15
How rare and beautiful it is to even exist
In the aftermath of the shouting, the room falls into silence. Papers flutter to the ground like lost snowflakes descending from the cloud that has suddenly come to destroy his good mood. His heart pounds painfully inside his chest, a heavy thudding that resonates within his brain until he feels like screaming. Wants to cover his ears and shout away the fear and pain, but he cannot, can do nothing other than sit there and force himself to breathe, Olivier's words reverberating around his skull like a dark prophet. He knows, deep down, that everything the man said was true. Should he show himself to be disobedient, a thorn in the side of his superiors, they will not hesitate to strike him down, regardless of the two noble scions, he keeps by his side. Astolfo is useless in the chess game that the church enjoys playing with its soldiers, and Olivier - his dearest friend and oldest ally - has already been burnt once by the flames of an unjust punishment. Roland has no desire to ask more of him than has been already given, but that knowledge does little to mitigate the fury sweeping through his veins. Olivier should know better than to step so far across his boundaries that it leaves Roland raw with the memory of his little brother's cold body lying still on the autopsy table. Looks up, eyes sweeping impassively over Olivier's guilt-stricken face, noticing how his shoulders tremble still with the force of his yelling, and then pushes all sympathy aside.
"…Say, Obsidian," he says lightly, letting the name linger in the space between them, allowing its weight to properly sink in, for it's rare that he uses his title other than in jest. Roland can count on one hand the number of times he's called Olivier that and sees that same realization alight in Olivier's eyes, for he stiffens as if he'd been stung. He trails his fingers along one of the few papers remaining on the desk before bringing his hand up to rest his chin in, pretending at thoughtfulness. It's far easier than he would like to admit, all the more so because Olivier is watching him warily, poised like he's unsure if he should approach or flee. It's not the first time that he's caused that reaction in people, and he knows that it will not be the last. It hurts a little to see it on Olivier's face, to see the fear carefully hidden away behind a mask of calmness, but what hurts more is the thought that his friend might one day betray him. "How many paladins do you think I could take by myself?" He asks bluntly, although he already knows the answer. Of the twelve paladin stones, only eight are currently in use, the four others waiting in the crypt for some unlucky soul o come claim them. And of those eight, two are the Garnet stone and the Obsidian stone, and the third is his own Jasper, so in reality, he would only need to dispose of five paladins to cripple Notre Dame completely.
"Huh…?" Olivier asks, and there is alarm in his voice now. Though his brows are furrowing in confusion, Roland can see the thoughts written clearly across his face, sees it the moment that clarity strikes, and can't help but chuckle softly in sympathy. Olivier blanches at the sound and takes two rapid steps closer, pushing himself into Roland's space like he belongs there, and perhaps he does. Roland can't even begin to imagine a life without Olivier standing at his back and doesn't want to either, but if he has to choose between his beliefs and his friend, he already knows what he'll end up picking. Lifts his eyes to meet Olivier's gaze up close. His eyes are more yellow than green in the lighting, so pale as to be almost unnatural. Roland had seen the color only once before when he'd been out wondering. He'd turned his face up to the sun, drinking in the much missed light, and has seen, purely by accident, how it reflected off the green leaves of a nearby tree. The way the light had shown through them, highlighting them in such a manner that they appeared to glow gold, that was the color of Olivier's eyes, impossible to name and impossible to describe. Utterly unique, just like the man himself.
"Three of them?" He asks softly, mentally drawing a tally of who those three would be. Gano would be first, of course; the plague hound has been itching to come at him for years, Pinelot next, and then perhaps Berenger. "Four?" Lets his gaze rest heavily on Olivier, waiting for him to reach the same conclusion that Roland has already achieved. Their strength is about equal, though their battle tactics could not be more different, for where Roland relies on his legs, Olivier prefers to use the strength of his arms. The table shudders as a hand strikes it heavily, armor clunking loudly. Olivier leans towards him, his eyes still very wide, but where before there had been confusion, now only horror and apprehension reigns. Finally, they are on the same page, if only on this topic.
"Hey," he says, and there is a faint tremor in his voice, "what are you talking ab-"
"Oh, but," Roland interrupts him swiftly and smiles with all the strength that he can muster, allowing his bloodlust to seep out into it and permeate the air between the two of them. It is a credit to his own inner strength that Olivier does not flinch away; he keeps staring at him with those eyes that feel as if they can see through all his layers, directly to the heart of the matter. "I think I'd have quite a bit of trouble taking you down," he says, each word heavy with the weight of an unspoken promise. Lets the words ring out in the space between them, an insurmountable barrier as well as a reminder that when it truly comes down to it, though they are equal on the battlefield, Roland will not hesitate to slide Durandal into his chest. Watches solemnly as Olivier grows three shades paler in tone, his eyes hooding in a manner that should not be as endearing as it is. Not quite a glare but certainly no longer the fear from earlier, that combined with the pinkness on his cheeks, he seems almost - wait, pinkness? Roland blinks slowly, his thoughts abruptly pulled from their route, tumble around in confusion like a train derailed from its tracks. He leans in closer and slides his hand up towards Olivier until their arms are parallel, and he is close enough to see that Olivier's eyelashes are longer than he could ever have imagined. They flutter against his cheek when he blinks, leaving one behind that e longs to wipe away. His hand is moving before the thought has even finished forming in his head.
"Cut! Cut!"
Roland hears the yelling as if through a distant fog, but it is easily enough ignored, for the delicate task of removing the eyelash from Oliver's cheek is of far greater importance. "Got it," he mutters triumphantly and lowers his hand again when he catches sight of the director storming onto the stage out of the corner of his eye. He's waving his clipboard about, but Roland can't tear his attention away from Oliver, not when he's turned so pink as to be mistaken for having been dipped in paint. The blush suits him far more than his usual cold countenance. It's the first time that Roland has been in such close proximity to the other man. When they had filmed Oliver's introduction scene the other day, he hadn't had the opportunity to properly inspect him. Had, in fact, been too distracted by the feeling of muscles under his hands, his co-star was surprisingly well built for all his lankiness. Now, however, he has permission to maintain extended eye contact, at least until the director reaches him. The tip of Oliver's nose is sunburnt; even with the make-up caking it, he can tell that the skin is peeling slightly. He wants to touch it, to see if it'll scrunch up or if he'll lose his finger; Oliver is still leaning towards him, the gap between their faces no bigger than a handspan. Roland wonders what it is that he sees on his face, what it is that has captured his attention so intently, or if they are simply engaging in an impromptu staring context to mask the fact that they've fucked up. As either option is equally amusing, he continues to stare back at him and allows his eyelids to slide down slightly, giving off what he has been told are 'absurdly dangerous bedroom eyes.' Sees Oliver's lips part, can almost hear the unsteady breath he releases, and it makes him want to see just how far he can be pushed before he breaks.
"De Vienne!" The director roars, and Oliver flinches. It's a small thing, only noticeable because Roland is staring so intently at him, but it sends concern coursing through his brain anyway, and he's already resolved to step in should Oliver look like he requires help. He says nothing, watching with some amusement, for he finds the whole thing to be quite funny, especially given the context of what they'd been filming. "De Vienne," The director repeats angrily, stopping at their table and glowering up at the both of them, his patchy mustache twitching wildly on his face. "The script called for apprehension and alarm! Not whatever the fuck that was!" He waves the clipboard in their faces, and Roland stiffens slightly, an unconscious urge arising to take away the clipboard before it can accidentally hit someone in the face.
"I'm sorry," Olivier says lowly, although he doesn't sound the slightest bit remorseful to Roland's ears, more confused than anything else.
The director huffs and shakes his head. "Go over the script again; flusterment has absolutely zero place in the scene. There is no way this stalwart, trigger happy, loudmouth son of a gun would have been turned on by threats, alright?" He waves his finger in front of Oliver's face again, and it is only because Roland is watching so intently that he sees the tip of his ears turn pink through the curtains of his hair. It's embarrassment, he knows, and he promptly decides that he doesn't like it. The director is wrong anyway; no matter what the script says, there's simply no way that these two aren't fucking. He's read the source material, after all.
"Sorry, Bossman!" He calls out, bouncing up and over with an apologetic smile on his face. "It was my fault; I put too much smolder in my eyes, if you catch my drift." Allows his grin to turn bashful and embarrassed and sees the director start to soften immediately.
The man grumbles and huffs more, tapping his clipboard impatiently against his leg. "Fine. Fine. Take 15, and we'll start up again with the same scene. Fortis, I'll need less smolder from you this time, and de Vienne?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Absolutely no blushing this time!" He spins on his heels and stomps off again, yelling something about the lighting and the books that have the set design crew scampering to and fro. Roland chuckles sympathetically at the sight and then turns to confront Oliver, but his co-star has disappeared. Roland looks around thoughtfully and then heads off the set stage, waving to various members of the cast and crew as he goes. It takes a bit of hunting, but he finds him tucked away behind some abandoned set pieces, a cigarette rolling between his fingers.
"Hello," Roland says and drops down on the bench beside him. It's a small thing, not truly meant for two, but he makes due, hoping that Oliver won't mind how their legs are now pressing together. Oliver looks over at him, his expression neutral, but Roland likes to think that it's a welcoming neutral rather than outright rejection. He smiles back, relishing in the fact that he can see all of Oliver's face at the moment, for his hair has been tucked back behind his ears and held in place by a multitude of hairclips. His bangs suit him, of course, but Roland likes it best when they've been moved out of the way; for starters, it prevents him from following his base urge to move them himself, and secondly, it allows him to see both of Oliver's beautiful eyes. He truly has the visage of a nobleman, he thinks, admiring the elegant arch of his eyebrows, the sharpness of his jawline, and the length of his neck. His imagination wanders about wildly, swinging from one idea to the next about the many shenanigans he could get up to with his co-star. Something small and grey whizzes by his face, and he leans back, startled.
"Want one?" Oliver says softly, once more waving the cigarette at him. His eyes are steady when they return his gaze, unflinching now that they are away from the cameras and staff. Roland admires that about him, although he can't help but wonder how Oliver will handle all the press once the show starts airing. Oliver's head tilts, and he waves the cigarette once more. "If you don't, just say so."
"Oh," Roland manages, embarrassed to have been caught so blatantly staring. "Oh yeah, thanks." he takes it, holding still for Oliver to light it and then leaning away as he inhales deeply. The nicotine serves to soothe his more rampant desires, and after a few breaths, he's feeling a little more settled, enough to make the mistake of opening his mouth. "The director is wrong; there's no way that the screenwriter didn't know what they were doing when they wrote 'stare intently into each other's gazes,'" he says and then regrets it immediately, for Oliver twitches and shuffles away from him. There's not much space on the bench as it is, but the intent could not be clearer. Roland winces and curses his loose tongue, reminding himself that not everyone is so open about such topics, especially not where they might be overheard.
"I think," Oliver says slowly and pauses then as if to pick his words carefully, "that the director has a certain vision he's trying to implement." He looks at Roland then, nothing more than a brief glance but Roland still feels as if he's been seen as if Oliver has heard the depths of his thoughts and found him to be lacking in some way. "As any creator, he would like his vision to be executed perfectly, thus his desire for certain facial expressions to not make an appearance." He lifts the cigarette to his lips, inhales on it, and then turns his head to the side when he lows out a plume of smoke. It has absolutely no right to be as hot as it is, but somehow Oliver makes the mundane action look regal. Roland's positive that he doesn't look quite as attractive when he's huffing and puffing away at the thing.
"I think the expression you made was just fine," he retorts, "either way, you shouldn't blame yourself; quite a lot of people start blushing when I smile at them." He sticks his own cigarette back in his mouth, less using it for its intended purpose and more rolling it around as an excuse to stop talking.
Oliver sighs and starts to say something, only to stop and sigh again. "Clearly, your ego is in no need of more stroking," he says eventually, and Roland doesn't think he's imagining the amusement that he can hear threading through the words.
"My ego is nothing compared to your beauty, darlin'," he says without thinking, accent making its appearance in the worst timing known to man, but he can't help it; there's simply something about saying 'darling' with a hard g sound that rubs him the wrong way.
"Euh," Oliver says succinctly, staring at him like he's grown a second head.
Roland smiles back, doing his best to not allow his internal turmoil to show on his face. "Oh, come on, with an angelic appearance like that, there's no way that you haven't been receiving compliments since you were old enough to know what a camera was," he adds, hoping that his nonchalant tone will steer Oliver into thinking his words had been a joke and not the pick-up line he'd accidentally spewed.
"No, yes, thanks?" Oliver says eventually, still looking adorably shell-shocked, and then to Roland's amazement, he sees a pink hue take hold of his face. And with his hair so helpfully out of the way, he's given clear proof of the fact that Oliver's ears turn entirely red when he blushes. It's adorable. Roland puts out the cigarette and then scrambles up, needing to keep his hands occupied before he can do something dumb like reach out and touch them. He's reckless, not stupid. Oliver is still watching him; however, his eyes are somehow more intense now that he's not actively putting in the effort to appear intimidating, and Roland can feel his heart accelerating wildly. It's unfair, he thinks, utterly unfair that his co-star is the walking embodiment of good-looking, and there's absolutely nothing he can do about it.
"Good," he says instead, looking around for the nearest trashcan with far more interest than he actually feels. "We should be heading back soon, don't want them to come looking for us."
"Alright," Oliver agrees and then touches his face with the most exasperated expression that Roland has seen to date. "I need a minute more to get rid of this stupid blush; go on ahead."
'It suits you,' Roland very nearly says, only managing to force the words back because he doubts that they would be received well. "If you'd like, we could practice some time," he offers, the words slipping out before his common sense can catch up to him. "Perhaps extended exposure to my," he flutters his eyelashes, "smolder would enable you to better resist it during filming."
"Perhaps," Oliver replies, although he looks doubtful at best.
"It wouldn't hurt to try," Roland presses; he's not entirely sure why he's so desperate to spend more time with his co-star; it's not as if they aren't scheduled to be filming together for the next two weeks. He'll be seeing plenty of the man, yet he wants more and desires nothing less than to pick apart Oliver until he has discovered all the gears and inner workings that make him…well him. It's a bad habit, he's been told before, the desire to analyze someone from all their different angles, but he can't help it. Oliver is handsome, and Roland can't remember how long it's been since he was last laid. He blinks the distracting thoughts away and affixes his best puppy dog expression to his face, unabashedly pleading for him to agree. Sees the moment that he is successful for, Oliver sighs again and rubs at his nose bridge.
"Fine, I'll swing by your room this evening," he says, and Roland could just about bounce from pure happiness.
He holds out his hand, waiting until Oliver takes it to pull him up to his feet and into a hug. "It's a deal then." Releases him before Oliver can do anything other than spluttering and strides off back towards their filming room. "Thanks for the cigarette, darlin'!"
They retry the scene, and though Oliver's face remains free of blushes, Roland licks his lips at exactly the wrong moment, and it sends several of the film crew into such a tizzy that he has little choice but to turn and wink at the cameras. The director kicks them off the set after that and sends Oliver to his trailer while Roland heads off to film with the actual leads of the show; Sirius and Noah. He quite likes working with the both of them, even if Sirius' perfectionism can get draining at times, but watching the two of them act is a delight in and of itself. Roland knows that when this show hits the silver screen, the fans are going to go wild for their on-screen chemistry. It fills him with pride to know that they're giving the people what they want the most, or at least most of it, for he highly doubts that the kiss Noah just deposited on Sirius' hand was part of the script. Nor is the dramatic way that Sirius flails backward, somehow managing to make his horror look realistic despite the fact that Roland can see Noah's lips twitching in amusement. The director is less than pleased with their theatrics, but it'll make for a good bloopers reel, so Roland hopes he doesn't scold them too hard. He spends the rest of the day going over fight choreography with Noah and discovering the joys of being kicked repeatedly onto the ground until Noah has perfected the form that will be required of him. The lad's delighted smile more than makes up for the bruises he knows are dotting his back.
He eats dinner with a few of his other co-stars, enjoying the stories that they share about different filming locations they've been to, and taking great joy in teasing Sirius for his terrible hairstyle choices - it turns out that he isn't wearing a wig for his role, having already had long enough hair that all the staff had needed to do was give it a trim - Roland finds this especially hilarious for now they have a walking, talking Vanitas among them at all times. He'd heard of Sirius previously, the name popping up in a few films over the years, but this is his first time truly seeing the young man in action. Noah is a newcomer to the industry, still inexperienced and green in such a manner to be endearing. However, he makes up for what he doesn't know with energy and a willingness to learn, often asking for help outside of their regular filming hours. Roland sends a prayer to God that when the boy starts rolling officially, Noah won't have to deal with too many ignorant bigots. He'll do what he can to protect the lad, and he knows that the others will as well, but he still hopes that the fandom will rally to protect their innocent main lead. Roland has been acting for as long as he can remember. His earliest memories are of being plopped down in a chair so tall his feet don't reach the ground and being told to smile at a camera; it's why his smile comes so naturally to his face now, even when his thoughts are filled with shadowy chasms and thorned fences.
"Roland?"
He looks up from his meal to see Noah leaning towards him, his eyes bright with a contagious joy, almost wriggling in his seat. "We're going to go out and hit the town, get some ice cream, maybe hit a bar," he says, "do you want to come with?" There's a hopeful tilt to his voice, and when Roland looks past him, he sees that Sirius, Daniel, and Jalen are all watching him intently. Roland suspects that they've tasked Noah with doing the work; for whom could refuse his puppy dog eyes, Roland is also very aware that of the group, he's the only one who has a car. Unfortunately for them, there is a handsome man who has agreed to come to visit him tonight, so drinks will not be on the table.
"Perhaps some other time, I'm afraid that I have a standing appointment to see to tonight," he says, gentling his tone when he sees the crushed expression on Noah's face. "If you'd like to go out again on Friday, I'll be free then."
"In order to bask in the glory of your presence, I will happily go out again on Friday," Noah chirps and turns back to his friends, relaying the news to them through much handwaving.
Roland sinks back into his chair and touches his cheeks, surprised to feel them warm. Although he knows that Noah meant absolutely nothing by it, he still feels more than a little flustered, a rarity. "I need to hurry up and get laid, Christ almighty," Roland mutters and focuses on finishing the rest of his meal. By the time he's taken his plate to the kitchen and headed upstairs, the day's hard work has begun to catch up to him, exhaustion seeping into his muscles. He spends the next hour or so going through various stretches until he feels utterly relaxed, or at least less likely to break in half the next time that Noah is required to kick him. He showers after, emerging in the most comfortable clothing he owns - basketball shorts and a tank top - to find his phone buzzing loudly. Stares at it for a moment, wondering why anyone would be trying to reach him after business hours, and then in a flash, he remembers his guest, swiftly darts to it, and scoops it up. Fumbles it immediately afterward and only just manages to accept the call in time. "Hello? Sorry, I was showering. Are you coming over?"
"I don't know your room number," Oliver responds, sounding irritated by this missing information. "You said something about being in room 22 once, but there are 17 floors in this hotel, and frankly, I do not care to go knocking on each door ending in a '22.'"
He is, Roland decides at that moment, heart thudding rapidly in his chest, absolutely adorable. "Hate to break it to ya, Darlin', but you're wrong on both accounts," he says and then adds swiftly before Oliver can interrupt. "I'm in room 13 on the 3rd floor; it's the door with the dent in it."
There is silence for so long that he wonders if Oliver has hung up on him, but then he hears a sigh. "I see. Do I want to know why you've got a dent in your door?"
"It's obviously for handsome fellas like you to be able to find it," Roland answers without batting an eye; he sits down on the bed, fingers drumming with nervous energy against his knee.
"I see," Oliver says again, but there is amusement in his voice now; it softens the hard edges into something that sounds almost gentle. "And has that worked out for you?"
"That'll depend on whether or not you're coming up, Darlin'," Roland replies, "I can't say that I've been here long enough to test the theory." This time he hears what might be a laugh, as muffled as it is, and his own heart thrills happily. It's been months since he's engaged with a dalliance and years since he's had any reason to actively flirt with someone, but something about Oliver draws his attention in. Perhaps it is his haughty demeanor, coldness in his eyes on and off the set, and yet he is unfailable polite to the crew members. Roland has yet to see him lose his temper when it is not expected of him, and he once watched him get a bucket of water dumped on his head, on accident, of course. The culprit, one of the younger stagehands - fresh from high school - had been in tears, and yet all Oliver had done was spoken quietly to her, patted her head, and retreated to his trailer. Truly, he was a man of much self-restraint, and it only heightens Roland's desire to see what he looks like when all the masks have been stripped away.
"I look forwards to being your first victim then," Oliver responds, and then the call ends before Roland can speak again. However, he's not too dissapointed, not when he doesn't yet know how Oliver feels about being restrained. He gets up from the bed, circling impatiently around the room until there is a knock on the other side. Roland crosses to it swiftly and yanks it open, a greeting on the tip of his tongue. It fizzles away when he catches sight of the man on the other side. Oliver stands there, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, a black beanie pulled low on his head, and the aura of one who isn't sure he's where he's supposed to be radiating off him. It's their first time truly meeting in casual clothing, as most of their time is spent in cassocks or suits. He finds that he's not surprised to find that Oliver dresses in black even out of 'uniform.' It suits him, elongating his already tall frame and causing the grey in his eyes to stand out all the more. Roland hadn't realized that Olivier wore contacts up until that moment, but he supposes that it makes sense as no one in his experience has eyes the exact color of leaves glinting under sunlight.
"Are you going to just stand there or let me in?" Oliver's brusque voice snaps him out of his thoughts, and Roland hastily steps out of the way, gesturing him inside. He catches a whiff of something pleasant as he slides by and very nearly chases after it before he catches himself. "Thanks," Oliver grunts and sits himself down in the only armchair in the room, his legs crossed regally at the knee.
"Would you like anything?" Roland asks, manners beaten into his thick skull by his mother many years ago. He opens the mini-fridge, "I have water, hmm more water, oh! Popsicles and more water."
"I'll take a water," Oliver says dryly and makes no move to get up to fetch one himself. Roland tosses at his head because two can play that game, and he's in no mood to be bullied in his own dwelling. Oliver swipes it neatly out of the air, twists the cap open, and takes a sip. One so long that Roland's eyes are attracted to the bobbing of his Adam's apple almost against his will. His tongue flicks out, wetting his lips unconsciously, and it is only when the mini-fridge beeps desolately that he remembers to close it. Takes a seat on the bed, feeling grateful that he'd showered earlier; otherwise, he'd be squirming in discomfort from the rising heat in the room. Oliver sets the bottle down, empty, and crinkles it between his hands, displaying casual strength that sends arousal shooting straight to Roland's belly. He crosses his legs, hands resting on his lap, and focuses on breathing steadily.
"How would you like to do this?" Roland asks, internally pleased that his voice comes out perfectly steady.
Oliver's lips turn the faintest bit downwards, but Roland is unsure if the cause of the displeasure is his words or how much water the man just consumed. "We could run through it a few times," he tries again, reaches for his phone, and scrolls to the script he keeps on it. "There's no need to do the yelling, though; disturbing our neighbors would be uncool." He falls quiet again, waiting impatiently for Oliver to say or do anything, but he simply regards him with a faintly displeased expression for the longest time. As if Roland has disappointed him in some way, but for the life of him, Roland can't figure out what he did wrong. He shifts in place, fiddling first with his shorts and then with his hair, removing the small ponytail he'd gathered it into, only to redo it right after.
"I'm surprised," Oliver says suddenly and finally looks away from him.
"Hmm, about what?" Roland prompts after a few more heartbeats of silence; he hadn't thought that Oliver was the type to struggle with his words, but there is a well of difference between an on-stage persona and the real thing.
Stormy eyes turn to him once more, something incomprehensible brewing in their depths. "To be quite honest, I assumed you were flirting when you invited me over. So, the surprise is that you were sincere in your intentions from the very beginning," Oliver says, and for the first time, Roland realizes that it's nervousness that he's been picking up off of the other man.
"Oh. Oh, but I was flirting!" He exclaims, rocking forwards on the bed as if to close the distance between them even more. "I was flirting, but the offer to practice was also genuine. Can't we do both?"
"Ah," Oliver says and then falls silent, his gaze flitting every which way as if he doesn't know where to look. It's adorable. Roland smiles, something a lot like fondness pushing to the forefront of his mind. Practice can wait, he decides; teasing Oliver until he turns that same pretty shade as earlier is evidently far more important. Slips off the bed, unable to keep the teasing glint out of his eyes, but Oliver appears to not notice.
"Say, Oliver," he says as he prowls closer and stops before the man himself, hand resting on the armrest as he slowly leans into his personal space. Waits for their eyes to meet before he reaches out a hand, half-expecting Oliver to move, to shove him back or express disdain at his actions but other than a widening of his eyes, the man says nothing. "How many paladins do you think I could take by myself?" Roland asks and brushes his thumb gently across Oliver's lips, keeping the touch light, still teasing, but to his delight, the mouth parts around a ragged exhale. There is pink blossoming on his cheeks like two flowers unfurling their petals towards the sun, and Roland wants to kiss them. He refrains, telling himself not to give in to his baser instincts just yet, and instead draws his finger across his cheekbone, down to the curve of his jaw. Lets it linger there a moment longer before he slips it underneath and coaxes Oliver into tilting his head back. "Three of them?" Sets a knee beside Oliver's leg and climbs directly into the chair, hand gripping its back for balance as he reaches down to prod at Oliver's legs until he uncrosses them. "Four?"
"Hey," Oliver murmurs, his voice descending at least two octaves, and Roland's heart accelerates in response. "What are you talking about?" Hands settle on his hips, and then he's being sat down in Oliver's lap before they shift to his back instead. He shudders as one sneaks below his shirt, scraping ever so gently at his spine. Roland bites his lip briefly, forcing himself to keep to the script for just a little longer.
"If I fought without care for my life, could I do a little better?" He asks, rolling his hips slowly under the pretext of getting comfortable, fingers shifting sideways to rest against Oliver's pulse point. It jumps delightfully, Oliver's heart no doubt pounding just as hard as his own. It's oddly reassuring. "Oh, but…" Leans in closer, close enough that his lips are brushing against Oliver's ear, and he can't help chuckling slightly when he sees that it's red. "Darlin', I think I'd have quite a bit of trouble taking you down." He follows his words up with a swift nip to its rim, and Oliver gasps, his whole body twitching in a way that Roland wants to see more of.
"Bastard," Oliver hisses, his arms tightening further when Roland goes to draw back and not relaxing until he stills again. "That wasn't in the script." Roland glances down, unable to see anything past the beanie, for Oliver, has pressed his face into his shoulder, unmistakably hiding.
"Neither was sitting in your lap," Roland replies and rolls his hips just to hear that beautiful gasp again. He rubs the back of Oliver's neck, wondering if he's just as flustered as he's feeling. Only to frown when he feels how tense it is and starts to dig his fingers into the muscle. "When was the last time that you stretched? You're as tense as an ironing board."
"I don't remember," is the mumbled answer, followed by a sound that is unmistakably a groan. The hands stroking his back slow slightly and then fall still, settling on his hips once more. Roland doesn't mind, his desire to get laid briefly forgotten in favor of soothing away some of the hard knots that his fingers keep encountering. Roland hums in disapproval, his fingers continuing their quest to relieve some of the built-up stress, and Oliver seems to appreciate it, for he continues to let out soft groans that put terrible thoughts in Roland's mind. More and more, he wants to push the man in front of him down onto the nearest surface and take him apart until he's nothing more than a whining, flustered mess.
"I can give you one if you'd like," he offers instead, "free of charge even."
There's a grumble, and then Oliver straightens up enough to look at him, his expression an odd mixture of relaxation and arousal. "I don't want to move," he says after several slow blinks and tucks his face right back into Roland's chest. "Can't you do it in this chair?"
"Darlin', the only thing I want to do to you in this chair is blow you," Roland says, the words registering long after they've been released into the air, and he curses his runaway tongue, embarrassment flaring up swifter than it ever has before. He wants to hide his face, but there's nowhere to escape when Oliver is still holding him. Looks down, only to find himself staring into incredulous eyes, and he knows his face is turning red, for Oliver's lips are curving in amusement.
"I see," Oliver says slowly, his eyes glimmering. "You're an awfully blunt one, aren't you?"
"I'm horny," Roland grumbles and dramatically wriggles until Oliver opens his arms, whereupon he immediately drops to his knees and rests his arms on Oliver's legs, pouting up at him. "And you're very beautiful; can you blame me?"
"I suppose it would be difficult," Oliver agrees, his fingers hovering in mid-air for a moment before he settles them on Roland's head, ruffling his hair. His fingers linger still after he's stopped moving them, and Roland leans up into the touch, soaking in as much of the contact as he can. It's been a long time since he's had the opportunity to pursue someone like Oliver. He wants to relish the attention as long as possible, press kisses against Oliver's fine fingers, and leave the imprint of his teeth alongside his pulse point. Exhales softly and does none of those things, allowing his head to rest in Oliver's lap instead, hand tracing silly patterns along his thigh.
"Since you don't want to move, I could relieve you of your stress another way?" He offers, looking up in a pantomime of innocence that fades the moment he makes direct eye contact with Oliver's dark gaze. A pink tongue flicks out to lick his lips, and Roland's heart decamps up to his throat. Within the next moment, he has surged upwards, hands gentle on Olivier's face when he grabs it, lips a hairsbreadth from descending on his own. "May I kiss you?" He asks in a rush, waiting only long enough to see Oliver nod before he presses their lips together gently. For all his intentions to keep it chaste, the control slips away from him when faced with the enticing heat of Oliver's mouth. The scrape of his teeth against Roland's lip, the curl of his tongue, the way he gasps softly. Roland drinks it all in, licks his way into Oliver's mouth, and loses himself in the heat of the moment until he feels himself be pushed away. Sways nearly falls before he manages to get a foot on the ground and stares wide-eyed at the flustered visage before him. Somehow, Oliver's beanie has been pulled from his head in the chaos, revealing messy tufts of black hair.
"It's curly," Roland murmurs, half in awe, and immediately reaches out to touch the locks, marveling at their softness. Oliver lowers his head, cheeks turning pinker as he leans into the strokes, rendered shy by the attention Roland assumes. He cards his fingers through it, pulling gently on a curl to see just how far it extends - not that far as it turns out - but Roland doesn't mind, its his first time seeing Oliver's hair out of the wig; he intends to enjoy the opportunity. Lowers his hand once more and scritches at his skull, chuckling when Oliver practically shoves his head under his hands. "Cute."
"Be silent," Oliver snaps, and then it is he that is reaching out to draw Roland up into a kiss. Roland returns it eagerly and the next one as well. Deposits soft kisses across the span of his face, nose, forehead, and kisses along his neck as far as he can get. Oliver clings to him throughout it all, hands continuing their quest to map the expanse of his back. His soft gasps, bordering on whines, and Roland wants to hear more of it, to see what face he'll make when he goes down on him and makes him sing. He nuzzles against his neck, brushes his nose across his pulse point, and then sets his teeth against it lightly, testingly. "Don't," Oliver says immediately, a hand moving from his back to curl warningly in his hair. "Not there."
Roland hums and kisses the spot instead. Soft and apologetic. He sits back a moment later, shuffling in place to relive some of the tension in his abdomen but all it does is press the curve of his aching cock against Oliver's leg. "Sit still," Oliver mutters and tugs his hair; although not hard, it's enough of a warning for Roland to still promptly. He sits, hands curling and uncurling in Oliver's shirt, admiring the self-control that it takes to not appear out of breath. It makes him want to wreck him even more.
"No biting anywhere, or just not there?" When he's managed to gather a semblance of control again, Roland asks. Oliver considers his words for a moment, eyes flickering away and then back up to his face. Roland licks his lips in response and grins impishly, unabashedly showing off his slightly sharper than average canines. It is incredibly refreshing to see Oliver's Adam's apple bob when he swallows.
"Explaining to the make-up artist why my neck looks like it was chewed on by a puppy is not my idea of a fun time," he says mildly, but his eyes are still fixated on his mouth, and Roland knows that expression. Had seen it on many a bedmate's face before he pushed them down and had his way with them, left them mewling and clawing at his back from sheer ecstasy. Oliver will be no different, he's sure, and if he'll allow him the pleasure of it, he fully intends to leave his skin covered in the proof of Roland's existence. He doesn't know if this will remain as a one-night stand or if they will even talk about it come morning, but he hopes that Oliver will be open to the idea of them being friends.
"Well," he says, almost a growl, and delights in how Oliver shivers in response. "How about in areas where they won't look, hmm?" Slips his fingers just past the hem of his shirt, allowing them to dance across his belly, and feels it expand when Oliver inhales abruptly. Roland smirks and slides it lower to palm him through his pants, watching avidly as Oliver jolts, his mouth parting slightly as he emits the faintest of flustered wheezes. Sees his eyes narrow a moment later, jaw firming before he starts to speak - no doubt about to present a boring counter-argument - but Roland was waiting for that exact moment, and he repeats the gesture, presses down harder this time, and what emerges instead is a loud whine. They freeze. Oliver's face one of embarrassed horror, and Roland's one of pure amusement. "I was beginning to wonder if you were only loud in costume," he says teasingly.
"Shut up," Oliver hisses, his face flaring redder, and he shoves at Roland's shoulder, hard enough to rock him in place but not a true attempt to push him off. Roland remains where he is, laughing softly at his actions before he squeaks as hands grip his ass without warning and squeeze it. "Stop laughing at me," Oliver growls and glares up at him, but it is mitigated by the red hue staining his cheeks. Roland leans down and kisses him quiet, hands swiftly undoing the belt buckle of Oliver's pants and then opening them, but his efforts are rendered fruitless by both the lack of space between them and the fact that Oliver will not cease his squirming. He huffs against his lips and pulls back to pout at him.
"I don't suppose you would reconsider moving, would you?" He asks and catches himself against the wall when Oliver bucks his hips unhelpfully. Even through their pants, he can feel the hard curve of his cock pressing up against his ass, and if Oliver will not allow him to fuck him, then he's more than willing to ride it instead.
"As unappealing as the idea might be, I suppose I could find it within me to accommodate such a thing," Oliver says with such a straight face that it takes Roland several moments to realize that he is joking.
"Thank you for your flexibility," he responds dryly and slides from his lap, turning first towards the bed - but he doesn't know if spare sheets will be easily accessible - and looks over at the bathroom instead, pondering the merits of relocating to there instead.
"I'm not fucking in a bathroom the size of a shoe closet," Oliver says before he can even begin to ask the question. Roland turns to look at him, surprised to see him already mostly undressed, and hastens to follow suit.
"Are we fucking then?" He asks when Oliver has joined him on the bed, opening his arms to welcome his presence. Oliver comes willingly, sprawling across him like an overly large cat in need of attention. The brush of his hands against Roland's sides draws a spurt of giggles from his lips, ones that transform into gasps as lips find his collarbone and kiss along it. He cards his fingers through Oliver's hair, gripping the back of his head lightly. There's a questioning hum, and he feels the strength of it vibrating through his skin, draws him in even closer, and then rolls them to wind up straddling his waist. Oliver looks up at him with dark eyes; the grey of them has now become nearly black. His exhale is part whine and part sigh, hands stroking up and down Roland's back, exploring with feathery touches that send heat straight to his groin. Still, he waits for Oliver's answer and doesn't want to ask for more than the latter is willing to give.
"Not this time," Oliver says softly, and there is an apologetic edge to his voice that Roland finds he doesn't like the slightest bit. Sets his hands on either side of Oliver's head and leans down to press a chaste kiss against his lips. Another under his eye and the third against his temple before he whispers into his ear. "There is nothing to apologize for; I would be more than delighted to fuck you some other day." Presses another kiss to his temple before he retreats and finds Oliver looking at him with something akin to vulnerability in the lines of his face. It's not the sort of expression Roland would have expected to see on the face of one such as him, but he's hardly one to judge, given his own history.
"Next time," Oliver repeats, sighing, and just like that, the fragility is gone, replaced by a far more self-assured expression. "Your door might be more effective than you think."
Roland snorts at that, recognizing the distraction for what it is, but doesn't call him out on it, simply presses a kiss against his collarbone. "Oh, I believe it is quite effective, sweetheart; now I believe I offered to relieve your stress, did I not?" Trails his lips along the flat planes of Oliver's stomach as he scoots further down the bed and then off it, kneels down between the spread of Oliver's legs, and looks up at him. Finds Oliver already sitting up and staring back at him with hungry eyes, his hands gripping tight to the sheets. Roland slips his fingers beneath the edge of his boxers and draws them down as slowly as he can manage, relishing in the groan it causes Oliver to emit, his thighs tensing visibly. He slides them down all the way to the ground and then flings them over his shoulder, attention fixated on the cock standing proud before his eyes. Already it drips with precum, it's color almost the same shade as Oliver's cheeks. Reaches out to drag his finger along it, only the gentlest of touches, but it draws a sound from Oliver's lips anyway. Roland grins and nuzzles closer, allowing it to bump against his cheek as he deposits kisses along Oliver's inner thighs; for now, he is content to ignore it. Licks at the delicate skin of his balls before he takes one into his mouth, allowing it to sit there for a few moments, eyes flickering up to meet Oliver's before he sucks on it. The reaction is immediate, the sheets abandoned in favor of his hair, and though Oliver's grip is gentle enough, it still pulls at his locks just the way that he likes it. Roland hums, pleased, and lets it slip from his mouth, returning his attention to his thigh and its unmarked skin. Sets about remedying that through teeth and lips until Oliver's voice has gone breathless with the force of his gasps and whines, his legs only had still through the strength of Roland's grip on them.
His cries are like music in Roland's ears, and he guards each one jealously, even as they increase in desperation when he continues to ignore the area that Oliver most desperately wants him to touch. It is oddly satisfying to hear the breaks in his voice when he stumbles over his words, his fingers spasming in Roland's hair, at times gripping tight enough to hurt and at others, almost gentle in their grasp. Roland re-adjusts on his knees, spreading Oliver's legs further until he has obtained the angle that he desires. "Next time." Licks a long stripe up his shaft that has Oliver crying out. "I want to hear you beg, Darlin'." Lowers his head and takes him all the way into his mouth, hands covering the area that he cannot reach as he bobs up and down. Suckles delicately on the tip, tongue wriggling his way under the foreskin before he eases up and slides back down. Feels Oliver buck underneath him, and for a brief heart-stopping moment, he can't breathe before he manages to withdraw and holds his hips instead. Keeps him pinned to the bed for a pointed minute until Oliver ceases his squirming and mumbles, "Sorry." Satisfied, Roland nods and gets back to work, hand fondling and squeezing at his balls until he feels them go completely tense. Hears Oliver's gasped warning, a moment too late before his mouth is suddenly filled with a salty taste that he swallows more out of instinct than any other reason. Sits back on his heels with a soft gasp of his own, heart pounding in ways that he hasn't felt in years, and looks up into Oliver's flustered face. His hands flutter between the two of them as if unsure where to touch before they fall to his knees instead. "Sorry," he repeats, "I meant to give you more notice."
And though Roland is not one for blowjobs when he could be fucking, he thinks that he wouldn't mind doing it again if only to see that expression of wide-eyed need on Oliver's handsome face. "It's alright," he replies, pushes upright to lean against the bed, and reaches for his own aching member, left bereft of contact for far too long.
"Roland, would you allow me to…?" Hands brush through his hair, gently sweeping his sweaty bangs back, and Roland looks up to the sight of Oliver nibbling on his lower lip. He makes an encouraging noise, curious to know what he's offering. Oliver gives him a slight smile and then pats the mattress. "Come up here." Roland goes willingly enough, even though a large part of him desires nothing else than to continue jerking himself off. As if sensing his thoughts, Oliver gives him a look and then pats his leg consolingly. "Don't fret; I'll take care of you."
"I'm not fretting - Woah! Woah, what are you doing?" Reaches out to catch Oliver's arm when he makes to slide off the bed. "You don't need to do anything you don't want to, Darlin'," he adds swiftly, only to fall silent when Oliver gives him an amused look.
"I want to," he says simply and settles down between Roland's knees in an eerie similarity to how Roland had been only a few minutes prior. "Don't pull my hair; I don't like that," he warns, hand settling on Roland's thigh like it belongs there. Roland stares at him, at a loss for words and wondering why it was that he'd assumed Oliver had little experience in this realm, for there is nothing hesitant in the way that he touches him now. Hands assured and steady, eyes burning with intense focus, and there is beauty to him that Roland is only just now beginning to understand.
"I won't," he agrees, needing to say something but not knowing where to even start, "do you want me to touch you?" Settles his hands in the sheets as he awaits a response, breath shuddering in his chest when Oliver licks inquisitively at his cock, tracing along the veins with the very tip of his tongue. Looks up at him, expression thoughtful, and then gives a small nod. Roland nods as well and places his hand on top of Oliver's head, stroking it softly; it earns him a flustered glance before Oliver returns to his task. The hand not currently keeping Roland's legs spread starts to fondle his balls, stroking and teasing them, each touch still so light as to verge on unbearable. "You can go har-," Roland starts only for the words to die in his throat when Oliver lands a tap on them without warning. His hand releases the sheets and is covering his mouth in a flash, muffling the embarrassingly loud squeak he would have released otherwise. Oliver's eyes are dancing with amusement when he manages to meet them, and Roland thinks that he might very well perish at that moment, for the smile gracing Oliver's face is of a potency that sends sparks straight through his heart. "F-fuck," he whispers, stroking down the side of Oliver's head until he can brush his fingers against his cheek. "You're dangerous."
And Oliver laughs then, like sudden sunlight amid rainfall. "I am," he agrees. Sets his mouth against his cock, and Roland is lost in the storm of sensations that come crashing down above his head. His thoughts are yarn unspooling under a kitten's paws, his body an instrument that Oliver plays with skill, and he speaks in that moment words that no partner has ever managed to drag from his heart before. Muffles them as best he can against his hand, but Oliver is as relentless as the tide, and before he knows it, he has little choice other than to let them loose. Crumples forwards, hands shifting to Oliver's shoulders rather than his hair, feels them flex underneath his fingers, deceptively strong, and then his legs are being lifted. Cries out as he's abruptly upended onto his back, his feet now kicking helplessly at Oliver's back. Blinks through dazed eyes and sees Oliver watching him, half on the bed, mouth still wrapped around his cock. Roland must make some sort of noise, for Oliver hums as if in acquisition, his eyes slipping closed, and then he takes him all the way into his mouth until his nose is brushing against Roland's pubic hairs. Sucks hard, and it is too much, feels his arousal crash through him like lightning amid the storm clouds, and he cries out once more. The sound ripped from the depths of his throat with such strength that it almost hurts, and his vision goes white a moment later.
It returns in fits and bursts of color, first the ceiling - a boring cream coloration - then the fan spinning slowly, the walls, and finally the sight of Oliver sitting beside him on the bed. Turns his head to look at him properly, and Oliver offers him the slightest crook of his lips. "Welcome back, Roland."
"You," Roland mutters and waves a hand at him. "You're trouble, dangerous; I can't believe I thought you were new at this." He rolls over, surprised to find himself clean of mess, and then feels a greater appreciation for Oliver. "Thanks."
"You know what they say," Oliver replies, "making assumptions makes an ass out of you and me." He looks so unbearably smug that Roland has little choice other than to roll once more and collapse on top of him. Ignores Oliver's grumbles and makes himself at home with studied dedication. The grumbles fade after a few moments and are instead replaced with a hand gently stroking the top of his head. "We really ought to shower," Oliver says, and he at least has the decency to sound apologetic.
"I don't want to move," Roland tells him because he is not above being a brat, not even when he's orgasmed so well that his muscles have turned into pool noodles. Grins innocently when Oliver glowers at him. "What? You're very comfortable, Darlin'. Can you blame me?"
"If you don't move, I'll give you something to sit on," Oliver replies, and though he clearly means it as a threat, now that Roland has seen his dick, he's more than willing to consider the idea. Goes as far as opening his mouth to say so, but Oliver has already realized the depths of his mistake and waves his hand. "I withdraw that statement. It is late, and we both need to be on set early tomorrow, do we not?"
"Yes," Roland agrees reluctantly. He sighs dramatically and then rolls off him. "I don't suppose you would like company in your -" cuts off as chuckles overtake his words for the look that Oliver gives him promises certain death should he continue to talk.
They shower separately, an unasked for blessing for it allows Roland time to scrounge up clothing for Oliver to change into when he emerges. Though it was never brought up, he can't help but feel happy that Oliver is spending the night. Not because the walk between their rooms is far, but simply because he has always enjoyed cuddling after sex, and the opportunity to do so now fills him with joy. Emerges from the shower to the sight of Oliver sprawled across the entirety of the bed, and while Roland is considerate, he draws the line at blatant pillow hogging. Oliver grumbles, only rolling over when Roland repeatedly prods him in the side, but Roland will compromise as he's no longer taking up the entire bed. He tosses the used towels in the direction of the bathroom and settles down beside Oliver, gently drawing him back until he can fling an arm around his waist, nose brushing against the back of his neck. Considering how long it's been since he last took someone to his bed, he's expecting to have a harder time falling asleep, but Oliver's deep breaths are surprisingly soothing. Roland falls asleep between the span of two deep breaths, feeling happier than he has in years.
