body; touching everywhere, sliding under his shirt, hooking in the pants pockets to tug him closer.