Re: Quiet Home: Misha & Oliver
Pretty as a picture. One of Oliver's eyebrows skewed just a bit higher, thinking about the words and what they meant. He understood it as a turn of phrase, of course, but the meaning could be pulled up at the edges like molding floorboards that wanted to otherwise cover their secrets. Pretty pictures were postcard-shiny, depictions of candy pop lettering and the kind of girls who wore polka dot bikinis and bright lipstick. Pretty pictures were empty as Warhol. They weren't good pictures at all, they were just easy to look at. That felt strangely fitting, and Oliver didn't think that Crazy would be so keen to tell Oliver whatever he wanted to hear if Crazy only knew how not-good a picture he was.
The groans and the kisses were difficult to pry himself away from, but in the end he came up for air easily. Easy, like those moldy, secret-hiding floorboards would have to come up one day. But not today… tonight, whatever technicality that time spent had pitched them into. Oliver's voice was really hoarse when he got fresh air onto his tongue breathed it out toward the ceiling, head back with the kind of gasp that echoed drowning victims. Carefully, he unbuckled his fingertips from Misha. When Oliver looked at blue eyes, he seemed a little dazed, but otherwise firm when he said, "I really… its late, gotta go."
And that was all before he set off for the door, turning just once on the way back to the Home's hall, and the way out, that lied beyond their door. His shoes squeaked with the pivot, and Oliver was fixing the crooked flop of his curls with both hands. "Thanks… for… um… yeah." He didn't mean the kissing, but rather the whole agreement that led up to it, but Oliver's heart was a static flutter and he couldn't even remember how to string a whole sentence together, but he didn't wounded or afraid when he closed his eyes, shook his head with the rarity of a grin, and turned to dip out before embarrassing himself further.