Oliver was distracted again, his brain seemingly making a habit out of catching up on his own thoughts half a minute after having them. The drag he took from the joint was a little absent-minded, but he was aware enough to offer it when he was done, even if he still wasn't entirely sure he needed a second dose to begin with.
The idea that there would ever be a reason why he wouldn't want to be with Edwin when...if...no, when they were out of here felt ridiculous. He knew himself. He didn't doubt how he felt. Did that mean he was subconsciously doubting Edwin? No, that didn't feel right either, even as his brain filled with images of smiling twinks in LARP gear, and mental math of what their age difference would look like years down the line, or to other people. People who knew them. Edwin's people, who might not even like him in the first place. Things that didn't matter now, not where they were, but might someday.
What would life in the real world really be like after this with Edwin as an ex, talking about the old guy with the dumbass back tattoo he'd met that time he'd been kidnapped, to some heavily inked, angelicly handsome 20-something with long legs and hair, and piercings, and a pert ass and some posh British accent with a stupid name like Devon. Or Damien. Or Clay. God, Clay was a fucking dumb name. And Clay would be some fancy photographer, or a musician, or an actor, and Edwin would get discovered by some eccentric fashion designer and become their muse, and move to Europe, and with the financial freedom to do whatever the hell he wanted he'd see all that art in those damn museums he'd get his mojo back, and become famous all over again, and he and Clay would have European goth twink orgies, or LARP sessions, or LARPs that turned into orgies, and they'd have a big vampire-elf wedding in whatever the world's most famous Victorian mansion was, and the entire ceremony would be in elvish, and they'd have three beautiful, perfect kids named...fuck...Edwin had enough common sense that they wouldn't be pretentious asshole names, but god dammit. And they'd they'd start a family band, and win a bunch of Grammys, and get even more famous, and happy, and perfect until Edwin walks in on Clay fucking the twink landscaper for their seventy acre rose garden, and they run off to Tahiti with the family fortune. Because Clay is a fucking asshole. And then the band breaks up because the kids all want solo careers. And then Oliver and Edwin would reconcile, but only after Edwin runs into Oliver at the world's last vinyl record shop, because everything in...fuck, what year would that even be... went digital, or subsonic, or whatever the hell technology is headed for now, and Oliver would be some lonely, crabby seventy-year-old who doesn't know what an mp22 is, and only leaves his damn porch hammock to feed his long-distance Edwin addiction through wholesale releases of the Mercier family music/art/fashion/LARP merchandising empire. And his dog. He'd have at dog at seventy, probably.
"Clay's a really fuckin' stupid name," Oliver groused, shoving the lower half of his face into the pillow as he glared at his cookie, still abandoned on the bedspread beside him.