12
There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin
"Give it to me straight. Do you think our characters are fucking?" Roland asks one rainy afternoon when filming has been completed for the day and the crew released from their duties. There's a splutter from the phone, and he hides a grin behind a hand despite knowing that Oliver cannot see him. "I mean, you've read the manga, right? You can't tell me that there's no chemistry going on there~"
"Chemistry certainly, but must you ask so crassly?" Oliver responds at length and still sounds out of sorts to Roland's pleasure. After weeks of acquaintance, it's become a game to see how much he can fluster his co-star before the latter snaps. However, with the poor weather, they haven't had the chance to cross paths today. It had seemed logical to Roland that he should call to fulfill his daily quota. Or at least that's what he's planning on telling anyone who asks; if it's also because he's missed the sound of Oliver's voice, then that's between him and his favorite Saint.
"I don't consider fucking crass, but if you insist I'll use a different terminology," he teases. "Do you think they've come to know each other biblically?" He wished that this was a video call so that he could see what sort of face Oliver was making. He wonders if he's frowning or fighting a smile. There's a quiet huff on the other end that sounds fond to Roland's hopeful ears.
"Biblically, I have little doubt, either that or they're very aware of each other's…preferences."
"Either that," Roland agrees readily, frowning at the hesitation. There had been a shift in Oliver's tone when he spoke and he finds he doesn't much like it. "Are you alright?"
"…Fine." The hesitation is far more apparent this time, and Roland stiffens automatically. Concern is an ugly beast nipping at his heels and he knows it's improper to push but Oliver sounds strained, and if he's spoken out of turn then Roland needs to know. This thing between them is still fresh, a seed only planted and he's fearful of both over-watering it and uprooting it before it has had the chance to grow. "Sorry Roland, I'll call you back." The call ends before Roland can even respond, and he's left listening to the beeping dial tone. Concern ceases nipping at his heels and moves in, settling into his ribcage and taking up all available space until his heart is squeezed into a corner.
"Okay," he mumbles into the empty air. "This is fine." He turns back to his work, thumbing through the script, but his heart isn't in it, it can't be when he's still wracking his brain to figure out what he says wrong. Was it the jokes about their characters being in love? Which they are, of course, but maybe Oliver isn't comfortable thinking of them that way. Roland will ask the next time he sees him, apologize, and back off if needed. Stares down at his papers again, scanning the text 'something about first loves' without truly seeing it. He sighs and pushes to his feet, abandoning his work for now. When stressed, Roland has often found comfort in moving around, be it going for runs or exercising at the gym; his favorite, however has always been dancing.
Ballet, to be precise, was a passion he had once shared with a dear cousin, but she's since moved on to greener pastures, and he'd fallen out of the habit when he began to act full-time. Had picked up dance again in college, and now it's something Roland does only to unwind. There's nowhere near enough space in his room to move about, so he grabs his water bottle and heads downstairs. There's a gym on the ground floor that he's been to several times this month, and it's more than large enough to suit his needs.
Is just stepping into the elevator when his phone buzzes aggressively. Roland checks it, surprised to find a text from Sirius. Can you come to the business center? Well, Roland supposes his destination and the business center are on the ground floor, it wouldn't be going out of his way to check on the kid. He shoots back an affirmative thumbs up and continues on his route. The elevator is empty, sparing him the need to plaster on a false smile for anyone's benefit. Roland takes the time to calm his breathing, setting aside his concerns about Oliver and focusing instead on being mentally prepared for whatever the young star might need. Sirius isn't the type to ask for help unless it's something serious — he snorts weakly at his own pun, but then the doors open, and he's not given much time to think about it further. The business center is on the far side of the lobby, a collection of computer desks tucked away in a large room lined by windows on three sides. The blinds are drawn when he approaches, and the door shut. Roland hesitates, steeling himself for whatever he finds on the other side, and knocks.
"Come in!" Sirius' voice calls out.
Roland opens the door and warily sticks his head inside. The first person he sees is Oliver, standing by one of the computers. He's turned away from the door, speaking in a quick and tightly controlled voice into his phone. Sirius is sitting in one of the office chairs, knees drawn up to his chest and arms wrapped around them. His head is back, gaze staring listlessly at the ceiling. "Hey, I'm here," Roland says softly, fully entering the room and shutting the door behind him. "Are you alright?"
"Absolutely peachy," Sirius replies so brightly that it can only be false. His head rolls to the side, eyes landing on Roland, whose feet falter instinctively when he sees the wealth of pure misery in them. He recovers swiftly though, and crosses to his side, kneeling beside the chair. Means to offer automatic comfort, arms already opening, but Sirius speaks again, still in that false bright tone. "You shouldn't; my filthiness might be contagious."
"What?"
"Don't say that," Oliver snaps at the same time. He stows his phone with quick rough gestures and stalks over to join them. "It's been dealt with. The staff knows to keep an eye out now, and if they see him anywhere on the film grounds, they'll call the police." Sirius' face undergoes a complicated series of twists, his lips pressing together tightly before he lets out a sigh that sounds terrifyingly close to a sob.
"What's going on?" Roland asks, glancing between the both of them. Oliver meets his gaze briefly, and rage is dancing in his eyes, more so than Roland has ever seen. Sirius just lets out another sigh-sob and rubs his arms like he's trying to warm up. It's clear that neither one of them is prepared to give an explanation, at least not yet. "Can I hug you?" Roland asks instead, turning his attention back to Sirius. He might not have entirely understood what happened, but the implications he's gathered are enough to send worried anger pulsing through his veins.
Sirius looks at him for a long moment, then gives a tiny nod, slipping out of the chair to tuck himself against Roland's chest. Roland wraps his arms around him more securely, gently rubbing his back in circular motions until he feels his shivering abate. "You're not filthy," he says quietly, intended only for the young man's ears. "Whoever told you so was lying through their teeth." Sirius lets out an ugly snort, clinging to him harder, and doesn't respond. "They were," Roland insists, "no one who uses at least 6 different hair products can be filthy."
That draws a slightly happier-sounding snort at least; Sirius pushes back just enough to smile at him. "You're silly," he says like it's something he's only just now discovering, "but how do you know I don't use the 3-in-1 wash?"
"I have seen the inside of yours and Noah's trailer," Roland replies, "come back here; I haven't finished hugging you." Surprisingly, Sirius goes willingly, tucking his face into his neck and making a contented noise. Roland resumes stroking his back, willing to remain kneeling as long as necessary, but to the relief of his knees, Sirius pushes away a few minutes later, cheeks pink with embarrassment. "Thank you, I needed that."
"Any time," Roland responds readily, "and I mean that. Any time you want or need a hug, you can just come find me. I've always got one to spare."
Sirius eyes him for a moment, gaze far too assessing for one who's barely out of teenagehood, and it pains Roland a little to see that. He hopes Sirius will see that he means the offer honestly and take him up on it. "I think I'm going to go back to my room now and call my parents," Sirius says, twisting around to address the words to Oliver. "Thank you for earlier; I really appreciate it."
"Of course," Oliver replies; during their conversation, he's moved a distance away, leaning against the desk closest to the door with his arms folded across his chest. He looks more like a bodyguard than an actor, with his dark shirt tucked into equally dark pants. "Do you want us to walk you up?" Speaks like one too, Roland thinks, and something that feels alarmingly like heat settles deep in his belly. He looks away swiftly, embarrassed that his body would choose now to remember that Oliver is ridiculously attractive.
"It's fine," Sirius says when he tunes back in. "It's not far; I don't want to take up more of your evening."
"Alright," Oliver says after a long pause, "but text me when you arrive. And text Noah so that he's aware he should be keeping an eye out and —"
"Oliver," Sirius interrupts, and he looks amused now, more so than upset. "I'm twenty, not a child. If something happens, I'll let you know, but I need some space to clear my head right now." He glances in Roland's direction, waves, and then departs from the room rapidly. Automatically, Roland tracks his progress until he's out of sight. He turns back to Oliver afterward, more questions on his tongue, but one look at the closed-off expression is enough to kill them.
"I was on my way to the gym," he says instead, "you want to come with me?"
"I could blow off some steam," Oliver says, shrugging. "Lead the way."
Roland hums, not trusting himself to speak when the word 'blow' is still bouncing around the insides of his skull. Clearly, he needs to start getting regularly laid if one word from Oliver has him so embarrassingly off-kilter, but then again, the only person he wants to invite into his bed is Oliver, and therein lies the massive problem. It's been weeks, and Roland is still thinking about how he'd looked curled up in his bed after their activities. How his face had scrunched up under the morning sunlight, the way he'd instinctively sought to avoid it by hiding in the crook of Roland's neck. His cute grumbles when Roland had been forced to remove him, and there is a lot Roland would do to hear those noises again. Sighing heavily, he pushes open the door for the gym and immediately beelines for the treadmill. Dancing no longer seems like it'll be enough to relax his mind, he needs to run.
He checks the settings, sets up his music, and starts off at a light jog. In the mirror, he sees Oliver wandering around the room like he's unsure where to start. He lingers by the weights before moving to the other treadmill, and Roland hastily averts his gaze before he can be caught staring.
"Can I ask a favor?"
"Sure Darlin'," winces as he speaks, but Oliver doesn't even bat an eye at the nickname.
"I didn't bring headphones, would you mind playing your music out loud?"
"Oh, sure? It's metal though, might not be to your taste."
When Oliver only shrugs, he removes his earphones, and soon the heavy beat of Viking Death March fills the air. Roland hits a few buttons and breaks out into a proper run. He soon loses himself to the act, thoughts fading away into peaceful nothingness, consumed entirely by putting one foot in front of the other. Sweat drips down his skin, his heart beats heavily inside his chest, and Roland feels more steady. When the timer marks that forty minutes have passed, he slows to walk, inhaling deeply as he wipes the sweat from his face. Oliver is no longer beside him though Roland isn't aware of when exactly he left.
Scans the mirrors and spots him by one of the body bags, sans outer shirt, and now only wearing a fitted tank top, fists raised as he hits it. Roland's heart decamps to his throat, and it's good that he's no longer running because his feet promptly grow entangled. Yelping, he turns off the treadmill and steps down. He tries not to stare as he drinks from his water bottle, then fetches the cleaner and a paper towel. It's hard though, because Oliver is a sight to behold. Spinning and darting about, like a dancer in his own way, he strikes the bag in a series of quick-fire combinations. Roland has never learned to box or been interested in more violent contact sports but finds himself captivated now. He gets a mat down and starts to stretch, but his gaze always drifts back to the corner of the room.
Questions are burning the tip of his tongue. He wonders when or where Oliver learned how to box if it was for fun or some other reason. The casual adjustment of the bag and ease of his movements suggest that he's been doing this for a long time. Roland shifts to his feet and then slides down again until his legs are evenly split. The burn along his thighs is pleasant, and he releases a long sigh. Looks into the mirror again only to see Oliver watching him, eyes dark and intense under the shadow of his bangs. Roland swallows and drops his gaze, his heart thumping painfully inside his chest. He transitions from the splits to laying on his back and draws a knee to his chest, stretching one leg at a time. When he finishes that, he rolls over onto his stomach, bracing his hands against the floor while arching his back. There's a muted thump to his left. Glances over quickly, but it's only Oliver laying out his own mat. Sweat glistens on his arms, and Roland's thoughts spiral further out of control. He knows that Oliver is muscular, but there's something different about seeing it up close. His fingers itch to touch, to trace the line of his deltoids and wipe away the sweat gathering on his neck. Drops his head onto his folded arms and sighs in despair.
"What's wrong?"
"You're hot," Roland mumbles into his arms. Realizes what he let slip belatedly and snaps his head up in horror.
"Oh." Oliver isn't looking at him, his head turned away, but Roland can see how his ears have pinkened. "Thanks, I guess."
"You're welcome," Roland replies, and there's a laugh bubbling up in his chest now. He lets it spill without hesitation, laughing harder when Oliver looks at him in confusion. "You're fucking hot. Don't tell me no one's told you that before?"
Oliver has the gall to look embarrassed, gaze dropping to his lap, and Roland's certainly not about to let that slide. Rocks forward onto his knees and reaches out with a hand. Means only to teasingly bump his shoulder but Oliver over-balances with a startled noise. Roland scoots closer, leaning over him to better take in the flustered expression on Oliver's face. "Absolutely stunning," he whispers, brushes along the contour of his cheek, and tucks a lock of hair back behind his ear. Oliver's eyes grow lidded, his breath a barely audible exhale. The pink stains his cheeks and ears still. It's adorable, and Roland thinks he might lose his mind if he continues staring at it. Automatically, driven by some primal instinct, his fingers stroke the softness of Oliver's cheek again, and he leans even closer, gaze dropping to his lips. They're pink, faintly peeling like they've been worried at recently and he wants nothing more than to taste them again.
A hand abruptly appears in his vision, pressing his face back firmly. Roland recoils with an offended squawk, capturing and lowering the offensive hand. Too fast, he means to ask but what emerges instead is, "My god, what long fingers you have." Embarrassment floods him, but it is more than worth it for Oliver, who groans and flings an arm across his face. "What? Haven't you heard that one before, either?"
"Roland," is the plaintive response, just shy of an actual whine. "Control yourself; there are cameras in here."
"Oh." Embarrassment rises for an entirely different reason, and he hastily drops Oliver's hand. Returning to his own mat, feeling like an unsightly insect scurrying back to his dark hole come break of dawn. Catches himself glancing at Oliver and hastily looks away again, curling his fingers into fists. He knows the dangers; it's in part why he hasn't brought many people to his bed. Not only because of his busy schedule but because his tastes tend to run contrary to what most people would expect. Roland's fully aware that he makes for an appealing figure has his mother to thank for his good genes, and years of people approaching him at parties have further enforced the idea. And it's not even that Roland dislikes the fairer sex because he's equally as fond of a soft curvy body as he is of hard firm muscle; it's just that lately, he's been yearning after something the industry would castrate him for if it got out.
"Roland."
He looks over again and sees Oliver frowning at him; he's got his shirt slung over his shoulder, and his expression suggests it's not the first time he's called Roland's name. "What's up?" Roland replies, reluctantly pushing himself into a sitting position as well. "Are you heading out?"
"Yes," Oliver says, as short and sharp as always, but then he hesitates, gaze turning aside as he deliberates over his words. And Roland suddenly doesn't want to hear it; fear bursts like fireworks in his chest and he speaks quickly, tumbling over his own words. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to go too fast. I got excited and wasn't thinking, and earlier as well, if anything I said made you uncomfortable. I'm sorry." Oliver's eyes snap back to him, at first wide and then narrowing down into a piercing look that leaves Roland feeling seen. It's his turn to shift uncomfortably and fight the urge to look away.
There's a grunt and then Oliver is crouching before him, all of his formidable intensity focusing on Roland. "Your apology has been noted," he says no less firm for all that his voice is quiet. "And accepted, even if it is unnecessary. You haven't made me uncomfortable." A pause, his brows furrowing into the beginnings of a displeased look. "Trust me when I say I would have told you if you had."
"Okay," Roland whispers when it becomes clear that Oliver is expecting an answer from him. "That is a relief; I know I can be a lot." Too bright, too loud, too affectionate, yet not nearly affectionate enough. All the things that past partners had decried when they walked out of his life left him standing alone with his heart in his hands.
"You are, but I'm looking forward to getting to know you better," Oliver replies, but there is no recrimination in his voice, only plain-spoken honesty. "I like that about you, how sunny you are and blatant with your affections. I find that I am less afraid whenever you are present."
Roland's heart beats very quickly inside his chest. He digs his fingers into his pant legs, needing to cling on to something; otherwise he's afraid he'll reach out and latch onto Oliver. His eyes are prickling at the corners, and his nose is starting to hurt, all telltale signs that he's tearing up. It's been so long since someone found him appealing and interesting just as he is, but Oliver clearly does. Roland isn't sure what he's done to be so blessed, but he sends a quick prayer of thanks anyway. "What I was going to ask earlier is if you wanted to get a meal sometime," Oliver finishes quietly, "somewhere where there won't be as many cameras."
"Yes!" The shout erupts from deep within his chest, resonating clearly throughout the room and bouncing off the walls. Roland chuckles apologetically but Oliver simply looks fond, his frown fading into something gentler. "Let's do that then. If you let me know your availability, we can coordinate."
"Okay," Roland says again, happiness surging through his chest, and it takes physical effort to not lean over and hug Oliver. Pushes up to his feet in a burst of energy and holds out his hands. Oliver takes them without hesitation and lets Roland pull him up to his feet. However, a question is still burning at the back of his mind, so he asks it as they're waiting for the elevator. "Earlier with Sirius, can I ask what happened? You don't have to tell me if it's private, but you seemed upset."
Oliver glances at him askance, with the sweat having dried, his curls have become more pronounced. Roland's attention diverts to them briefly before he focuses again because Oliver is answering. "I saw Sirius at the door of the hotel; an unfamiliar man was accosting him. Went over to see what was going on and forced him to leave." The elevator doors open with a beep, and they step inside. Oliver's frown has returned as he speaks, "I didn't hear all the conversation but he called Sirius a "filthy maggot" and I can't help but think it might have something to do with the recent interview."
"The one where he said his favorite co-star was Noah?"
"Yes, that one." Oliver drags a hand through his hair, letting out an aggrieved sigh. "It was a harmless interview but you know how people can get. I hope that's the worst that comes from it; they're both so young. I don't want to see them turn jaded."
"I'll keep an eye out," Roland promises, his thoughts veering down a darker path as well. "You didn't get hurt, did you?"
Oliver snorts like he finds the entire prospect of getting hurt absurd. It's Roland's turn to side-eye him, already half-prepared to start protesting, but the elevator door dings loudly, and Oliver promptly slips out before he can say anything. Roland waves, gets a head nod in response, and then is left alone with his thoughts. He retreats to his room, taking a long luxurious shower where he spends some much-needed quality time with his right hand before collapsing on his bed. His dreams are filled with strange sights and sounds, so much so that he can barely remember them when he awakens. He does remember clearly, though, the feel of smooth skin under his hands and a faceless figure with hair as dark as night prancing around.
The rain continues on and off for another week. With it comes an influx of cold weather and the first hints of snow. When not on set, Roland spends his time bundled up in his trailer, reviewing the script or training with Durandal. Of course, he has a stunt double, but the weapon itself is pretty fun to use, and he's enjoying learning swordsmanship. Getting into silly pseudo-duels with his stunt double is also good fun, and occasionally the man lets him win. As a result of the poor weather, however, he and Oliver haven't yet had the chance to escape into the city. In fact, they haven't had the opportunity to meet at all since their last conversation. While Roland has been busy training with Durandal and filming his unit scenes, Oliver has been embroiled in a press conference tour. It was last minute as the actress scheduled to attend had fallen sick the night before, and no one else was available. As such, Roland has had to content himself with text messages and the rare video call.
A call that he's presently waiting for bundled up in a thick hoodie and sitting on his bed. His computer is before him, skype pulled up while he lazily scrolls through Twitter. He's not snooping per se, but there had been a notification tag earlier, and he's morbidly curious to know what people are saying. With the press interviews and set photos being spread, there has been increased attention turned towards the show, which he's both grateful for and nervous about. His screen lights up with an incoming call, and Roland all but yeets his phone aside. Clicks 'accept' with one hand while adjusting his earbuds with the other. The screen buffers a bit, pixelating worryingly before it settles and Oliver appears. Like Roland, he's dressed comfortably, wearing a knit sweater and jeans. He's holding a glass of wine, long fingers delicately curled around the stem. Roland's stomach drops and he has to remind himself to breathe.
"Good evening," Oliver says, "how was your day?"
"'Twas good, darlin'. I saw the photos you sent; that was quite a crowd! Must have been noisy as fuck too; how are your ears?"
Oliver's lips twitch, just the beginnings of a smile, but he inclines his head in agreement. "I believe they were disappointed to see me instead of the Mademoiselle, but we made it work. As for noise levels, they give even you a run for your money." Roland laughs at that, falling into the familiar pattern of bantering. It's nice to talk like this, exchanging easy words without fear of misunderstanding or worrying about spoilers. No one will scold him if he tells Oliver about all the easter eggs they're hiding in the trailer. Not that he's supposed to know about the trailer, but Roland had been curious and the interns were more than willing to talk about their hard work. Listening to them also helped him gain a better perspective on how they're doing with the media. It never hurts to stay on top of things. The topic soon leaves work behind, moving on to other more pleasant discussions, that is until Roland discovers something genuinely horrifying.
"What do you mean you've never seen the Lord of the Rings?" He exclaims, aghast. "That's like a classic! It's even a Christmas movie!"
"Now I know you're just pulling my leg," Oliver responds, looking remarkedly unashamed by his lack of culture. "Pray explain in what way is a movie about elves and orcs and dwarfs a Christmas movie?" Leans over as he asks, and Roland does not stare at the sliver of skin unveiled when his sweater lifts slightly. He doesn't. Returns with a bottle in his hand and refills his glass.
"Well, for starters, it has elves," Roland can hardly resist pointing out, grinning broadly when Oliver stares at him. "But it's a Christmas movie because the Fellowship, that's the cast of main characters, sets out on their epic quest on the 25th of December, otherwise known as Christmas day." This fact, which should have been a winning one, only makes Oliver hum. "That's it!" Roland exclaims, pointing dramatically at him. "Hurry up and come back; we're going to have a movie night!"
"Are you asking me out on a date, Roland?" Oliver replies, and the sparkle of his eyes is visible even through the computer screen.
"I'll provide the movies if you can get the pizza," Roland replies, the word 'date' dancing through his head. He wants to say yes, desperately, but it feels too soon, too easy, and a part of him still recoils from the idea. If Oliver notices his avoidance, he gives no sign of it, and the conversation drifts onward again. They talk until the sun sets and the clock veers dangerously close to midnight, yet Roland still feels he could talk for hours longer. This is a sentiment that Oliver seems to share for the next time that Roland takes note of the clock; it is 2 AM, and they're both yawning. Oliver bids him farewell then, mumbling something incoherently between yawns, and Roland smiles at how cute he is.
Oliver returns three days later. Something Roland hadn't known until he stumbles across him in the hotel lobby where he was checking back in. Automatically, Roland calls a greeting but it dies when all he receives is blinking, like Oliver's not quite sure who he is or why he's being talked to. There are bags under his eyes, apparent even with the mask that covers the lower half of his face. His customary beanie is on his head, but it only covers one ear like he's recently put it back on and hadn't even bothered to make it look proper. The staffer says something and Oliver turns away, taking the card handed to him before stumbling away. He nearly forgets his suitcase. Roland hurries after him, wordlessly snagging it and then falls into stride beside him. It earns him another confused look, and he has to fight back a smile. Something tells him that if he starts teasing now, he's liable to get his head bitten off. "What floor?" He asks once they're safely in the elevator.
"5th," Oliver mumbles, slumping back against the wall. He rubs at his face, tugging his beanie off to run his fingers through his hair. "Room 507, I think."
"You think?"
There's shuffling as Oliver digs the card back out of his pocket. He stares at it momentarily, squinting hard. "506?"
"No, I'm not concerned," Roland says before he can stop himself. Moves closer to peer at the card himself, chuckling a little. "Darlin', you might want to get yourself some glasses. That says 509."
"Don't like my glasses," Oliver mumbles back. He stuffs the card away again, yawning into his hand a moment later, as if even now when he's practically dead on his feet, he's still duty-bound to follow the rules of politeness. He squints at Roland next, looking at him for a long moment before he asks, "Did your hair get lighter?"
"I went to the hair salon," Roland explains, ushering him out of the elevator on their appropriate floor. "If you don't like glasses, have you tried contacts?" He has to maneuver around Oliver when the latter stops in the middle of the hall and, on impulse, takes his hand. Oliver's own is cold to the touch. "Didn't bring any extra," he mumbles, following along when Roland starts walking again. "Ran out yesterday; it's fine though. I can see well enough."
"Okay darlin'," Roland says, and it's hard not to chuckle but his efforts are apparently for naught, for Oliver's head bumps his shoulder, grumbling incoherently. He doesn't draw away when Roland opens the door; he just follows after him like a particularly large post-it note. It's the clingiest that Roland has ever seen him be, but as much as he wants to indulge in it, Oliver's exhaustion is also painfully apparent. "Come on," he says gently, "let's get you out of these clothes so you can shower and go to bed." Gently disengages himself, catching Oliver by his shoulders when he wobbles and backs him over to the bed. Oliver sits, rubbing at his face with both hands, dislodging the mask in the process.
"Right shower," he mumbles, sounding exhausted by the prospect. Picks desolately at his jacket buttons, and he looks so unhappy at the prospect of effort that Roland reaches out. Bats Oliver's hands aside and swiftly undoes the buttons. Oliver makes a noise that might be a protest, but when Roland looks at him, he says nothing. His eyes are hooded, lashes brushing against his cheeks. There are still faint traces of makeup at the corner of his eyes. Tenderness unfolds in Roland's chest, and his hand moves without permission to gently cup Oliver's chin. Oliver makes a low noise in response, eyelids sliding shut. He leans into the touch like a cat seeking affection. Roland's heart is an unsteady beat in his ears, and he has to take a moment to simply breathe. There's a thought wriggling through his mind, a desire slowly building, and he leans forward impulsively. But then Oliver's eyes slide open again and he recoils, cheeks burning. Oliver is the first to retreat, although to call it such when all he does is flop onto his side is a misnomer. "If I ever see a camera again, it'll be too soon," he announces.
"Yeah, good luck with that," Roland mutters and busies himself with removing Oliver's boots. Tugs his pant leg lightly, "Can you take these off yourself?"
"Impatient to get me out of my clothes, are you?" Even without seeing his face, the teasing smirk is audible.
Roland's heart gives another unhelpful skip. A socked foot bumps his shoulder, and he swats it aside, but it bounces back swiftly. And well, Roland's never claimed to be responsible. Surging upwards, he places a hand on the bed and scrambles higher. Slots a knee between Oliver's legs, nudging them apart only for a hand to grabs the back of his shirt and haul him fully onto the bed. Roland gasps the casual display of sheer strength, sending all his blood rocketing straight to his nether regions. Oliver peeks out at him from under the shelter of his arm, the corners of his lips curved upwards in smug satisfaction. "Darlin'," Roland breathes, the appellation that has all too quickly become a permanent nickname slipping out like a prayer.
"Roland," Oliver returns, speaks his name with such softness and open affection that tears spring to Roland's eyes. The hand leaves his shirt, fingers curling at the base of his neck, and he shudders, bowing into the touch. Feels them curl in his hair, tugging at the longer strands. Roland groans and rocks forward, burying his face in the side of Oliver's neck as his blood sings with want. "Darlin'," he says again, half-pleading, "I'm always hankering to get you out of your clothes, but are you up for this?" Plucks at the hem of his turtleneck out of the need for something to do with his free hand. Oliver shifts under him, wrapping a leg around his thigh like he's unwilling to let Roland move away, not that he'd been planning on moving.
"I am tired," Oliver admits lowly, "but I don't think I'll be able to sleep yet. Someone's riled me up." Shifts again, lips brushing against the shell of his ear, leaving kisses along his jawline. Roland nearly curses him as each touch sets his skin aflame until he's fighting to control both his addled brain and his desire.
"Okay," he gasps out, choking in the next moment when teeth nip at the soft skin behind his ear. It's his turn to squirm, beset on both sides by that wicked tongue lavishing his ear and neck while hands slip under his shirt to stroke his back. "Mother of god," Roland swears, yanks at Oliver's turtleneck until he's created enough space to get a hand underneath. Brushes soft skin and feels Oliver's stomach expand when he inhales sharply. He exhales a long low whine of his own, and it is a sound that will surely haunt his dreams for weeks. He rucks up the shirt as far as it will go, leaving featherlight touches wherever he can, eagerly relearning what he's seen once before. Oliver collapses backward again, and he must truly be pent-up for his noises are coming far easier this time. Roland mouths at his collarbone, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses until impatient hands in his hair drag him away again.
"Don't tease," Oliver growls, his eyes entirely dark now, their grey having been swallowed up. There's a furrow in his brow, his lips parted as he breathes raggedly and Roland yearns. "Can I kiss you?" Whispers the words a hair breath away from Oliver's lips. He feels hot air brushing them when he sighs, and Oliver pushes up just enough to meet him.
Roland crumples. The first kiss is messy, the angle all wrong and he bonks heads with Oliver, but a hand grabs the base of his neck, and everything improves. Roland hums happily and lets Oliver angle his head as he dives in for a second taste and then a third. Wriggling closer, he flings a leg across Oliver's lap and pushes both hands under his shirt. It's in the way still, but he doesn't want to stop kissing long enough to get rid of it, not when Oliver's hands are in his hair, Oliver's tongue is licking into his mouth, and Roland's sanity is flying away. A whine slips free, and at first, he's unsure who made the sound, but then he feels lips at his throat, hot and demanding, and the sound comes again. It's him, Roland realizes dazedly; he's the one whining like a maiden because Oliver has turned his attention to his neck.
He is nipping at it now like he means to mark it, and Roland thinks he said something; he must have made some noise for Oliver laughs suddenly. The attack ceases, and Roland can start thinking clearly again, or at least as much as he can, when Oliver's laughter still radiates in his ears. "Menace," he swears, pushing back until he can look down at Oliver, but his words fail after that, mesmerized by the sight of flushed skin and that intense gaze. He frees a hand, thumb brushing across Oliver's lower lip. "Like to bite, do you?" Oliver's tongue emerges, wetting his thumb before it disappears again. The corner of his lips are curling up, a positively dangerous expression and Roland is going to lose his mind if he hasn't already.
Touches his cheek again, tracing the curve of it until he can cradle his jaw. Oliver turns his head, pressing a kiss against his palm. "I am fond of biting," he finally answers. Captures Roland's hand in his own and nips at the inside of his wrist. Roland jolts gasps even though he'd been expecting it, and Oliver snorts, eyes glittering. "You like being bitten."
Roland leans in again because he can't not kiss him, only to yelp when the world abruptly spins on its access. When it steadies, he's on his back, Oliver hovering above him, smugness radiating off him in waves. "Okay, I get it, you're fucking strong," Roland laughs. "Show off." He tugs at Oliver's turtleneck again, finally freeing it all the way and promptly shoves both hands back underneath it, stroking his sides. Oliver shudders delightfully, and then to Roland's great pleasure he sits up and yanks the garment off. "Fucking hot," Roland breathes, reaching up to reverently squeeze his pectorals. "And buff, look at you."
Oliver's cheeks are burning pink again, a no doubt sharp comment on the tip of his tongue, but Roland brushes his nipple at that exact moment, and what emerges instead is a strangled whine. "Still cute though," Roland says, and does it again. Would have continued if not for Oliver grabbing his wrist and pushing it aside as he leaned in to kiss him. Roland loses himself all over again and would have been content with simply kissing Oliver for the rest of eternity, but there's a thought wriggling about in the murky depths of his mind. Reluctantly, he abandons those captivating lips, showering Oliver's shoulder with kisses instead. It's beyond gratifying how Oliver twitches in his arms as if the simplest touch is enough to arouse him. "Hey," Roland breathes, running fingers down his spine until they reach the curve of his ass and takes it in hand. Oliver jolts, hips rocking forward and Roland can feel his hardness now. "Do you want me to blow you or?"
"Just your hand will suffice," Oliver pants into his neck, "I'm already," he doesn't finish, but he hardly needs to when his hips have yet to cease their rocking motion. Roland hums, pulling him closer so that Oliver is in his lap and he can run his other hand over the front of his jeans. Palms them curiously and Oliver's needy noise is an answer all on its own. Roland wriggles a hand into his pants, taking his cock in hand. Oliver whines into his neck. His hips are steadily moving now, but the jeans certainly aren't making it easier, and Roland feels somewhat like a horny teenager again, scrabbling around in someone's pants without the faintest idea of what he's doing. "Oliver darlin'," he whispers, "can you sit up for me?" Gets a grumble for his trouble, but Oliver rolls over a moment later, slumping back against the pillows. He looks dazed, pink down to his shoulders, extends an arm and Roland goes willingly. "I got you," he murmurs, kissing his head, "Lemme help you out alright, babe?" Swiftly, he opens his jeans and tugs them down to his knees. Oliver kicks them off the rest of the way, a whine so low it almost sounds like a groan resonating through the air when Roland finally gets a hand around his cock. "This alright?"
Oliver turns his head, tucking his face back into Roland's neck as he mutters something. "Louder please," Roland replies, twisting his hand how he remembers Oliver liking last time and getting a cut-off curse. It's flattering beyond measure, and Roland finds himself grinning. Adjusts their position so he can press kisses along Oliver's neck and shoulder as he jerks him off. The urge to bite, to mark and lay claim is lurking right under his skin, but he hasn't forgotten Oliver's comment from last time, so he refrains. Keeps his touches gentle so as not to bruise that fair skin. Oliver shudders in his grasp, his noises increasing steadily in noise and crassness until he curls forward suddenly and comes with a shaky cry. Roland rubs his back soothingly, pressing kisses along his spine and neck. When Oliver starts to squirm again, he lets him go but the latter only turns into him, once more hiding his face in Roland's shoulder.
Roland wipes his hand off on the sheets, nuzzling into Oliver's hair so he can kiss along his neck. His own dick is throbbing, likely staining the front of his sweatpants, but for some reason Roland can't bring himself to care. He'll deal with it later; at present, the only thought on his mind is taking care of Oliver. Speaking of which, Roland should probably clean him off so he can sleep. "Oliver," he murmurs, sweeping a hand down his spine. "Let me get a cloth to clean you up, kay?" Oliver grunts but he shifts off him, burying his face in the pillows instead. Roland escapes into the bathroom. Swiftly returns a wet cloth in hand and finds Oliver sitting up with a confused expression on his face. "Darlin'?"
"Where'd…?"
"To get a cloth," Roland replies, rejoining him on the bed. "Do you need anything else?" Oliver doesn't respond, at least not verbally, his head thumping heavily onto Roland's shoulder. Roland hesitates, eyeing the clock on the nightstand. It's just now approaching what might be considered evening hours and the idea of napping for a while does seem appealing. Looks back at the man in his arms, but Oliver's eyes are already drifting shut, his breathing slow and steady. "Well, that does make for a compelling argument," Roland murmurs, his heart thumping so loud inside his chest that he half-fears Oliver will hear it. "I'm not a fan of going to bed without showering, though; think you could release me from pillow service long enough to do that."
"Eurgh," Oliver enunciates, opening his eyes again with clear reluctance. "Come back?"
"I'll be back before you notice I'm gone," Roland promises, and on a whim he captures Oliver's hand, pressing a kiss against his palm. "Go to sleep Darlin'; I'll be here when you wake up." Oliver nods, lying down and curling up. Roland pulls the sheets up around him, then retreats to the bathroom for a much-needed cold shower. When he returns, Oliver is asleep, not stirring even when Roland accidentally jostles the bed. Pleased, he curls up next to him, joining him in sleep.