m. oliver barnes is the weirder looking twin (eruv) wrote in dissentwo, @ 2013-02-27 20:31:00 |
|
|||
LOG: fun party?
FORMAT: Log
WHO: Graham Whitby-Spavin and Oliver Barnes, guest staring Telyn Perkins.
WHEN: Late August, 1976
WHERE: London
WHAT: Oh, you know, just the wizarding equivalent of drunk texting. Inebriated Oliver quotes a lot of Shakespeare; wishes he did not have emotions.
graham, muggle alcohol is more potent than non-muggle alcohol there may have been a lot i can’t find my coat come get me? Oliver’s handwriting was terrible. It was summer and he hadn’t even brought a coat, but a coat felt like a thing one brought to a party and, to be honest, the world was spinning too fast for any season to register at all. If he apparated he’d splinch himself and traumatize all the Muggles and anyway, they’d all have to be obliviated. It was all very complicated, far too complicated for his brain to process. The lights were very bright and swam a little. There were fairy lights, and they looked like the city skyline. He looked down at the journal, propped up on his knees on the porch of someone’s house, a friend from his Muggle activist circles. Someone had given him a cigarette, but he didn’t know who and he’d half forgotten about it. He shielded the journal from view, checking the page every twenty seconds for a response, knowing in his gut that he was making a mistake that he would be excruciatingly embarrassed about in the morning. That was a problem for Future Oliver. Future Oliver could deal with that. Present Oliver wanted to see Graham’s stupid face and have someone take him home, and also he wanted drunk eggs and his bloody coat, where had he left his coat? God, he was drunk and so stupid, he did not qualify as a Ravenclaw in this state it was shameful. Why had he gotten so drunk? statute of secrecy, he wrote, finally, and underlined it three times. Graham had barely been home ten minutes--working late, then to check in on Poldie at Mungo’s--when he saw the ward from Oliver. A moment’s hesitation before, with a sigh (that, frankly, didn’t hold any real conviction or irritation) he shut off the stove he’d only just turned on and grabbed a quill. Why do you need a coat in August, exactly? Where are you? His late dinner would wait and while he watched his journal, waiting for Oliver’s response, he leaned back against the kitchen counter and crossed his arms. Technically, he probably shouldn’t feel nearly as relieved as he did just then. He didn’t like that he felt that this drunk ward posed as a sort of evening out of the score after Graham’s drunken arrival at Oliver’s front door not so long ago, but he he couldn’t deny it either. With no immediate response, Graham left the journal laying open on the counter and changed out of his work robes and into a more Muggle button down and jeans. Oliver had been distracted by an occurrence with a cheese plate. Activists didn’t have good cheese plates. His stomach whooshed, somewhere between pleasant and unpleasant, at the sight of Graham’s handwriting and he fished a pen out of his pocket. coats are a gentleman’s armour,” he wrote, blotching the g. That led him to his next question. Where was he, exactly? He looked around for clues and came up with nothing. I am going to go on an adventure to find the address. His adventure managed a good deal of head patting from his compatriots, who seemed to find his drunken state adorable. He said something obnoxious and cutting to them just to even the score, and then found a shadowed corner to write his findings. It was a good thing he was a journalist, Oliver figured. All of his Muggle friends just assumed he was taking notes. Shoreditch. 24 Hoxton. By the time Graham had returned to his journal, Oliver’s entire response had come through. With a smirk, he couldn’t quite help, he wrote a quick reply: ”Armour”? “Adventure”? When did you turn into a Gryffindor? On my way. Considering he had never been to the specific address Oliver wrote (or, rather, if he had, he didn’t remember it as such), he Apparated from his flat to the first safe (see: secluded) spot he could think of in Shoreditch, without much idea of how far he’d have to go exactly to get to the address. After emerging from the alleyway he’d arrived in, it took a couple flashes of his smile to get the correct directions (thankfully, only a short walk away) and a few minutes later he shoved his hands in his pockets as he approached the door of said address. Once inside, he recognized a face or two, made a bit of small talk (it came too naturally for him not to do so) and immediately glanced to just about any and all corners or small spaces he could find, not a doubt in his mind that was the sort of place he’d find Oliver. He conveniently ignored the mixed feeling in the pit of his stomach at the prospect of finally finding him. And then deliberately ignored it when the feeling got worse when he spotted Oliver. “Fun time, then?” he said in greeting as he approached, absentmindedly adjusting his hat. Oliver looked vacantly up at Graham, and then slightly to his left. Graham’s face shouldn’t be allowed, he thought. It was not a thing that was appropriate to occur in nature. It was deeply, deeply unfair. "Social events are peculiar and off-putting occurrences,” replied Oliver, leaning his head against the wall and squinting up. “So, drinking tends to parallel. Did you find my coat?” It would be a fair assessment to say that Oliver did not sound sober, but on the whole his commitment to elocution kept him from parody levels. Graham frowned slightly when Oliver decided to not look at him directly. It wasn’t a vanity thing (not with Oliver, anyway), but it distinctly bothered him. More than he’d care to admit. “I’ve asked after it and Michael--”he glanced at the man in question across the room and smiling automatically at him before turning back to Oliver--”says you didn’t have a coat when you got here.” His expression was amused now as he added, “Because it’s August and a coat is utterly unnecessary.” “Michael,” said Oliver sourly, frowning at the indistinct shape in the distance, “He doesn’t... Coat. In the autumn. The autumn of our discontents.” While Oliver was making this extraordinarily coherent statement he had begun to struggle to his feet, bracing his hands periodically against the wall as if he was trying to stall the building itself from moving. Stupid wall, always moving. Like Graham’s hat. The worst. The only reason Graham didn’t refrain from rolling his eyes at Oliver’s clear distaste toward Michael was Oliver’s inebriation. He quickly let the old twinge of irritation pass before, without a second thought, he reached out to help Oliver fully stand up. His hands lingered on his waist on one side and his arm on the other. “Are you going to whinge about it all night if you don’t leave with a coat, Oliver?” At the brush of contact Oliver lingered, tilting his head slightly up at Graham — the two inch height difference was never substantial enough to notice, and yet — “Platonic standard,” he said, a little breathlessly. A moment later he jolted a bit, remembering what was happening. Alcohol, that was a thing. That existed. Briefly, Oliver wished for sobriety, before rejecting the idea in favour of something that didn’t require him to overthink every twitch of Graham’s stupidly perfect face. “Yes. Coat or bust. No coat, no rum. Wait. No, there was rum, prior to this experience, this experience is based primarily on rum.” He looked up at Graham helplessly. “I should never have drank rum. Because of the slave trade. I have ruined all my ideals.” “Rum is never a bad decision,” Graham replied simply and a little more concisely than his usual conversation. He was acutely aware of the breathlessness in Oliver’s voice--no matter how subtle--and the somewhat helpless look on his face and, drunk or not, Graham couldn’t help but feel a slight ache at the thought that, realistically, he had no business caring as much as he did. This whole role reversal--Oliver drunk and Graham not--was a bitch, he decided (then felt more than a little guilty that he’d put Oliver through this not that long ago). When Oliver was at his full height, Graham put a supportive arm around him, slightly holding him up as he slowly walked him away from the wall and more toward the door. “Let’s not worry about your ideals for the moment and focus on the coat problem instead, shall we?” A plan already formulating in his mind. “Ideals are Very Important,” insisted Oliver, polking Graham in the chest with each word. He was leaning into Graham a bit more than he necessarily needed to, but what of it? It was a Saturday night! He had consumed overmuch rum and talked infinite politics and won seven arguments, he could not be held responsible for his actions. “Don’t I know it,” Graham replied, somewhat convinced Oliver would miss his exasperated tone, for once. Despite the fact it had nearly been a year since they broke up, Graham’s body felt naturally inclined to hold Oliver a little closer, to tilt his head toward him as he spoke, but he forced himself to fight those particular urges--especially when Oliver leaned into him. He kept his eyes forward as he slowly guided Oliver through the party and toward the exit. “Let’s just deal with one problem at a time. First: the non-existent coat, then we’ll get to your ideals, alright?” His voice was less exasperated now and more business-like, as if he were talking about a case at work. “‘Kay,” Oliver nodded, wobbling a little as they made their way through the party. He made a few awkward farewells along the way, too distracted by his ex-boyfriend’s unnerving presence — so familiar and so strange, at once, these days — to function socially even at his less than ideal levels. “Good,” Graham said with a nod as they neared the door. He guided Oliver to sit in a nearby chair and turned to face him, one hand rested on his shoulder and looked him in the eye, “Just wait here a minute, alright? Don’t go wandering off to some other dark corner.” With a last raise of his brows that mildly dared Oliver to ignore his order, he turned and walked back toward the way they’d just come from. When he’d been looking for Oliver in the first place, Michael--as stated--had said with a laugh that Oliver hadn’t brought a jacket, but in any case, there were plenty that he doubted would be missed, if Oliver was insistent enough. Oliver may not have been downright refusing to leave without one, but it would doubtless be easier to get him home with a jacket in hand--whether or not it belonged to him. So, after a quick rifling through the small pile of coats on a spare couch (seriously though, it was August, why did this many people think they needed a coat tonight, for fuck’s sake?), he found a cardigan that quite easily could’ve been from Oliver’s wardrobe and quickly headed back to him. Oliver had started to wander off into some dark corner, mostly out of awkwardness than any desire to piss off Graham, but had been waylaid by Telyn, who as usual had no respect for his intoxication as an excuse not to talk politics. She’d immediately begun to argue with him about the role of shock tactics in the Gay Pride movement, and although Telyn was less drunk than he was, fuck if he was going to let a little thing like blood alcohol content and, you know, the dangers of slurring, get in the way of debate. Halfway through a relatively coherent point about social mores, Oliver looked past Telyn’s hair towards Graham, approaching him with the cardigan in his grip. Oliver’s face went embarrassingly open, his eyes softening unintentionally. It really wasn’t fair that Graham’s jawline could do that, or that his eyes could be so blue, or that when he smiled for real Oliver felt it in his gut like a shot of firewhiskey. He wasn’t smiling then, but Oliver could remember. “Procured,” he said, when Graham was within touching distance. It was so easy to pretend like this was still something he could have. He grinned at Telyn. He felt much drunker now that he didn’t have the singular focus of trying to argue through a haze of fermented liquid. “Amazing. He found my unnecessary um, weather. Gear. Apparatus. Societal knitwear.” Telyn didn't laugh. She raised an eyebrow at Graham. Her face did not warm. “Hey, Graham,” she said coldly, taking a sip of her drink. “Don’t, don’t, it’s fine,” assured Oliver, patting her on the arm. He looked around the emptying room. “Where is Michael, this is his party and we have to go now, really. Oh. There. Just a moment, I have to have a two minute awkward goodbye.” “So. He called you,” said Telyn, still icy, her eyes tracking Oliver as he made his way to the host. Technically, she knew ‘warded’ was probably more appropriate than ‘called’, but considering the number of Muggles around them, she figured he’d understand the need for subtlety. To say that Graham ‘wasn’t smiling then’ wasn’t quite right. He had seen Telyn before he’d seen Oliver, but with that much hair between two people, it was easy to guess who she was talking to and his neutral expression turned slightly defensive as he approached. Even if she hadn’t greeted him with the warmth of dry ice, he was well aware that he wasn’t her favourite person in the room. He sighed but didn’t protest when Oliver left them for Michael. “Yeah,” he answered Telyn simply, his voice traced with regret (at answering Oliver’s ward? at showing up? at having to deal with Telyn right now? he wasn’t sure which at the moment). Turning his eyes from Oliver to the table beside him, he grabbed a discarded cup that held about a shot’s worth of what looked--and smelled, after a brief investigation--like whiskey. A moment’s hesitation before oh fuck it he downed the last of it and looked at Telyn, brow’s raised. “Fun party?” Telyn looked back at Graham, her arms crossed over her chest, and didn’t respond. As glares went, this was an impressive one. Not in the mood for an argument, he settled for conversation that didn’t involve Oliver for the moment. With a glance around the flat he’d been to a few times before, he commented, “They painted,” in a tone that barely registered a feigned sense of interest. Telyn’s eyes didn’t leave Graham’s face. “Nope.” It took a great deal of restraint to not roll his eyes just then. After a moment, he met her eyes and tried again. “How’ve you been then? Dating anyone?” “No.” “Look, I’m not going to fuck him, alright?” Graham snapped, far more defensive than exasperated now. “Not unless he asks,” he added as an afterthought, that, frankly, was resoundingly true, whether or not he liked admitting it. It was possible, it turned out, for Telyn’s face to get even colder. “I’m going to get Oliver’s bag, and then you should leave,” she snapped back, turning on her heel and disappearing into one of the bedrooms where people had stashed their things. Graham glared at her back as she walked away, then focused on the task at hand. It seemed Oliver was finished with his goodbye, so Graham walked over to him--hoping he wasn’t drunk enough to have forgotten that they were, actually, planning to leave soon. “Hey David Smashidy,” he said with less humour than he might normally and nodded toward the door. Oliver was sitting in the chair Graham had originally put him in, one knee drawn up to his chest as he fixed the laces on his shoe. “I keep wearing these, even though they always hurt my feet, as if someday maybe they won’t hurt my feet. They’re futile. Like the class struggle.” He looked up from his task and tilted his head, a grin spreading across his face like he hadn’t noticed that Graham had been there. Because he hadn’t noticed that Graham had been there. “Hey,” he added, more softly. Graham put the cardigan he was still holding to drape over one shoulder and put his hands in his pockets as he watched Oliver’s musings. “How are you feeling?” he asked, trying to gauge exactly how dangerous Apparating them both back to Oliver’s flat would be. “Pretty fucking drunk,” said Oliver emphatically. “You missed the party.” “I was only invited to this part of it,” Graham replied shortly. “Shit, I’m sorry.” Oliver held out a hand palm out, the signal for stop. “We should get out of here.” He put both feet on the floor, experimentally, beginning to maneuver himself up. “I’m not going to be sick, okay. I’m just going to take my time.” He stood up and immediately regretted it, wincing and covering his face with a hand, the other bracing himself against the wall. “Okay I believe I was hasty in that assessment, and may need a minute.” Graham watched all this with as impassive of an expression as he could muster and held off actually touching Oliver (no matter how badly his body ached to do so) as long as he could. Finally, though, he couldn’t stop his hands from reaching out to steady Oliver, a hand on each of his upper arms as he gently forced his hand away from his face and looked him right in the eye. “Come on,” he said as he stood Oliver at his full height and said. “Let’s be less drunk now, ok?” His tone suggested he could’ve been talking to a third year at their first Gryffindor party, rather than a grown man. Oliver just stared at him for a beat, face unreadable except for the flickers of emotion and annoyance that competed in his eyes. Finally, he made a thumbs up. “You got it,” he said, bright and sarcastic, but he leaned into Graham’s touch. Graham nodded, knowing that was about the best he could ask for from Oliver when he was like this, and maneuvered to stand beside him, again, with a supportive arm around his shoulders. He grabbed the cardigan off his shoulder and held it in front of Oliver. “Telyn said she’d get your bag,” he said as he looked toward the room she’d gone in to in search for it. “Door,” said Oliver, and indeed Telyn was next to it, holding his leather messenger bag on one shoulder and looking unimpressed. He clumsily pulled the cardigan on as they approached the door. “Hey, yente,” he grinned at Telyn, holding out an arm for his bag. “Don’t get cute with me,” she retorted waspishly, handing it over. “You called me cute though. Point for Oliver.” “Door for Oliver.” Telyn opened it, giving him a look that clearly said we’ll be talking about your choices later, idiot. Oliver rolled his eyes and kissed her on the cheek. “Tell Michael I’m sorry I drank all his good rum, and that it was only slightly your cousin’s fault. He’s a mensch, by the way, you should bring him around more often.” He patted her on the shoulder and exited, tripping a little over the doorway. Graham watched all of this without a word and followed Oliver as he made to leave, giving Telyn nothing more than a small nod. As they exited the party and the noise died down, Graham found far fewer things to focus on to keep him from paying too much attention to exactly how Oliver moved (even through the unfortunate disadvantage of alcohol) or how he would have liked to have his arm around Oliver again. He decided it best to keep quiet for the time being--discussing Apparition this close to a flat full of Muggles was probably a bad idea--and stay close enough to be able to keep Oliver from falling over or running into something, but far enough to more easily resist reaching out to him. Movement was becoming quite difficult, but Oliver was managing. Drinking was stupid. Why did he do that again? His brain swam. It was a good thing he was long out of Hogwarts, because there was no chance he could have answered Ravenclaw Tower’s puzzle in that state. His flat just had a key, which was far easier, though the physics of key insertion carried its own hazards from time to time. He realized, at that point, that he had been saying some of that aloud. Throughout Oliver’s rambling half-sentences, Graham kept quiet (had their situation been different--been what it used to be--he wouldn’t be holding back the myriad of teasing commentary running through his head) and guided them back to the place he’d originally Apparated to. It was still, thankfully, deserted and dark enough to be of use. “Think you can handle Side-Along right now?” he asked with more than a little concern. Oliver nodded. “It’s an affliction devoutly to be wished,” he quoted inaccurately. “...Right,” Graham replied, a crease in his brow. After a moment’s hesitation, he took Oliver’s hand and unconsciously stepped closer to him, concentrating on the task at hand. In the next moment they were in a secluded area near Oliver’s flat. With a concerned once-over, he asked, “All in one piece then?” “It appears so,” said Oliver, steadying himself against a wall nearby and focusing on not vomiting, “unfortunate nose to chin ratio and all.” Graham bit back the protest to his self-deprecation that--even after nearly a year apart--felt natural. Arms crossed over his chest, he watched Oliver for a moment before saying, “We should get you inside.” Oliver nodded, and led Graham around the corner to the front of his building. The florescent lights from the shops across the street flashed green and red onto the black door. He dug into his bag for a moment, searching for his keys. “Fuck,” he said, after a moment. He must have left them at the party. Or had he had them at all? Damnit. He rested his forehead against the cold wood. “Keys. Damnit. If I buzz Malik again at three in the morning our cordial neighbourly relationship will be truly in shambles. Shambled. Damnit.” After a moment’s consideration, Graham pulled a spare key to Oliver’s flat from his pocket and held it up in offering. “I’ve got it,” he said, the tiniest hint of guilt (he hadn’t kept it on purpose, but it still wasn’t really something he’d wanted to admit to having either) lacing his tone. Oliver stared at it for a moment, not speaking. “I thought you gave that back,” he said, sounding a bit colder and more sober, feeling a bit weird and upset and nostalgic, hoping it didn’t show up all over his face. “You never asked,” Graham replied, his eyes widening slightly with innocence--technically, it was the truth, though possibly not all of it. He stepped forward to unlock the door, stepping inside as soon as he was able without meeting Oliver’s eye again. Oliver closed his eyes for a minute, willing himself to get it together. With considerable difficulty that had more relation to his clumsy limbs than his unwieldy and irritating emotions — god, it would be so nice to be a brain a jar sometimes — he got himself through the door and up the stairs. He was feeling more and more tired with every step. He wished he was asleep already. And then, the shame would set in, the shame he knew he would so richly deserve but right then, he just wanted to sleep. Oliver stopped in front of his door, leaning like a dead weight up against the frame, and shut his eyes again. Soon, this would be over, and he could be filled with shame and regret and could become the hermit he really, really should always be, lest he shame himself as he always did when venturing into company socially. Oliver never made a fool of himself at activist meetings. It was parties, and dates. He should stop doing those. The door was nice, though. Solid. The door didn’t know what a fool he was. The door probably thought he was always like he could be, intellectual, and sensible, and articulate, someone who didn’t call their ex-boyfriend to pick them up and then spent the rest of the night half wincing and half leaning in to their familiar scent. He should probably just die there, really. Maybe people would remember him kindly. With a look from the locked door to Oliver and back to the door, Graham was quite sure Oliver had no intention of opening said door to his flat on his own. Graham flipped to the second key on the keyring and slid it in the lock, then--with a glance around, to be sure there were no Muggles in sight--he brought out his wand and tapped the doorknob in a specific series (one that, frankly, he doubted would still work), corresponding with the numbered code of the charm Oliver, at least, used to have in place. When he’d finished and he heard the distinct click of the lock opening, he looked up at Oliver in confused surprise. “You said you reset the charm.” Oliver made suppressing motions with his hands, not wanting to acknowledge why he hadn’t done so or open his eyes. “I forgot,” he said, “Or I didn’t want to, or I’m lazy, can we just?” He motioned to the doorway. Rather than respond and/or think too hard on the implications of that piece of news, Graham nodded and wordlessly opened the door, stepping inside. He held the door open and looked back at Oliver to be sure he followed without falling over/vomiting/falling asleep standing up. Oh, glorious flat. Soho may be dirty, but Oliver’s flat was as tidy and welcoming as ever. Shame didn’t live here. Shame lived outside the door, and Oliver didn’t have to see it. He stepped through to the front hallway and dropped his bag gracelessly on the floor next to the door. He felt a wave of nausea, and braced himself on the wall. “I’m just. I’m just going to go to sleep forever,” he said, his hands still making eloquent preventative motions towards Graham, likely in response to how vulnerable he felt after the door incident. Oliver shuffled towards his bedroom, and collapsed face first into the pillows. Graham watched Oliver until he was out of sight and in his room--ensuring, again, that he hadn’t succumbed to the less appealing effects of inebriation--(and deliberately ignoring the familiar desire to follow him). He took off his hat and set it on the nearest bookcase; it was only then that he actually looked around the flat. True, it hadn’t been that long since he’d last been here, but on that particular trip, he hadn’t paid much attention to his surroundings, save the man he was with. No, the last time he was here (as he somewhat unwillingly remembered now) was a blur of unabashed desire, need and utter pleasure over the fact that Oliver didn’t stop him when he kissed him hard, guided him to the bed, fell into old habits without hesitation for a night. The next morning had been an entirely different situation. The uncomfortable and slightly painful feeling he’d had then came back now, as he looked from the various books to the distinctly Muggle items (he’d been so unreasonably excited the first time Oliver had shown him how to use the phone) to the kitchen he had no doubt bared little-to-no food. He set his jaw and set aside the memories as he entered the kitchen, pouring Oliver a glass of water and procuring the Muggle medicine he always resorted to when he’d had a hangover--finding all the necessary items with a natural fluidity that came back without a thought; he knew where each item would be without question. Water and medicine in hand, Graham made his way to Oliver’s room, shutting off lights behind him as he went. Noting he was still, technically, awake, he held out the glass of water. “Drink up.” Oliver made an indistinct groaning sound from the pillows and didn’t move. “Oliver,” Graham chided, glass of water still held out to him. With a Herculean effort, Oliver managed to twist his skinny limbs around so that he was able to grasp the glass in front of him. He accepted the pills as well — suppressing the flare of gratitude that Graham remembered one of his odd neuroses — and slung them back into his throat, taking the water after. He pushed the empty glass into one of the shelves by his bed, collapsing back into the pillows. When Oliver accepted the water and pills, Graham tentatively took a seat on the edge of his bed, not facing him directly. He was quiet until Oliver set the glass aside. “More?” he asked, his eyes on the empty glass. “No,” groaned Oliver, before tempering himself. “But thank you.” His voice was quiet on the latter, and he tried not to look at Graham. He grabbed a pillow and held it in his lap, and when he spoke again his characteristic caustic tone had returned. “I’m just going to wake up in three hours drunk again, anyway.” Oliver laid down more, one hand going to his temple. “It feels like I am... made of sandpaper.” Not for the first time that night, it took a considerable amount of strength to not respond to any of Oliver’s commentary--it would have been too easy to joke with him and tease him for being the drunker of the two. It wasn’t long before Graham reached his breaking point. “Ok,” he said, his voice a little hoarse. “I’d better go.” He pushed off the bed to stand as he spoke. “Hey,” said Oliver, reaching out slightly before he could stop himself. He stretched out his foot to tap Graham on the thigh, a playful movement. His face sobered quickly, after, with the realization that he couldn’t do that anymore, that they didn’t get to have that now. He bit his lip. “Are you okay?” Graham immediately aborted his mission to stand up at the sound of Oliver’s voice. Evidently, it didn’t matter how determined he was to distance himself from his ex and the feelings he, clearly, still harboured for him, he wasn’t nearly as strong as he liked to think he was in the face of it all. He didn’t meet Oliver’s eye until his question, at which point, he turned to look at him a little incredulously. “Am I ok?” Oliver rolled his eyes, feeling defensive. “Yes. Are you okay.” Graham broke eye contact then, looking at the wall in front of him instead. “Um,” he began, eloquently. He didn’t like this. He wasn’t accustomed to or in any way comfortable with actually be honest about his less than ideal emotions. He was spectacular at putting on a good front; but, with Oliver--drunk or not--he couldn’t muster the energy to do so. “More or less.” A pause. “I’m getting there.” He kept his eyes firmly straight ahead and no where near Oliver. He knew he couldn’t deal with seeing his reaction just then. Oliver fixed his eyes on the fabric of the pillow, then looked at the back of Graham’s head, the skin of his neck in the low light that leaked through his bedroom window from the busy street outside. “It’s... it’s late,” he said, “If you want to, er. Stay.” Oliver shut his eyes against what he was saying, feeling the wave of humiliation at asking this, or not asking his, or whatever it was he was doing. “I mean. You could stay. If.” He winced again, cutting himself off before he got any worse. Brain in a jar, that’s the dream. Graham refused to look back to Oliver, to even move, as he heard what Oliver was saying. A significant part of him wanted to say ‘fuck it’, ignore his conscience and justify it all with the simple excuse of “It’s late.” But a nasty voice in the back of his mind told him he would just be using Oliver, just adding to the list of stupid decisions they’d both made since breaking up that was only making moving on harder. He didn’t respond right away. “I should go.” “Yeah,” said Oliver, in a fairly defeated voice. He squeezed his eyes tighter. Brain in a jar, and he was never drinking again. Or having a relationship. This was so excruciatingly awful, and he wasn’t even hungover yet. Graham stood then and walked out of the room without looking at Oliver again--he didn’t trust his self-control enough to know he wouldn’t stay if he looked back. It wasn’t until he had his hand on the front door knob that he stopped. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the keys he had failed to return. Fiddling them idly between his fingers, he glanced back toward Oliver’s room, brow furrowed. On the one hand, he really should have given them back ages ago. On the other--and he was more than a little ashamed at how selfish this train of thought was--keeping them meant there was a chance he could be of use to Oliver again in the future. True: this night had ended about as painfully as he could have expected it to (or worse). True: continuing to hold on to small ties such as a set of house keys wasn’t going to help him move on in any way. But, true: Graham wasn’t ready to admit he was ok with letting go yet. With a decided nod and more than a little self-loathing, he put the keys back in his pocket and turned the knob to open the door. From his place in the bed — larger and colder than it should feel, normally — Oliver felt a sudden need to reach out to Graham, just slightly, before he left. Everything still felt so unfinished between them. There were always so many loose ends. Closure, he was beginning to think, was impossible. “Graham?” he asked, a little croaky as his voice carried into the hall. Graham froze at the sound of Oliver’s voice, closing his eyes and letting out a long breath to keep himself focused. He forced himself to keep his hand on the doorknob--a physical means of reminding himself that he should be leaving. “Yeah?” he called, after a moment. “Thank you.” “No problem,” Graham’s voice was far more resigned than he’d meant it to be. After a pause, his innate inability to appropriately accept or deal with emotions as deep and painful as this took over and he added in a stronger, not-quite-as-irritated-as-he’d-intended voice, “I mean, never again, please, but...” he glanced back down the hall, toward Oliver’s room. “You’re welcome.” Finally, he forced out any second thoughts he may have had about staying and opened the door. “Good night.” Oliver didn’t respond, because now was the time for blissful unconsciousness, and tomorrow was the time for never-ending, horrible, soul-crushing shame. Future Oliver was not going to be well pleased with him. |