Re: Quiet Home: Misha & Oliver
"He wouldn't believe you," Oliver with sad eyes and too much disturbance in this small room, he knew. His brother wouldn't believe anything about him aside from that which Oliver told himself. Oliver pressed his cheek into the nearest wall because that was the most comfortable place to lean. It was familiar, like hiding under bends, or secrets spent in dark rooms. Not the bad kind, just the good kind when you could talk all night, and maybe your cheek was pressed against the wall because the bed was too small for the two of you.
"I don't want to be alone," Oliver slumped with the sharper bones of his shoulders seeming like turrets or arches, angled so from beneath his shirt. He could be art himself, but he wouldn't see it. Misha was at least right about it being nice for people to worry about him. "Not people, just Jude." Oliver didn't care about anyone else, not yet. He didn't want to, really. He didn't know if there was room inside of him for that much love. Jude took it all, and it was safe when Jude took it all because Jude wasn't the kind of love that meant hurtful touching in the dark.
Oliver wondered, and a part of him knew, that there was more to love, more to sex, than the hurtful guilt stuff. Oliver just wasn't sure that he knew how to access it, how to deserve it. "No, he doesn't want me to move on like he does, but the way I'm doing it… isn't good for him either."
He looked across, brown eyes and slumped posture. The world was unfair, and he didn't know why people thought it was beautiful or redeemable. Misha seemed to.