Light filtered through the blinds, making Oliver open his eyes and immediately shield them from the glare. He faltered as he got up, realising how sharply his head ached, and drunk from a glass of water next to his bed. His secretly-sweet boyfriend must have placed it there last night. Or rather, future-boyfriend, if he tells Connor – oh no. He has told Connor. And with that, everything said last night rushes over him.
"Oh god," Oliver couldn't help but groan, head in his hands. He regretted saying anything as soon as he heard Connor's steps nearing his room. Connor, who was probably panicking right about now, about boyfriends and "I-love-yous".
"Good morning sunshine," Connor said with a grin.
Oliver gradually moved his hands from his eyes. Connor didn't look panicked. At most, he looked a little nervous, but largely happy and smug. Definitely smug.
"C'mon, I made breakfast."
"You did what?"
"You don't have to sound so surprised."
Soon they were sitting down to coffee and frittatas.
"This is actually really good."
"Again, don't sound so shocked. You know you can leave it at "thank you", right?"
"Thank you," Oliver said, smiling, "And—uh—I'm sorry about last night…"
Connor grinned. "It's ok, I get it - you just wanted some of this hot ass. Totally understandable."
Oliver buried his head in his hands once again, and waits for Connor to bring up the other things said that night, along with snarky comments about changing their relationship status and meeting his mother. But all he heard was a laugh, and, "Relax, I like drunk Oliver's candour. Plus, it was kind of adorable. Especially that pouty-face."
"I don't pout," said a relieved and slightly puzzled Oliver. Connor just threw him a disbelieving look. Connor started washing up, so Oliver brought his plate up, stopping short when he realised something.
"I didn't say anything embarrassing to your friends, did I?"
"Only embarrassing to me. Like mentioning that time I put takeout on plates, trying to be romantic." He shot Oliver a glare.
"And tried to pass it off as your own cooking, I remember that."
"For the record, Olive Garden doesn't sell frittatas."
Oliver smiled, "I know, I'm impressed."
"Anyway, my friends love you. Laurel texted me calling you fifteen different synonyms for nice and our relationship twenty different synonyms for cute. Whereas Michaela's strategy was more based around all-caps messages hoping I "don't screw up this relationship with a guy that's way too good for me."
"Aww," said Oliver, "that's sweet of them."
"Sickly," agreed Connor, "but I was thinking, maybe tonight we could go out without them?"
"Sounds good," said Oliver, an innocent smile on his face edging into a smirk, "…just remind me to stay sober."
Connor would say that his hands were covered in detergent, that's why it slipped. Oliver swears Connor dropped it in surprise. Either way, the frypan clanged against the bottom of the sink, and a small, soapy wave cascaded against the edge, spraying water all over Connor's shirt, pants and shoes.
"Wow," said Oliver, "you're washing-up skills aren't quite of the same calibre as your cooking skills, are they?"
"Someone seems to be getting over their hangover pretty quickly," is all a flushed Connor could manage, before flicking soap suds at Oliver. Oliver yelped as more water splashed his way. He tried ducking, but Connor quickly had him cornered against the cupboard.
"But I mean, that could just be because your cooking skills are above and beyond," he said hurriedly, trying another strategy.
"Doe-eyes and flattery will get you nowhere," Connor said, wiping his watery hands on Oliver's shirt. If they happened to move up Oliver's chest before resting gently on his shoulders, nudging him against the cupboard – well, that was accidental in the search for water fight victory.
"I have no idea what you're imply—" Connor kissed Oliver softly and liltingly. Ok, that was less accidental. Oliver wrapped his hands around Connor's waist, pulling him closer, having momentarily forgotten that Connor's whole outfit was soaking wet. He made a faux-disgusted noise.
"Look what you did," he said, motioning at his sodden pyjamas, trying to wipe the grin off his face.
"All part of the plan," Connor said with a matching smile, pulling him into another kiss.
"But if you're cold, we could always get out of our wet clothes…"
Oliver giggled against his collarbone. "Wow. Very smooth, very subtle."
"I don't think Mr. Bring-Me-That-Hot-Ass gets to criticise anyone's flirting technique."
"Hey!" Oliver protested between kisses, "you said it was adorable."
"And the pout reappears…"
"Well, maybe if you spent a little less time talking and a little more time undressing…"
Connor was only too happy to oblige.