Re: Quiet Home: Misha & Oliver
There was a difference between clean and pure, and Oliver hadn't ever really diagnosed the separation of what made one or the other. Two different words, but he hadn't realized just how different until right now. The Quiet Home smelled clean, it smelled like disinfectant despite the dust. But Misha didn't smell anything like soap. He didn't smell like Jude did: black tea, old paper, and wool. Oliver lived too much in his scent to know if there was defining it as anything other than 'home.' Usually, to some degree, he smelled like paint. Not entirely pleasant, it was a chemical-sharpness that permeated his clothes and the flesh of his hands if one was to sniff it out. Under that was a note of mildew and woodland green, something taken on from living in that fall-down house in the woods. The rest of him was bar soap, clove cigarettes, and overly-sweetened coffee. Oliver didn't smell pure at all. He wasn't glacial blue, he was autumnal loneliness.
The exhale was sweet against his lips, something sensory and unexpected before the contact of a kiss. Oliver licked his own bottom lip, wondering how pure could have a taste. The kiss was gentle and yes, well-behaved, but Oliver hadn't been given any reason to think that it wouldn't be. Otherwise, he likely wouldn't have made the suggestion at all. But Misha was young like him, and attractive, and he didn't feel racing-heart terrified at the notion. It was a nice notion, he was realizing, as Misha's lips parted over his.
It went very slow, and Oliver's hands stayed, perhaps awkwardly so, at his sides. He was running the pads of both thumbs over the pads of all his other fingers. It was something to do with his hands, and really the only sign that nerves might have been singing anxiously through his arms. Artists weren't always good at stilling their hands.
A little bit closer, the sole of his shoe squeaked in the quiet, dusty room. The kiss was nice, and cool like blue water. Oliver opened his mouth to it.