Re: Quiet Home: Misha & Oliver
Misha was right in suspecting that any sort of unexpected capturing, be it by hands or arms or legs, that would lead to Oliver scattering like marbles. He wasn't against touching, not really, as he liked people well enough(on most days). He was fascinated by people, that was what he drew the most of. Hands and mouths, everything else could be profile or shadows with a lack of detail. But hands were elegant, and mouths were interesting… from an artist's perspective. He mapped Misha's out with eyes closed, making measurements with his lips. The dart of tongue made Oliver go still for a moment. He didn't pull away, he just had a bad knack for getting tangled up in his head. Always wondering what things meant, or what was expected of him. But this was just a kiss. He didn't have to reassure himself of that, it'd been established, and Misha seemed sweet, and nice, and he didn't taste anything like what Oliver thought a bad decision might taste.
He'd forgotten about kissing. It'd been awhile, there'd been no kissing whatsoever since coming to Repose. It hadn't really been a specific decision on abstaining, Oliver didn't think. It just hadn't seemed like a good idea until right now. He was aware that all of his hang ups existed only in his head, and he usually developed a determination to push past all things that got stuck and bothersome in his head. That's why he'd come to the Quiet Home in the first place, to get over something. And Oliver might not have been over the dog or the dead woman, but he surely wasn't thinking about them right now. For the first time in way too long, he wasn't thinking about all the bad things that happened or could happen.
Misha pressed in so that more than just their mouths were touching. Oliver was tight as a tripwire, and his heart was beating really fast. It kind of felt like the first time he'd ever had to steal something. Exciting and not at all feeling as wrong as it should have. He felt like he had all those years ago, kind of wanting to run away, but also, maybe even more so, wanting not to.
Oliver finally found something to do with his hands, he pressed them against Misha's shirt, finding just enough space between them to do so. He didn't push Misha away, even if for a moment it seemed like he might. He still could, he knew. If he wanted to, he would. But he didn't want to yet, and his fingers curled against the fabric on Misha's chest.