Stacking the Dice

Chapter 1

Chapter Summary

Chapter Notes

Connor hates Wednesday afternoons.

On this particular one, he’s stuck inside on a gorgeous sunny day. The windows of their classroom are cracked open, and lingering scent of summer drifts in, heat and humidity and ragweed, the last gasp before autumn changes the colors of the leaves. But it’s not the same as being out there, getting in an afternoon jog through the park down the street from his house as the sun shines down on his face, a warm breeze almost cooling his skin.

If Connor had been thinking this through, he could have decided that he had enough extracurriculars, with his social calendar as filled as it is. But no, he had to decide to play overachiever and ruin his senior year.

“So,” Michaela says, drumming her fingers against her desk. “about the reading…”

They’ve rearranged the desks in this classroom, usually aligned in neat, straight lines, into a haphazard circle. Laurel says, “I get that it’s important to understand why Miranda v. Arizona was such a key court decision, but I’m not sure why we all have write up a five page essay about it afterwards.”

Every Wednesday, their study group convenes. The weekly sessions have been organized by Annalise Keating, law professor extraordinaire, who is almost definitely overqualified to teach AP U.S. Government at West Middleton High. Her husband died under suspicious circumstances last year after he became a prime suspect for the murder of a college student who he might also have impregnated. Connor could see how going on sabbatical would seem appealing after that.

The five people in the study group are the best and brightest of her class, the teacher’s pets who managed to finagle an invite to an extracurricular that will glow especially bright in the middle of an already glowing college application. Connor appreciates being selected, but he resents being forced to spend extra time after school with these numbskulls. It’s almost like The Breakfast Club, with the exception that it’s entirely voluntary. He has no one to blame but himself.

“I’m not convinced she reads any of those,” Wes says. “Ms. Winterbottom just gave me a check on the last one we did.” Ms. Winterbottom is one of the other lawyers at Professor Keating’s law firm. Connor has no idea what she gets paid in order to be willing to grade high school essays once a week, but he hopes it’s good.

“Oh?” Asher says, wearing his best smug-douche grin, “She gave me a check-plus. It’s because she’s totally into me.” He holds up two fingers in a V and then licks between them.

Laurel shoots him her dirtiest glare. “Gross, Asher. No woman in her right mind would want to touch you.”

Connor, who has never been one of those gays who finds vaginas particularly disgusting, feels a little nauseated himself. “Let’s just focus on our work so we can all go home.” His phone buzzes with a text. It’s probably from Jeff, the guy he met at the Banana Republic in the mall last weekend. “The less I have to see of you guys the happier I am.” Professor Keating doesn’t usually stick around to supervise or anything like that. She’s far more likely to hand them a bunch of work and then collect it sometime before next Wednesday rolls around. Technically, none of them need to be here at all. But Professor Keating will poke her head in at odd times, and her wrath is not pleasant if she doesn’t see you sitting there, working as hard as everyone else. Wes found that out the hard way a couple weeks ago.

Michaela’s answering smile is sickly sweet. “Oh, I’m sorry. Are we cockblocking you right now?” Connor would say he has a very good reason for hating Michaela Pratt, like the fact that she’s a stone cold bitch or the fact that she is more than willing to pick up Connor’s sloppy seconds, but really, the reason he hates her is because she’s far too good at everything. Her hair is never out of place, her grades always edging past Connor’s in the ten-way race for valedictorian, and she won student class president in a landslide because everyone was terrified of what would happen if she didn’t win.

“No, because there’s no way your pretty prom princess routine can ruin my game,” Connor sneers.

“I wasn’t aware that you had any game to ruin, Connor,” Michaela continues. “You always seem to go after the desperate, closeted ones.”

Okay, now that was just unfair. You fuck a guy on the football team one time, and it follows you around forever. “I totally have game. Name any guy in this school, and I can have him on his knees begging for my cock by Thanksgiving,” Connor says.

She tilts her head, considering it. “Okay, but I get to name the stakes. Loser does the winner’s assignments for the study group for the rest of the year. Really does the assignments. No printing out two copies of the same essay.”

“Guys,” Wes says, trying to interject, “Maybe we could--”

Laurel rolls her eyes. “Just let them go at it. It’s easier that way.”

“Aw, sounds like someone’s having trouble with her college applications,” Connor says to Michaela. He tilts his head to the side and smirks at her. “Deal.”

She smiles, entirely too broadly for someone who is going to lose. “Oliver Hampton.”

Connor snorts. That’s barely even a challenge. Oliver’s new, only having started at the beginning of the year, and somehow, he decided that hanging out with the gigantic nerds wasn’t some kind of social suicide. Though as an Asian guy with glasses, maybe he just embraced his destiny instead of fighting it. According to the school gossip, he’s out. At least that’s what his Facebook profile says. Connor’s half-considered trying to sleep with him before -- the guy’s cute in a dorky sort of way -- but he also gives off this awkward vibe every time Connor’s seen him in class. Connor doesn’t have anything against virgins, but he can’t be bothered with the shy, nervous types. They’re just way too much work for a mediocre lay. “No problem,” Connor says, “I’ll be done by next Monday.” He leans back in his chair. There’s no way he can focus on his reading while there’s still plans to be made. Besides, it’s going to be Michaela’s responsibility from here on out.

“Sure you will,” Michaela says. She’s once again focused on her work, holding a bright orange highlighter in one hand, like she can’t even be bothered to look Connor in the face while talking to him.

Connor says, “You might as well starting writing up two essays, Michaela. I expect you to have mine finished by Tuesday afternoon.”

Michaela’s expression is completely serene. “Get me proof on Monday, and then we’ll talk.”

---

Connor has been passing by signs advertising the computer club taped to the walls for weeks now. For the most part, he’s been ignoring them and their ugly clip art robots and Comic Sans text along with the tacky rainbow-colored signs for the gay-straight alliance and the student newspaper ones which use a lot of bold and exclamation points. When he actually stops to take a look at them, he finds out that the computer club meets on Tuesdays and Thursdays after school in the computer lab.

Following the trail of nerds is probably the easiest way to get a chance to talk to Oliver in a neutral social setting, and Connor is on a strict deadline for himself. He wants to get this whole thing done with as soon as possible, so he shows up in the hallway outside the computer lab Thursday afternoon after the last bell of the day has rung.

He can hear the sound of people as soon as he gets within five feet of the computer lab door, lots of incomprehensible babble that would usually be a total boner killer. As a rule, Connor doesn’t go to these lengths to get laid, but a bet is a bet, and his reputation is at stake here.

When he opens the door, eight pairs of eyes (okay, more like sixteen if you count the glasses) turn to look at him, and the room goes silent.

“Hi,” Oliver says. “Are you lost?” He’s the Asian one at the back, sitting on the floor, cross-legged with a Roomba in front of him and a laptop balanced on his knees.

Connor puts on his best charm-the-parents smile and tries not to feel overdressed compared to the ratty t-shirts and jeans that everyone else is wearing. “I just saw the signs up and thought that maybe I’d give it a shot. Technology is a growing industry, after all.”

“Uh,” Oliver says, “sure.” All the nerds awkwardly look at each other for a few moments before Oliver clears his throat. “You can work with me on my project.”

Connor can feel his grin getting even wider, even faker. “Great!” he says. “I’m Connor, by the way.” He tosses his bag onto the floor and settles down right next to Oliver.

“I’m Oliver,” Oliver says with a small, awkward wave of his hand. He shifts his computer over so that Connor can also get a good look at his screen, but Connor does him one better and leans over Oliver’s shoulder. He knows he’s breathing onto Oliver’s neck. From here, Connor can tell that Oliver doesn’t wear cologne or aftershave and that Oliver smells like clean soap and a little like the greasy tater tots they had at lunch.

He can feel Oliver stiffen slightly before forcing himself to relax, and Connor pulls back just a little bit. No need to overplay his hand just yet. “So, what are you working on?”

“Uh, I was mostly poking around its API to see if I could make it do something useful and--” He starts rambling on about something, and Connor’s eyes start glazing over. Thankfully, Oliver’s attention is on the screen in front of him, so he doesn’t notice that Connor’s attention is elsewhere.

The other nerds are off in their own little world, focused on their own laptops -- some of them frowning intently at their screens, others typing so fast that Connor cringes in imagined carpal tunnel, a few of them are having an argument about programming languages that Connor doesn’t understand. But for the most part, people stick to their own projects, lost in their own worlds. It’s less like they’re club and more like a bunch of people sitting in the same space at the same time. From this angle, he has a good look at Oliver, too. Definitely cuter than the dorky glasses would indicate. Connor finds himself admiring the cut of Oliver’s cheekbones.

“So, uh, how much Python do you know already?” Oliver asks. “I was thinking of using the pyrobot library instead of trying to do anything in C++.”

“Um,” Connor says. In most situations like this, he’d fake it until he’d made it, but he’s not entirely sure where to start faking this one.

“Oh,” Oliver says. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed--” He shakes his head. “It’s just that everyone else who comes to these things seems to have been programming since they were in diapers.” His voice drops to a whisper. “I think they’ve managed to scare everyone else off.”

“Nah, it’s fine. I know I’m still new at all of this.” Connor puts on his most charming you-know-you-want-to-fuck-me smile. “How about you and I grab some coffee and you can recommend some good introductory books to read over biscotti?”

Oliver blinks in surprise, as if he just noticed that Connor was flirting with him, his expression turning thoughtful and serious. “Wait,” he says, slowly, drawing out the syllables. “Is this a date-coffee or a friend-coffee?”

It wouldn’t exactly be a date-date -- coffee for him is a chance for him to size up a guy, determine if he’s too weird or too creepy, and then decide whose house they’re going to afterwards. But he gets the impression that Oliver is the kind of guy who likes to be wooed a little bit. “Date-coffee,” he admits, “if you want.”

“Uh,” Oliver says. He looks startled, a deer in headlights. “Um, sorry, but no.”

That takes Connor back. “Oh?” he asks. Sure, he’s been turned down before, but it’s rare. This is why he hates having to deal with the shy ones. They’re so difficult to read. “Any particular reason for that?”

“Yeah, I have a boyfriend,” Oliver says. He half-smiles, sheepish. “Sorry.”

“Oh,” Connor says.

Chapter 2

Chapter Summary

Chapter Notes

Yeah, the number of chapters went up. I fail at counting.

“You heinous bitch,” Connor snarls, Friday morning, coming up behind Michaela as she’s examining her hair and makeup in her locker mirror. “You set me up.”

She turns to face him, smiling that hundred-watt smile that gets all the teachers to fawn over her. Connor semi-spitefully refuses to tell her that her headband is crooked and the color looks ugly on her. “No,” she says, “you set yourself up.”

After Oliver’s confession, Connor went home to look him up on Facebook. Partially out of curiosity. Partially out of annoyance. He wants to figure out who he’s being turned down for. Most of the time, it doesn’t bother him. He’s slept with plenty of guys who have boyfriends or girlfriends or, in one particularly memorable case, a wife. It only gets on his nerves if he’s being cockblocked over it.

Oliver’s Facebook page informed Connor that he’s in relationship with a guy named Charles, who apparently goes to school at East Middleton High and plays lacrosse. Connor also found a bunch of disgustingly cute Instagram photos of the two of them on dates together, holding hands and making kissy faces. It was all extremely boring, but Connor did notice that one photo was of the two of them on a bowling double date with Michaela and Aiden from a week ago, and all the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Connor says, “You already knew he was dating that guy.” He gets right up into her face, using his few inches from his last growth spurt to his advantage. “And you knew he wouldn’t cheat on him.”

“All of the black guys at Middleton know each other,” Michaela says with an absent wave her hand. “Charles and Aiden have been friends since they were in fourth grade together. And before you ask, yes, he and Aiden have slept together. No, I don’t care about it.” She shuts the door of her locker. “And I like to write my essays double spaced in Calibri. I’ll send you the version of the heading you’ll need to copy.”

“I hate you,” Connor says. He’s usually much better at coming up with insults, but the red haze in front of his eyes is making that difficult.

“Make sure to get your copy to me by Monday. I want to read through it before I turn it in. I don’t trust you not to give me something awful,” she continues.

The bell rings before Connor can get another word in.

---

So, okay. Connor is not having the best of days. He spots Oliver in the hallways between second and third periods talking with that Asian girl in Connor’s physics class who always falls asleep five minutes in and still gets 100s on all her tests. He smiles at her over something she says, and his smile is broad enough that it shows off some of his teeth. It’s cute. It’s cuter than it has any right to be, and Connor grits his teeth at the reminder of missed opportunities. He hates losing to Michaela.

The weekend is slightly better. Jeff, guy-from-Banana-Republic, turns out to have an empty apartment devoid of roommates. Connor spends half of his Saturday “doing homework with friends” which involves Jeff making use of Connor’s teenaged refractory period in all sorts of creative ways, and when Connor manages to drag himself home a few hours later, he knows his ass is going to be sore for at least another week.

Sunday is actual homework, the physics problems he needs to do, and the chapters of A Separate Peace that he needs to read for English and the essay he still needs to write for Professor Keating’s study group.

He doesn’t bother with Michaela’s essay.

---

She shows up at his locker on Monday morning before the first bell. “Hand it over, Walsh,” she says. “I know how terrible you are at losing, but a bet’s a bet.” Her smile is flinty and hard and fake, and Connor does his best to focus on his calculus textbook instead of on her.

“Ah,” Connor says, keeping his voice light, “but the bet’s not over yet.” He pulls out a three-ring binder and shoves his cell phone into his pocket.

She’s not having any of it. “Oh come on. You said you’d sleep with him by Monday, and I have it on very good authority that you did no such thing.”

“Maybe I did say that, but the original terms of the bet were that I just had to sleep with him by Thanksgiving.” Sure, they hadn’t exactly made a contract on it, but he refuses to give up after one pitiful attempt. He’s so much better than that. He just needs the time and opportunity to prove it. He has about eight weeks left. That should be more than he needs.

Michaela’s smile turns brighter and faker. “Fine,” she says. “You have until Thanksgiving. Until then, we continue to do our own work. Good luck bagging a guy who’s already taken.”

“It’s not about luck,” Connor says.

---

On Tuesday afternoon, Connor goes back to the computer club. This time, no one seems particularly surprised to see him, no matter how out of place he looks.

Oliver is humming at his computer about something -- no Roomba this time -- and he blinks in confusion when Connor settles down next to him on the floor.

“Hi,” Connor says. “Look, I wanted to come by and apologize.”

Oliver shakes his head, “You don’t need to apologize for anything,” he says. He has nice forearms, Connor notices. They’re more defined than Connor would have expected, covered in a light fuzz of black hair.

Connor barrels ahead. “I asked you out because I think you’re cute, but that doesn’t mean I’m not interested in learning more about your project.”

Oliver raises an eyebrow, but his smile is tiny and warm. “And how to code, I presume?”

Connor tries not to let his grimace show on his face. “Yeah,” he says. “That too. I didn’t mean to make things weird or uncomfortable before, but I really wasn’t expecting to meet any cute guys here.”

Oliver ducks his head at that, a faint blush starting to spread across his cheeks. It looks good on him. Connor can’t wait to find out how far he can make that blush spread. Oliver says, “No, it’s fine. You didn’t know.”

“But now we can be friends, right?” Connor asks. He smiles as brightly as he can. Even if he doesn’t get a fuck out of this, Oliver’s probably going to be some rich tech genius at some point, and when he needs a lawyer for his second divorce from some money-grubbing twink, Connor can be waiting in the wings as a divorce lawyer ready to take his $1,000 an hour.

Oliver’s eyes soften. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m still kind of new here, and everyone already knows each other.” He glances around the room where the rest of the club are deeply focused on their own projects, ignoring the conversation that Connor and Oliver are having in their own corner. On that first day, Connor had kind of assumed that Oliver had been king of the nerds or something, but it seems like the nerds are determined to have their own little city-states.

“Great,” Connor says. “I’m always happy to make new friends.” If by ‘friends’, he means ‘guys I’m ready and willing to fuck’, but Connor doesn’t need to tell Oliver that.

Oliver’s smile widens enough that he shows some teeth. “Cool,” he says, enthusiastic, sounding like the least cool person in the world.

---

Connor makes sure to show up again on Thursday. Oliver brightens as soon as he sees him and pushes his backpack out of the way so that Connor has room to sit. The computer lab is plenty big, rows and rows of old desktop computers with plenty of walkable areas between them, but Connor would much rather be right here, where his shoulder can bump up against Oliver’s, where their bodies can almost -- not quite, but almost -- take up the same space.

---

The Tuesday after that, Connor almost manages to help Oliver out a bit. He turns the Roomba off and then back on again when Oliver tells him to. He lets Oliver talk at him and pretends to understand what Oliver’s saying. He makes as many suggestive comments as he can about the possibility of Roomba-like fucking machines, just to see how deeply he can make Oliver blush.

Oliver’s skin is dark enough that he doesn’t immediately turn beet red the way Connor’s dad’s face gets when he’s embarrassed about something. Oliver’s face heats up slowly, a reddish glow spreading across his cheeks, and Connor spends too much time wondering if it would be warm to the touch.

---

On Thursday, Connor doesn’t know if he’s any closer to getting into Oliver’s pants, but Oliver doesn’t jerk away with Connor touches him, and he laughs at Connor’s stupid jokes about Mrs. Henderson’s taste in literature, and he answers Connor’s questions about robot stuff without getting bored or annoyed at him.

While Oliver’s busy getting the Roomba to turn exactly ninety degrees to the left, Connor settles down in one of the free desk chairs with his calculus p-sets. When he’s on a break, he looks up and watches Oliver as he works, his brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed. His fingers fly over the keys. He bites his lower lip, absorbed in his work. The late-afternoon sun manages to slant in through the window, bathing the whole room in warm oranges that even the overhead fluorescents can’t dull. Oliver turns his head, and the light catches in his glasses, casting his face into half-light, half-shadow.

“Ugh, I hate when the glare gets this bad,” Oliver says. “You would think they would proper blinds on the windows of a computer lab.”

Connor just smiles and shrugs and doesn’t look away.

---

Friday night is about sneaking into the least terrible gay bar he can get into in Philadelphia with the best fake ID his money could buy. Over the past few months, he’s figured out how to make himself look older, more like a college student, by growing out a neatly-trimmed beard. He’s learned how to carry himself by watching the other men, the way they hold their shoulders as they stalk across the dancefloor, the way they tilt their heads, the way they smile.

Now that school is back in session, Connor can’t make it out to Washington Square as often as he’d like, what with the homework, the parents, the early mornings, but he still gets the same rush every time he steps inside a club and knows that this is his home. This is booze and sex and room full of men who all want the same things. This is where he belongs.

He meets a guy there with amazing thighs and weird teeth who grinds up against Connor while Connor’s wandering the dance floor and offers to blow him in the bathroom. And seriously, how is Connor supposed to turn down an opportunity to get his dick sucked?

The guy is enthusiastic, his hands tight enough on Connor’s hips to leave bruises. Connor closes his eyes, letting his head drop back, letting his body slump against the cool metal partition behind him, losing himself in the heat of the man’s mouth, intense even through the latex of the condom, the tight suction of his lips.

The music is loud, muffled but audible through the bathroom door. Two guys in the stall next to them are fucking, shaking the partitions with each thrust. Their moans are hot, loud and unashamed. Connor slides his hand into the curly hair of the man who’s sucking him off. What was his name again? Dane? Reginald? Something weird and douchey-sounding.

Then the guy does something magical with his tongue, and Connor isn’t quite capable of thinking about anything coherently after that.

---

Oliver’s not in computer club when Connor gets there on on Tuesday afternoon. Connor spots him in the hallway, his head bowed as he hisses into a cell phone, his shoes squeaking on the linoleum floors.

“No, it’s fine,” Connor overhears Oliver say. “Can this wait? I just-- I’ll see you then.”

Oliver straightens, taking a deep breath before noticing that Connor’s there, watching him. His eyes go wide and round behind the lenses of his glasses.

“Hey,” Connor says, holding up his hands. “I didn’t hear anything if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Oliver sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “It’s not really a big deal. My brother’s getting some kind of fancy award thing at Yale and we’re all expected to be super proud and supportive of him.” The corner of his lips turns down into a frown. It’s the first time Connor’s ever seen that expression on his face.

“Sounds like a good thing?” Connor asks. He has no idea how Oliver expects him to react to that statement.

“I guess,” Oliver says. “It’s just that it’s always like this. He’s the one with all the impressive accomplishments and the perfect girlfriend, and I’m just--” He gestures at himself, and Connor is just confused. Oliver’s one of the smartest people he’s ever met, and that includes the backstabbing assholes in Professor Keating’s hand-picked study group.

“You’re just really awesome at building robots?” Connor asks.

That just seems to make things worse. Oliver’s expression falls even further. “There were a dozen tech companies desperate to recruit my brother when he was fourteen, okay? He’s doing some kind of cutting edge theoretical physics research that makes my brain hurt just by thinking about it, and he’s still just an undergrad.”

Connor doesn’t really understand what Oliver’s going through. He’s never felt in competition with his sister for his parents’ attention. When he came out, his parents were supportive, but they also seemed to decide that Connor’s sexuality made him a mysterious alien creature who could and should find its own way in the world. Gemma had an easier time of things if only because her life followed a much simpler script. They knew what to say when her when she had crushes on boys in her class, and they knew how to pose her in her prom photographs, and they knew how to indulge her dreams of having a perfect white wedding. “When I was in sixth grade, I bet my older sister that I could get better grades than her in math.”

“How much older is she?” Oliver asks.

“Three years. She’s off at Penn State right now, partying it up.” Connor loves visiting her because she always lets him do whatever he wants, which usually translates into letting him hooking up with college guys who are more than willing to turn a blind eye to the fact that Connor is still in high school.

“So who won the bet?” Oliver looks curious. His cell phone is in his hand, hanging limply at his side, forgotten for now.

“I did,” Connor says. “I got Celeste Stevens to let me check my answers against hers every morning.”

That gets him a laugh, a real, honest laugh, out of Oliver, and it’s almost like they’re real friends. It’s weird.

Chapter 3

Chapter Summary

Chapter Notes

“So how’s your little side project going?” Michaela asks that Wednesday. She smirks at him, and Connor wonders if she’d still be smirking if he tore her eyes out.

“What project are you talking about?” Wes asks. He’s doing that wide-eyed thing that Connor is 80% sure is some kind of act that he’s using to fuck with the rest of them.

“The one where Connor proves to us that he can walk the walk just as well as he can talk the talk,” Michaela says, her voice dripping with fake sweetness.

“I can’t believe the two of you are still on that,” Laurel chimes in with a roll of her eyes.

Connor knows that she’d much rather be in her saving-baby-seals-and-poor-people club or whatever it is that she does in her free time, but he doesn’t have the patience for her judgment. “I can’t believe you have such a hard time minding your own business,” he sneers.

Laurel doesn’t even blink. “Look,” she says. “I still have another two pages to read before I’m done for today, so if you two could hash out your petty bullshit in the hallway, the rest of us could get real work done.”

“Speak for yourself,” Asher says. “I have a date with a, shall we say, busty blonde.” He has his feet kicked up onto the desk, and he’s messing around with his phone, clearly trying to convey that he’s too cool for the rest of them. Connor suspects that he really just playing some shitty phone game or texting his mom to let her know that he’ll pick up some milk on the way home.

“No one cares about your sex life, Asher,” Wes says.

“Oh come on,” Asher says. “We were just talking about how bad Connor is at banging dudes.”

“One dude,” Connor says. “One.”

“Who you still haven’t ‘banged’ yet,” Michaela says with a sing-song. “Just remember that Thanksgiving is coming up awfully fast.”

Connor grits his teeth. It’s impossible for him to tell whether or not he’s getting any closer to getting Oliver into bed. There are plenty of men in the world looking for easy sex. Connor hasn’t really had any experience with someone who requires this amount of time and effort. “Fuck off,” he says. He flips open his notebook and puts in his earbuds and refuses to listen to anything else they might have to say.

---

Thursday, Oliver is in a glum mood, his expression drooping as he leans heavy on one of his hands. He’s sitting at a desk today, grumbling at his laptop from one of the lab’s rolling chairs.

“Hey,” Connor says, rolling another seat next to him. “What’s up?”

“I was going to go to the movies with Charles this weekend, but he can’t make it,” Oliver says. “I don’t know. I get that he has his own life and his own commitments, but between this and all his lacrosse practice--” He rubs a hand over his forehead. “Sorry.” He composes himself. “Do you have any fun plans for this weekend?”

Connor swivels in his chair to face him. He was going to focus on catching up on his school work and college applications, maybe get around to installing Humpr on his phone, especially now that he’s eighteen and won’t have to lie about his age anymore. He wasn’t going to do anything yet, just maybe get some window shopping in. But if Oliver has something else on offer… “Not much,” Connor says. “Did you have something in mind?”

Oliver says, “Any interest in going to the movies?” His expression is guarded, like he’s expecting Connor to laugh in his face or something.

It’s not a date. Connor and Oliver are now Facebook friends, and Oliver’s relationship status has not changed in the last few hours. But Connor does kind of want to see Gone Girl, and if he wants a shot in hell with Oliver, he’s going to need to do a lot more than just show up to the computer club twice a week. He only has six weeks left. “Sure,” he says.

“Great!” Oliver says. “How about you give me your number and I’ll text you the details.” He hands over his phone, and Connor punches in his number, sending himself a text. He resists the urge to poke around through Oliver’s pictures and texts.

Oliver’s brighter and happier as he takes his phone back, rambling on and on about how it’s strange that sitting in a dark place where you can’t even talk to each other is considered a social activity. He’s practically bouncing in his desk chair, and his smile stretches wide across his face. Connor doesn’t know why, but he finds himself grinning, too. Oliver’s probably just one of those people who has infectious moods.

It’s be fun, he figures. And besides, movies are easy. All you have to do is sit there.

---

They make plans to meet at the bigger multiplex in town at eight. Connor tries to put on something nicer than he usually wears to school. He has his club gear, tight tank tops and even tighter jeans, and he has his ‘dress up for important events with the parents’ clothes, but he doesn’t have a lot in between. He settles on a nice-but-not-too-nice button down that he leaves unbuttoned at the top button, and a pair of jeans with nice shoes.

“Oh, you’re looking all fancy tonight,” his mom says, stopping him as he’s heading down the stairs. “Going on a date?” Ever since Pennsylvania finally legalized gay marriage last year, she’s been dropping hints that she expects grandchildren from him as well as Gemma.

“No,” Connor says, shuffling past her. He knows that his parents know that he’s keeping things from them, but they’re more than happy to ignore his mysterious and sudden disappearances, and he’s more than happy to give them the plausible deniability that he’s still a virgin.

“You know that we don’t care, right?” she asks. “If you were to bring a nice boy around, we wouldn’t treat him any differently than we treat Gemma’s boyfriends.”

Connor wants to snort at the idea that he knows any nice boys, but it doesn’t even matter. This really isn’t a date. “Just meeting up with some friends for a movie, that’s all,” Connor says, and it’s mostly the truth. He grabs his jacket from the coat closet. It’s mid-October already, and he needs a few more layers, but it’s not quite cold enough for winter coats.

“Well, have a good time,” she says. She smiles at him. It’s the friendly, polite smile she gives to their neighbors when they want to borrow a shovel or a cup of sugar. Connor does love her -- she’s his mom -- but somewhere along the way they became strangers.

“Sure,” Connor says.

---

The movie theater is humming with people, but it’s not crowded. Connor spots Oliver and his dorky glasses from across the lobby, wedged between movie posters of The Hobbit and the Avengers. He’s not dressed up in a Ben Affleck costume or whatever it is that geeks do when they go see movies; he’s wearing a simple brown henley underneath a navy blue jacket that does excellent things for his shoulders and nice jeans. He looks good, loose, but still a little more buttoned up than he is in school, and for a moment, Connor wonders if this might actually be-- but then someone else slides up to Oliver’s side. Connor has never seen him in person, but he does recognize him from Oliver’s Facebook page.

Charles. The Boyfriend.

Oliver picks that moment to catch sight of Connor and give him a wave as Charles slides a possessive hand around Oliver’s waist. Connor waves back in a way that he knows looks pathetic and halfhearted.

“Hey,” Oliver says when Connor gets within hearing distance. “You made it!”

“I see Charles made it, too,” Connor says.

Charles smiles at him, coldly polite, and gives him a little wave. Michaela must have run her mouth off at him already, though it doesn’t seem like she’s said anything to Oliver. For all that Connor hates her, she does have a well-developed sense of fair-play. Charles says, “My little brother’s violin instructor got sick so they postponed the recital.”

“Oh,” Connor says. “Well, I still need to get my ticket.”

“Make sure to get the one for the eight-thirty showing,” Oliver says.

Connor turns to look at the board listing out showtimes. “Wait, there isn’t an eight-thirty showing of Gone Girl,” Connor says.

Oliver cocks his head to the side. “Oh, did I not tell you? We’re going to see The Best of Me.”

Connor blinks a few times. He’s seen some of the commercials for that movie on TV, and it looked like the typical treacly Nicholas Sparks bullshit that his mom watches when it shows up on HBO. But he’s already here, and he can’t back out now without it becoming awkward, no matter how awkward it already is that Connor’s a third wheel right now. Charles raises his eyebrows in Connor’s direction from behind Oliver’s shoulder, challenging him. Connor says, “Sure, I’ll just go get my ticket.”

Oliver beams at him, and Connor hopes that this is all worth it in the end.

---

The movie is not-- it’s not something Connor would have chosen to watch himself. It’s about a teenaged couple, torn apart by circumstance, who reconcile as adults. It’s weepy and tragic, but Connor spends most of the movie doing his best not to fall asleep.

Connor still doesn’t quite get it, this desperate heterosexual need to pair off. Who gives a shit about finding ‘your other half’ when there’s a whole world out there of people you can fuck. And just from his experience, he knows that teenagers know fuck-all about romance.

Coming out of the theater, Oliver is happy enough -- or sad enough, as the case may be. He’s sniffly and wet-eyed as he leans his head against Charles’s temple, threading their arms together, cuddly.

“So what did you think?” Oliver says. He smiles a little. It makes his eyes crinkle.

Connor shrugs. “It was fine. More meth dealers and explosions than I was expecting.” He tries not to wonder what it would be like to have someone to come back to in Middleton ten, twenty years from now. The idea is more horrifying than romantic.

“That means you actually hated it.” Oliver laughs. “Not really your speed, I know.” His smile hasn’t faded one bit.

“How do you even know what my speed is?”

“You’re not as much of a mystery as you think you are,” Oliver says, and there’s no mockery in his voice, just a gentle sort of teasing. It’s the way Gemma talks to him sometimes, a far cry from what Connor’s used to from the people he spends time around.

“Oh, really?” Connor asks.

Charles clears his throat. “We should probably head out. I still need to get Oliver home tonight, and it’s getting late.”

Oliver turns to look at him with the dopiest expression on his face. Connor shoves his hands into his pockets as far as they will go and tries not to throw up in his mouth a little bit. “I’ll see you on Tuesday,” Oliver says, giving Connor the briefest of glances.

“Yeah,” Connor says. “I’ll see you then.”

---

On Sunday, Connor sets up his Humpr profile. He spends half an hour debating the merits of keeping dick pics on his phone.

He writes up his essay for Professor Keating, and he thinks about the bet. Not a whole lot. Just about how Oliver had smiled at Charles after the movie, half-lidded and teary and fond, a romantic to the bone, and what it would be like if Oliver were to look at him like that, and about that little curl at the edge of Oliver’s lips, and what it would be like to kiss it.

Chapter 4

Chapter Summary

Chapter Notes

On Tuesday, Oliver is chatty with Connor. He’s always been ready and willing to talk during their time in the lab, but it’s usually all business, about code and robots and computer stuff. Today, he asks Connor about classes and what Connor ended up doing on Sunday. Connor doesn’t tell him about Humpr, but he does let it slip that on Wednesdays, he spends time with a study group for Professor Keating’s.

“Huh,” Oliver says. “How’s that working out for you?” He stretches out his arms over his head, yawning.

They’re having an Indian summer in Philadelphia, and everyone is back in their t-shirts and shorts, and Connor can see the flex and shift of Oliver’s calves as he extends his legs out. Connor says, “Fine. It’s tough, but it’s good.”

“So, being a lawyer. Is that how you see yourself in ten years?” Oliver turns to him, tilting his his head to the side.

Connor shrugs. “Sure, yeah.” He hasn’t admitted this out loud to anyone before. He knows Professor Keating has probably guessed it from some of the conversations they’ve had with each other, but Connor’s never made it explicit. The other study group members don’t ever talk about it, which undergrad programs they’re going to leverage into the law school of their choice.

“You’re pretty convincing,” Oliver says, sitting up straight. He stretches out his wrists, one side and then the other. “You’d be good at it.” His eyes are wide and sweet behind his dorky glasses.

Not good enough, Connor thinks. “Thanks,” he says.

“Oh, and do you have any time this weekend? I was thinking of messing around with trying to use GSR to control the robot.”

Connor shrugs. He hadn’t planned anything out for the coming weekend, and he wouldn’t object to watching Oliver nerd out about computer things for a Saturday afternoon. “Sure,” he says.

“Great!” Oliver says. “I’ll text you my address, and you can come by for lunch. My mom always orders too much food on the weekends.”

---

Connor shows up at Oliver’s doorstep at 12:30. When he rings the doorbell, Oliver lets him in.

They don’t spend much time downstairs. Oliver’s mother is watching some sort of trashy reality TV in the living room, clearly uninterested in being interrupted, and the kitchen table is covered in white cartons of takeout Chinese food. Connor eats a plate of it before they head upstairs.

Oliver’s room isn’t the mad-scientist laboratory that Connor has imagined it as. It’s pretty normal, if a little more cluttered with electronic equipment that Connor’s own. The bed itself is a messy tangle of sheets, but it doesn’t suggest anything more scandalous than the fact that a teenage boy slept in it at one point. On the far side of the room is Oliver’s desk, textbooks piled high, and Oliver’s laptop sitting next to them.

In the center of the room, next to Oliver’s bed, is the Roomba that usually lives in Oliver’s corner of the computer lab.

“Stealing school property?” Connor asks, keeping his voice light, teasing. “What would Mr. Sanchez say if he found out?”

Oliver flushes, ducking his head and avoiding Connor’s eyes. “I’m going to give it back on Monday, I swear,” he says with a huffed out laugh. “It’s not like I can get into the computer lab on the weekend.”

“Uh huh,” Connor says, raising his eyebrows. He likes seeing Oliver like this, a little flustered and a little embarrassed. He likes knowing that he can get underneath Oliver’s skin, even if it’s only just this much.

“So,” Oliver says, clearing his throat. “Okay. I know you’re not really into the whole coding side of things, so I figured you’d be a good guinea pig.” He pulls a electronics board from his desk. It has three wires connected to it already. One of them is a USB connector. Two of them have velcro straps.

Connor watches it with wary eyes. “Uh, so what is GSR anyway?”

“Galvanic skin response,” Oliver hums. He plugs the electronics board into his computer. “It’s what they use for lie detector tests and stuff. I thought it might be cool to see if we could control the speed of the robot with your mind.” He gestures to the desk chair. “Come on. Sit down.”

“I don’t know,” Connor says. “This isn’t going to turn into one of those things where you get me to reveal my deepest darkest secrets, right?” He sits down in the desk chair.

Oliver laughs. “No,” he says. “Hold out your hand.” He’s gotten used to bossing Connor around. It doesn’t bother Connor as much as it probably should. He usually bristles whenever his parents make him take out the trash or when guys try to force his head to go where they want by grabbing his hair during sex. Oliver’s a lot less pushy about it, though. It’s not like he can make Connor do anything. Connor is free to do it just because he wants to.

Connor holds out his hand, palm down.

Oliver reaches out, wrapping a hand around Connor’s wrist, turning Conor’s palm face up again. Connor holds still, drawing in a sharp breath he feels it, a spark when Oliver’s hand touches his. It’s stupid and simple -- Connor’s gotten farther with guys after five minutes of idle chitchat about topping/bottoming preferences -- but Oliver’s never touched him casually before. It shouldn’t feel this significant, but it does.

Once Connor’s hand is in the position that Oliver wants them, Oliver takes the two pieces of velcro and wraps them around Connor’s pointer finger and middle finger, right around the first knuckles. Metal presses against his skin.

Oliver turns back to the screen, hunched over so he read and interact with his laptop while he’s standing up. A little graph is visible on the screen, jittery with noise. That’s Connor’s brain -- or whatever it is that the electrodes are measuring -- right there. It’s weird and cool all at once. “So that’s me, huh?” Connor asks.

“Yeah,” Oliver says. “We’ll try this out for a baseline for now.” His attention is focused on the computer, which, well, Connor’s the one who’s all trussed up and has weird shit strapped to his body and has no idea what he’s doing.

“What do I do now?” Connor asks, trying to distract Oliver from his work.

Oliver doesn’t so much glance in his direction. “Hmm, I want to see how sensitive it is to your emotional state. Maybe start thinking about something exciting?”

“Sure,” Connor says, letting his voice drop in timber and raising his eyebrows in a leer. “That’s really not going to be a problem.”

Oliver laughs and rolls his eyes. He’s probably getting used to Connor’s blatant innuendos. Connor really does need to step up his game. Oliver says, “C’mon on. I want to make sure we’re getting good readings from this thing.”

“Okay, fine,” Connor says.

He closes his eyes and imagines hands on his body. He likes it when people cup his face when they kiss him, likes it when they get handsy, when they don’t go straight for his crotch or ass, when they are so desperate for him and his body that they feel up his back, his shoulders, his hips. Oliver would be into it. Connor’s watched him fondle the Roomba enough times to know that he’s tactile like that.

He can feel his breathing go shallow and his pulse start to spike. He thinks about the last guy he rimmed, the way the man gasped and writhed underneath Connor’s touch, the taste, clean floral soap, like any other skin and yet not. He shifts, trying not to let anything show in his pants.

“Wow,” Oliver says. “That spiked suddenly.” He hums to himself under his breath, and Connor can hear the tap of his keys underneath his fingers.

Connor peeks open his eyes, just so that he can see the expression on Oliver’s face and imagines that same intensity of Oliver’s attention on him, on the things that Connor could do to him. What kind of sounds would he make if Connor put his tongue in his ass?

Oliver turns to look at Connor over his shoulder, smiling from ear to ear. “What did you do--” All of it must show on Connor’s face, because Oliver ducks his head, turning away. “I guess you weren’t actually joking about that.” His voice sounds a little strangled, and Connor can see the beginnings of a flush on his neck.

“I never joke about sex,” Connor says.

Oliver glances up, just for a moment, and their eyes meet. Connor holds Oliver’s gaze, unwilling to let Oliver look away when Oliver’s actually looking at him. Connor could make a move right now. He could rip off the stupid electrodes wrapped around his fingers and then pull Oliver into a kiss, could guide Oliver over to the bed and pull the t-shirt over Oliver’s head. It’d be a typical Saturday afternoon as far as Connor’s concerned. A cute guy. A bedroom. Connor knows this dance. He could show Oliver how it goes.

Oliver’s lips part, his eyes dark, and Connor really could. He knows he could. He could, and Oliver would let him, would go pliant easy under Connor’s lips and hands.

But before he can put his plan in motion, Oliver yanks back, turns away, breaking eye contact. “I-- I can’t do this,” he says.

“Do what?” Connor asks.

Oliver says, “I think you should go now.” He mostly says it to Connor’s feet, but Connor gets the idea.

“I wasn’t doing anything,” Connor argues. He gets the feeling that if Oliver pulls away now, then that’s it. Connor never gets to talk to Oliver again, and beyond the sex part of things -- which, granted, is a large part of things -- the thought of Oliver being angry at him hurts, a sharp, piercing ache in the center of his chest.

“I-- I have a boyfriend,” Oliver says, his eyes fixed on a boring patch of off-white carpeting. “You can’t just-- show up and be disgustingly hot and talk about sex all the time and flirt with me and be way nicer than people say you are. That’s not fair.”

Connor would like to preen at the compliments and the fact that Oliver might like him, but he has more pressing issues on his mind. “I wasn’t trying to do anything,” he says, lying through his teeth. “C’mon, Oliver.” He settles down in the chair, schooling his expression into something more serious. “I can be helpful. I promise.”

Oliver takes a deep breath and shakes his head. His expression is so carefully blank, and Connor wants to reach out, wants to grab Oliver’s shoulders and shake him until there’s something more real there. “I’ll see you on Tuesday,” Oliver says.

It’s a dismissal. Connor’s been kicked out of enough bedrooms to know what it sounds like. At least Oliver isn’t shutting down the possibility of seeing him at school. He rips the electrodes off his fingers. “Tuesday,” he promises.

Oliver just nods and refuses to look at him.

---

Tuesday, Connor shows up at the computer lab right after the last bell of the day and Oliver tries to act like nothing happened, like nothing’s changed. His smile is a little too forced and his voice goes a little too high when he’s addressing Connor directly. He stares at his computer a lot and avoids meeting Connor’s eyes for too long.

Connor tries to volunteer for the electrodes again, but Oliver just brushes him off. “No, but thanks for the offer,” he says. “I didn’t even bring them in today.”

“Oliver, I’m sorry I--” Connor starts. He’s not sure what he wants to say, but he wants to say something. Somewhere along the way he managed to screw this up, and he knows it’s up to him to fix it, but he doesn’t know how.

“Hey, could you hand me that screwdriver?” Oliver says, interrupting him. He’s smiling, too wide and too bright and too plastic. It reminds Connor, in a chilling sort of way, of staring down Michaela.

Connor snaps his mouth closed and hands him the screwdriver.

---

Wednesday’s study group meeting is awful. Every thing that anyone does gets on Connor’s nerves, and he keeps saying things that he regrets pretty much as soon as they leave his mouth. Micaela snaps back. Laurel ignores him. Wes gets a hurt look on his face. Asher just seems confused.

When their time locked into a room together officially ends, Connor stomps off, but not before he bumps into Aiden Walker, who’s waiting outside the door for Michaela to finish doing her hair or whatever it is that girls do when Connor’s not paying attention to them.

“Hey, man,” Aiden says, smiling like they’re friends and not a couple of guys who have fucked once or twice. “How’s it going?”

Connor shrugs. “Fine.”

“You up to anything good these days?” Aiden asks. He’s leaning against the hallway wall, comfortable and relaxed, like he’s already auditioning for prom king.

Connor shrugs again. He wonders whether or not Michaela has said anything about the bet to him. “Same old, same old,” he says, going for vagueness.

Aiden slaps him on the shoulder. “Hey, you should come by this Friday. I’m having a Halloween party at my place while my parents are out of town.”

Connor frowns. On one hand, he doesn’t really like going to house parties. On the other, the thought of getting drunk and making out with a bicurious basketball player does hold a certain appeal, especially now that Oliver’s not talking to him. “Maybe,” he says.

“All right,” Aiden says, doing the bro fingerpointing thing and somehow managing to not look like an asshole while doing it. “You know my address. We’ll have more than enough booze for everyone, so don’t worry about showing up sober.”

“Sure,” Connor says.

---

Connor doesn’t go the computer club on Thursday.

Chapter 5

Chapter Summary

Chapter Notes

The Walkers have a large house. Not quite overwhelming or ostentatious enough to be considered a mansion, but it does have a landscaper and a long private driveway, so it’s not exactly middle class either. Their Halloween decorations are tasteful. Hand-carved jack-o-lanterns sit on the front steps. Cobwebs with large, black plastic spiders are spread over the windows. A cardboard skeleton hangs over the front door.

Connor isn’t usually interested in house parties, because the whole heterosexual meat market thing isn’t really his favorite way to spend his free time, but Aiden promised that there would be free booze. And it’s hard to resist the opportunity to gawk at all his classmates while they’re both dressed up and liquored up.

Inside, the atmosphere is more subdued than Connor would have expected. It’s crowded, and it’s loud, filled with eye-catching shapes and colors from the different costumes, both the sophisticated and the lazy. But the party hasn’t reached the point of being sloppy or messy. There’s nobody dancing to the music blasting from the living room. There’s no one passed out on the floor. The red solo cups are in people’s hands and not all over every available surface. Not yet, anyway. The night is still young, etc. He ventures into the kitchen to see if he can start the night off right. There’s a small chance that he’ll see Oliver and Charles sucking face somewhere, so he wants to make sure he’s properly socially lubricated before he has to deal with that.

The kitchen is spacious and beautiful, decorated like it stepped off the pages of Better Homes and Gardens with maybe the exception of all the booze. The island in the center of of the room is covered in bottles and bottles of alcohol: six packs of beer, cheap wine raided from someone’s parents’ cabinet and/or trash can, a handle of vodka where the glass is smeared with a suspicious brown gunk that Connor hopes is mud and not anything else, tequila, schnapps, cider, gin, scotch. Connor grabs one of the beers. He’s not interested in embarrassing himself trying to put together a cocktail.

Someone comes into the kitchen just as Connor’s leaving. It’s Jeremy, a guy in Connor’s physics class, wearing an eyepatch, a drawn-on beard, a bandana tied around his hair. From what Connor remembers, he’s dating a girl on the volleyball team right now, but he was definitely begging for Connor’s cock that one time they hooked up sophomore year. “Connor Walsh,” Jeremy says. “You don’t show up to these very often.”

Connor shrugs. “No, not really.” He pops his beer open and takes a swig of it.

“Yeah, from what people are saying, you’re too busy hanging out with the computer nerds these days.” He says it like it’s supposed to be an insult or something, but it’s not like Connor gives a shit about what people think of the computer club.

“It has its charms,” Connor says.

Jeremy doesn’t look convinced. “Hmm, heard you and Hampton were getting pretty tight.”

Connor grits his teeth. He’s been avoiding the living room where Aiden and Michaela are holding court (dressed as Beyonce and Jay-Z, from what Connor’s heard) because the last thing he needs is for Michaela to make a snarky backhanded remarks about the bet. “We’re friends, yeah,” Connor says.

“Well, your boy is going to need all the friendship he can get. Word on the street is that his boyfriend dumped him earlier today.” Connor hadn’t known that Jeremy was so much of a gossip hound, but he probably should have figured that out when he started getting propositioned by randos after they slept together.

“Oh, is he here tonight?” Connor asks, trying not to sound like he cares.

Jeremy shrugs. “Probably. If I were in his shoes, I’d be getting hammered right about now.”

“Yeah,” Connor says. He spots Wes crossing the main foyer. He’s dressed in an all black martial arts uniform, a sword strapped to his back. It’s the perfect excuse for high-tailing it out of this conversation. “Hey, I’ll see you around, all right?”

“Sure thing, man,” Jeremy says. He smiles, and the smugness of it matches his Aryan, prep-school features.

Wes starts out looking a little guarded and confused as Connor approaches him. Connor tries not to speculate over whether or not his sword is real. “Hey, man, how’s it going?” Wes asks, careful and polite. His eyes dart around the room looking for that one chick (Rachel? Rebecca?) that he’s very obviously crushing on.

“I’ve been worse,” Connor says. They’re not friends. This is just pleasant small talk.

Wes shrugs. He doesn’t like show his hand. At first, Connor thought it was naivety or just straight-up stupidity, but Connor’s coming around to the idea that there’s a lot more going on to Wes than meets the eye. “Yeah, well, the night is still young,” Wes says. “Maybe it’ll get better?”

“Sure,” Connor says, and he almost even means it.

---

He spends most of the party chatting with classmates that he hasn’t really spoken to in a while, learning about what colleges they want to go to and which extracurriculars they’re using to pad out their applications. There’s a cluster of people who are hanging out in the family room, camped out on the luxurious couches, arguing for and against early decision. Connor sits in and half-listens to them. He keeps one eye out for Oliver, but he doesn’t show his face, and Connor assumes that he’s at home nursing his broken heart or something like that.

Which is why it’s a surprise when he rounds an unfamiliar corner looking for the bathroom and finds Oliver sitting on a staircase. His head is buried in his hands, and four empty cans of PBR sit on the steps next to his feet. His body is shaking, like he’s crying. He’s not dressed up, Connor notes, wearing the same jeans and a t-shirt with some sort of joke about testing code on production. Connor’s seen him wear that same exact outfit to school. Oliver must really be upset, because he’s been brainstorming costumes for weeks on Facebook.

Connor’s first instinct is to turn around and walk away before Oliver can see him. He’s sobered up from his first beer of the night, and he is not nearly drunk enough to talk to a sad, miserable Oliver and comfort him through his boy problems. Connor’s terrible at that sort of thing, at least according to his sister, and listening to Oliver talk about Charles for a few hours sounds a little like Connor’s version of hell.

Of course, Oliver chooses that moment to look up, his hands dropping into his lap. Connor can see the tear stains on his his face, the watery redness of his eyes.

“Fuck,” Oliver snarls. “What are you doing here?” His miserable expression darkens into anger, and Connor flinches away.

He can feel himself starting to hunch a little, his shoulders climbing up to his ears. Connor doesn’t do discomfort, but he’s getting used to the feeling. “Aiden invited me,” he says with a shrug.

“No, I meant what are you doing here right now?” Oliver says, gesturing at the staircase, the room.

“I-- I didn’t mean to interrupt or anything. I just got turned around looking for the bathroom.” Connor mumbles.

Oliver says, “It’s over that way.” He makes a vague gesture that could mean an entire corner of this giant house. His lips are pulled into an annoyed grimace, and okay, maybe they’re kind of on a friendship hiatus or Oliver’s mad at him or whatever the fuck has been going on the past week, but it still feels wrong not to say something.

Connor takes a chance. “I heard about you and Charles, and I just wanted to say that I really am sorry that it didn’t work out for you guys.”

Oliver lets out a sharp, bitter laugh, and it’s awful, seeing Oliver stripped of all his gleeful enthusiasm for stupid shit that Connor doesn’t care about. It’s just-- unpleasant and ugly and things that Oliver shouldn’t ever be. “Yeah, well, Charles patched things up with his ex, who is, of course, ripped and on the swim team. God knows why he wasted any time on someone like me.” He picks up another can of PBR and chugs it a little haphazardly, some of the beer leaking out of the corner of his mouth.

“If he doesn’t realize how great you are, he doesn’t deserve you,” Connor says. It’s the sort of thing his parents would say to Gemma when she’d come home crying over some boy, but it feels true enough right now. Charles is a fucking moron. Connor has only met him once, but he’d figured that Charles was a lot smarter than this.

Oliver shakes his head. “Whatever,” he says, standing up. He’s drunk enough that he sways, unsteady on his feet. For a moment, Connor’s worried that Oliver might topple over, and he’d have to explain to Aiden how Oliver managed to give himself a concussion with Connor right there.

“Whoa,” Connor says, reaching up to steady him. “Okay, let’s get you home.” He was thinking about getting another drink, but it seems more important to make sure Oliver gets out of here safely. No one else seems to be looking out for Oliver right now.

“Don’t wanna,” Oliver says. “Let me get--” His brow furrows, more in confusion now than the anger or self-pity from earlier. It’s an improvement.

“I’m driving,” Connor says. He yanks on Oliver’s arm, and Oliver blinks, like he forgot what he was even going to do.

“I am too drunk to drive home,” he says, like he didn’t even hear what Connor said.

“Yup,” Connor says.

---

Even while heartbroken and angry, Oliver is an amenable drunk, so he doesn’t put up much of a fight as Connor maneuvers him into the car, drives him home, maneuvers him out of the car, and then drags him up the steps of Oliver’s front door.

But then Oliver starts getting talky.

“You, that first day, I thought it was a joke or something, that you were even talking to me,” Oliver says, “but then you stuck around, and I have no idea why.” He leans heavy against Connor’s side, his beer breath wet and warm against Connor’s neck.

“I liked you,” Connor says. “I still like you.” He’s not even tipsy anymore, and yet he’s still running his mouth.

“Mmmmm,” Oliver says. “And then you kept flirting with me, and it was weird. Charles said you’re kind of a slut.” Somehow he manages to get heavier. Connor staggers under the weight.

Connor does his best to fish Oliver’s keys out of his pocket without being weird about it. It kind of works. “Charles ditched you for a guy on the swim team. You shouldn’t trust any of his opinions.”

“I know, right?” Oliver asks. He pauses for a moment while Connor struggles with the door. “Do you want to have sex with me?”

Connor almost drops the keys. “Uh,” he says. He manages to turn the lock and shoves the door open with his elbow, dragging Oliver with him through it. The inside of his house is quiet and dark, Oliver’s parents nowhere in sight. Connor almost trips over the half-filled bowl of candy that’s resting by the front door.

Oliver says, “I definitely want to have sex with you, even if you are a slut.” He starts to giggle, pressing his nose into Connor’s shoulder, a movement that makes him hunch and throws him off balance. Connor manages to catch him, pulling him in closer.

“You know how to make a guy feel wanted,” Connor says, and he can feel all of it, Oliver’s breath and Oliver’s skin and Oliver’s laugh.

Oliver presses a gentle, sloppy kiss against Connor’s jaw. “I felt guilty about it a lot,” he says, “but I don’t have to feel guilty anymore.”

Connor gets them both upstairs and into Oliver’s bedroom, and he’s really impressed with himself and how he manages to navigate the two of them in the dark when he’s only ever been here once before. Granted, it was just last week, but it’s still an impressive accomplishment.

He manages to wrestle Oliver towards the bed, even with the room lit only by the faint glow of the street lights. He manages to toss Oliver onto the bed once they find it, but Oliver keeps clinging to his shoulders, and Connor ends up toppling down on top of him. They’ve never been quite this close before, bodies pressed flush together. Oliver is solid and firm and hot beneath him. It sparks a predictable, Pavlovian response in Connor.

He’s been imagining what it would be like to get Oliver into bed for at least a month now, but this isn’t how he thought it would happen at all. Everything about this leaves him frozen, confused, and turned on.

“C’mon,” Oliver breathes, his voice slurring. His hand is between them, palming Connor’s rapidly hardening cock. His face is shadowed and impossible to read.

Connor’s not usually one to have qualms about combining alcohol and sex -- he likes hooking up at gay bars after all -- but everything about this is unpleasant and uncomfortable. It shouldn’t be a problem. Oliver’s feeling him up, clearly both willing and interested. He could find out if Oliver’s neck tastes as good as it looks.

But, Connor’s realizing with a growing dread, it wouldn’t mean anything in the long run. Just another awkward, regrettable, drunken hook up that Oliver might decide he wants to forget in the morning.

And Connor doesn’t want that.

Connor wants Oliver for real. He wants Oliver for keeps.

He pushes himself off of Oliver’s body as fast as he can, falling onto his right hip. His head is spinning, his body gawky and awkward. He almost can’t hear anything over the rush of blood in his ears.

“Hey, come back,” Oliver says. He sits up, and Connor can make out his features in the moonlight. His eyes are still half-lidded and needy, and Connor is so fucked, stuck between wanting and not-wanting. It would be so easy to just-- no, he is not going to go there.

Connor takes a deep breath. He takes a step closer. “Look, I am-- I am so ready to do this, but if we do this, we do this sober, okay?”

Oliver’s brow furrows, and it’s adorable, sweet, vulnerable. Connor could break him so easily. He leans over, cupping the back of Oliver’s neck as he kisses him. It’s not much, just a gentle brush of lips against lips. He doesn’t want to push things too far, not yet.

When Connor pulls back, he whispers, “Get a good night’s sleep. And drink plenty of water.” He lets his fingers linger for a second too long before he pulls away.

“K,” Oliver says, and his smile is sleepy and warm.

---

The next day, Connor gets a text from Oliver: Thx 4 getting me home

Connor fiddles with his phone for a moment while sprawled out on his back in bed, debating whether or not he should just call Oliver to make sure he’s alright. His AP English essay can wait.

You okay? Connor sends to him. He runs a hand through his hair and tries not to imagine what Oliver’s doing right now.

The reply is almost immediate. Y

Connor can keep cool about this. He knows that Oliver’s probably still broken hearted and hung over, and he doesn’t need Connor’s shit dumped on top of him right now. Connor can be patient. There was that one guy who kept stringing Connor along for weeks before Connor showed up on his doorstep, and he demanded that Connor put his hand down his pants.

He waits an hour before texting Oliver again. We should talk about last night.

It takes ten minutes, but he does get a response back from Oliver. OK come by tomorrow?

Chapter 6

Chapter Summary

Chapter Notes

Standing on Oliver’s doorstep, Connor shoves his hands into his pockets after ringing Oliver’s doorbell. The air is starting to get chilly, and it’s cloudy and overcast today. A breeze ruffles his hair. His stomach twists, uneasy.

He’s trying not to be nervous or anxious or whatever, but he doesn’t know what to expect now that Oliver’s awake and sober and apparently single. He clenches and unclenches his fists and tries not to think about what it would have been like if he’d taken Oliver up on his offer, if he’d let himself stay.

He can hear the heavy sound of feet before the door swings open, revealing a middle-aged Asian woman standing there.

“Hi, Mrs. Hampton,” Connor says. He gives her a little wave. He’s not sure what the proper etiquette is for greeting the parents of guy-you-might-be-hooking-up-with-later-maybe. He’s usually much better about avoiding all of this.

She gives him an assessing look. “You’re Oliver’s friend?” She speaks with a heavy accent, but her words are clear. Her expression is serious and sharp, sizing him up. She’s not going to take any bullshit from him.

“Uh, yeah.” He shifts from one foot to the other.

She nods. “You brought him home on Friday.” It’s not a question.

Connor glances at the driveway, where Oliver’s car has magically reappeared overnight. “Yes.” He figures it’s safest to stick to the one-word answers.

“Good,” she says. “He doesn’t know how to hold his liquor.”

“Uh,” Connor says. He wishes, for one desperate moment, that Oliver had told him more about his parents, so that he knew how to react to any of this.

“Come on in,” she says. “He’s in his room right now.”

Connor follows her inside. She nods towards the stairs, and then heads towards the kitchen, leaving Connor to his fate.

Connor climbs the stairs and knocks on Oliver’s door. He has no idea what to expect from this conversation, whether there’s even anything to expect. Oliver was drunk on Friday night. It’s already been a whole day and a half, and Oliver probably doesn’t remember anything.

“Come in!” Oliver shouts.

Connor opens the door to find Oliver seated at his desk. He’s back to usual self, awake and alert, but the smile he gives Connor is hesitant and uncertain.

“Hey,” Connor says. He stands there, awkward, in the middle of the room, unsure if he’s allowed to sit on the bed or if that would be presumptuous.

“I am presuming that my memories of Friday night aren’t just an elaborate hallucination and I actually did act like an idiot and make a pass at you,” Oliver says. His cheeks turn a little pink. He picks up a stray wire and twists it between his fingers.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Connor says.

Oliver nods. He’s biting his bottom lip, like he wants to say something but isn’t sure how to say it.

“I-- I would have taken you up on it if you were sober,” Connor blurts out, before he can stop himself. It was so much easier the first time he tried to hit on Oliver, when he didn’t really care. He has no idea how to handle this conversation, with his mouth dry and his palms sweaty. “I told you that last night.”

Oliver blinks, startled, his mouth hanging open, his hands going still. “I thought that was just a, you know, ’tell the drunk what he wants to hear so he’ll go away now’ sort of thing.”

“I asked you out on a date the first time we met, Oliver,” Connor says. “I’ve been flirting with you for weeks. I didn’t think that it would be that much of a surprise.”

“Stuff like this doesn’t happen to guys like me, okay?” Oliver says, swallowing roughly. “I’m the awkward rebound you use to make the guy you’re actually into jealous.” He turns his attention back to the floor, shaking his head like he’s not even here right now, stuck in the memory of some other guy treating him like shit.

Connor isn’t an expert or anything, but he remembers the way Charles touched Oliver during their awkward movie kind-of-mostly-not date, affectionate and more than a little territorial. Even if Oliver doesn’t see it that way, Charles did care about him, enough to want to stake a claim in front of Connor.

Oliver looks so miserable, his eyes downcast, his mouth turned down into a frown, that for a moment, Connor wonders if he’s going to get a repeat of the crying from Friday night. Connor doesn’t want that. He wants to go back to where they left off Friday night. But now that they’re sober, Oliver doesn’t seem all that interested in making the first move.

Maybe it’s just that Oliver reacts better to action than words. Connor steps forwards, bending over to kiss him, but Oliver turns at just a little to the side, and Connor’s lips are mashed up against the corner of Oliver’s mouth.

They stay like that a long moment, off center and awkward. Connor’s heart hammers hard in his chest, and he wonders if he’s doing this all wrong before Oliver turns into the kiss. Their lips slide together easy and unhurried.

Connor deepens the kiss, wanting more of it, Oliver’s lips and Oliver’s teeth and Oliver’s tongue. He’s been so hungry for it, and he didn’t realize how much until this very moment. He wraps his hands around the back of Oliver’s head, trying to get closer, pressing his tongue into Oliver’s mouth.

But then he misjudges his weight and they tip over, crashing to the floor Oliver’s desk chair skitters away from them.

They end up in a tangled heap of limbs, Connor’s nose mashed against Oliver’s shoulder, his elbow digging into Oliver’s ribs, his knee knocking into Oliver’s shin. It’s probably the single most embarrassing that has ever happened to him, and that includes the time the guy he was trying to hook up with got so drunk he couldn’t get it up.

“Fuck,” Connor says, the sound of it muffled by Oliver’s shoulder. He glances up to make sure Oliver doesn’t look too put out by any of this.

Oliver just grins at him, wide enough that his eyes scrunch up, and when they make eye contact, he bursts out into laughter. Oliver’s chest vibrates underneath Connor’s chin, and something about that sets Connor off, too, giggling so hard he buries his face into Oliver’s soft, worn t-shirt in order to try to calm himself down.

His chest feels light, empty of so many of the anxieties and worries that have plagued him since-- since last week and that weird awful conversation with Oliver in this very room.

“So,” Oliver says. He’s capable of speaking actual words now, but there’s still a breathless quality to his voice that Connor likes.

“Yeah,” Connor says. He’s smiling, too. He can feel it on his face, making his cheeks ache.

“Does this mean we can be boyfriends now?” Oliver asks. His voice has gone a little quiet, some of his former uncertainty leaking back in.

Connor feels a tiny bubble of panic form deep inside his chest, and he fights it down as best he can. “Sure,” he says. Connor has always hated the thought of relationships, of being tied down in some sort of desperate imitation of happy heterosexuality. But the thought of Oliver dating someone else, anyone else, is worse. It’s a buzzing, burning sensation at the back of his skull. “Boyfriends.”

If Connor thought Oliver’s smile was bright before, this one is blinding.

---

Monday morning before the first bell of the day, Connor meets Oliver at the emergency exit at the back of the school that’s never locked the way it should be and is mostly used by the stoners who like to smoke behind the sports shed.

There’s no one around this early. The sun is bright and a little hazy with autumn mist, and the air is chilly and damp when it fills Connor’s lungs. Oliver is wrapped up in a black wool coat, eyes shining. He’s not wearing his glasses right now, and Connor likes seeing this part of him, his face exposed for Connor to see.

“Hi,” Oliver says as Connor walks towards him. He ducks his head, suddenly shy all over again. Beyond all better judgment, Connor still finds it cute and not annoying.

“Hey,” Connor says. He steps in close, tugging on the lapels of Oliver’s coat, drawing Oliver into a kiss.

Oliver’s lips are slick with mint-flavored chapstick, and his breath is warm, tasting vaguely of mint. They stay like that, kissing and kissing and kissing, until the first bell of the morning rings, signalling that homeroom is about to start.

Connor pulls back, reluctant, and feels a swell of pride at the soft, dazed look on Oliver’s face. “I’ll see you after school, okay?” he says. They don’t have any classes together, and their lunch periods are different, but it’ll be okay. He can wait until the end of the day.

There’s other things he’s waiting for, too. They’ve talked about it a little, how they’re going to get some alone time away from their parents, and the earliest that either of them can pull it off is the coming weekend. Connor isn’t going to lie. He’s a little desperate to see Oliver naked. But he finds that he’s okay with waiting if he can have moments like this to tide himself over.

“We can meet back here,” Oliver says. His hand has slipped into Connor’s, and he gives Connor’s fingers a little squeeze.

“Sure,” Connor says, pulling away. He presses one last quick peck against Oliver’s lips before he leaves.

---

“Hi, Connor,” Michaela says. She slides up to Connor at his locker between third and fourth periods, like she doesn’t have anything better to do in her life besides make Connor miserable. She reaches into her oversized handbag and pulls out one of her homeworks, neatly printed black letters on pale white printer paper. Connor squints at it for a moment before realizing that it’s his name printed on the top of it. “As much as I hate to admit it, everyone saw you leave with Oliver from the party Friday night.” She sighs, exaggerated and a little theatrical. “Here’s this week’s assignment for Professor Keating, as promised. Though I have to say that getting him drunk while on the rebound just so you could win this stupid bet is just gross and tacky.”

Connor stares at the homework she’s holding out. He should refuse it, should call the whole bet off. Unfortunately, that would mean admitting the reason why he wants to call it off. It’s not really a big deal, anyway. Michaela can keep doing his work, and he can still keep spending time with Oliver. Not having to worry about the extra work on Wednesdays is also a nice bonus. No reason to look this gift horse in the mouth. “You were the one who proposed this bet in the first place,” he reminds her.

“Whatever. Just take the goddamn essay so that I don’t have to keep dragging it around,” she says, shoving it into his hands.

The warning bell rings, and she takes off without another word.

Behind Connor, a locker slams shut. He turns around and sees Jeremy standing there, smirking, and Connor can feel his stomach starting to sink. Jeremy doesn’t say anything, he just raises his eyebrows in Connor’s direction before turning around and walking down the hall towards his next class.

Connor closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. There’s a chance that Jeremy didn’t hear about--

No. Who is he kidding? Everyone in the school is going to know by the end of the day.

Chapter 7

Chapter Summary

Chapter Notes

Connor gets a lot of whispered looks over the course of the day, the same kind he got when he first came out. Back then, he liked it, being the newest Middleton Middle School scandal, liked the way that people seemed as drawn to him as much as they were repulsed by him. But it didn’t last too long. Soon enough, there was another scandal, and Connor’s sexuality became old, boring news.

Now he just feels a cold twist in the pit of his stomach. Not because of the stares, no. But because Connor is trying to track the speed at which the story is moving through the school and whether or not he can intercept it before it gets to Oliver.

He doesn’t see Oliver in the halls. He doesn’t have Oliver’s schedule memorized. He tries texting Oliver during lunch, but Oliver doesn’t respond.

Some pimply underclassman tries to give Connor a high five between sixth and seventh periods, and Connor does his best not to shove the kid into a locker or something drastic like that.

After the final bell rings, that cold twist in his stomach turns into a heavy knot. It sits there, way too big and way too heavy as he makes his way towards the back entrance.

The door sticks when Connor first tries to open it, but it swings open once Connor puts his shoulder into it. Outside, there’s sun again, bright and almost blinding. Connor squints for a moment before he spots the figure hunched over, back leaned up against the red brick.

Connor moves in closer. “Oliver?”

Oliver looks up from where he’s leaning against the side of the school, and it’s deja vu. Oliver’s eyes are red and wet. His nose is leaking a little. It’s the party all over again, except now Connor’s the one responsible. He has no one else to blame.

“Why?” Oliver snarls. “Why did you even bother to pretend? It didn’t make any sense. I knew it didn’t make any sense, that you would show up and be interested in someone like me, and I still fell for it anyway.”

“It’s not like that,” Connor says. He takes a step towards Oliver. If he could just get close to Oliver, get him to listen.

Oliver yanks back, putting more distance between them. “I’m glad, you know? I’m glad I found out before I could let myself feel like--”

“Oliver,” Connor says, “Could you just hear me out for just one--”

“I’m leaving now,” Oliver says. He turns around and walks away, giving Connor a clear look at the hunch in his shoulders, the stiffness in his stride.

Connor follows after him, chasing his heels. “Whatever you heard, you don’t know what--”

Oliver ignores him, eyes fixed on his car in the school’s parking lot. He doesn’t so much as glance in Connor’s direction.

Connor speeds up, turning around and walking backwards as he gets in Oliver’s way and in Oliver’s face. “Please, Oliver. I just want to talk.” His back collides with a solid object, a car, Oliver’s stupid Camry. The door handle digs into Connor’s hip.

Oliver pushes Connor to the side. It’s forceful, not particularly rough, but strong enough that Connor stumbles out of the way. Oliver opens the door to his car without looking at Connor. Connor can still see the dried tear tracks on his cheeks. “That’s too bad. I don’t want to talk to you,” Oliver says.

He slams the door shut in Connor’s face.

---

Connor-- Connor is fine. They’ve had fallings out before (just last week for example), and it was-- it was fine. They were boyfriends for all of about five minutes before everything went to hell, which is less fine, but Connor can deal. Connor is excellent at dealing. He doesn’t unfriend Oliver on Facebook, but he doesn’t log in and refuses to look at his news feed at all. No need to torture himself over this.

Tuesday afternoon, he spends his newly discovered free time after school not doing anything that involves stupid boring computer programming stuff. Instead, he ends up browsing Humpr. There’s a lot of pictures of hot guys who don’t seem to believe in shirts, their packages bulging under tight pants and/or underwear. Oliver doesn’t have six-pack abs, and he probably doesn’t have a ten-inch dick either, so this should be dirty, uncomplicated fun. It should be Connor celebrating his newfound freedom.

But mostly it’s boring. The guys all seem dull and vain and shallow, not something Connor’s ever docked points for before, but when seen in a sequence like this, they turn into a wall of bland sameness, identical copies of one another.

He ends up reading an article on polar bears instead. He has no idea how he got there, but it’s still more interesting than the guys who are DTF on Humpr.

Somehow that’s even more depressing than getting dumped by his first and only boyfriend twenty-four hours after they started dating.

---

He goes to the study group as usual on Wednesday.

Connor stares at the textbook in front of him, squinting as his brain tries to parse the legalese. He doesn’t need to do the actual work of writing up an essay about it, but he would like to understand it.

The study group today is low-key, quiet. Everyone’s focused on their own work, so the only sounds are the flipping of pages, the scritch of pens against paper, the shuffle of bags being opened and closed. Connor doesn’t trust the stillness. It’s only papering over the seething resentment underneath.

Michaela frowns, clearly annoyed by something, but she’s doing her best to hide it. Asher seems bored, his right leg bouncing as he twirls a pen between two fingers. Laurel is biting her bottom lip and picking at a hangnail. Wes put on some headphones, and he’s bobbing his head to the beat as he ignores the rest of them.

Of course, it’s Asher who breaks the silence. “Sooooo,” he says. “Connor, how’s that bet going?”

Laurel doesn’t even say anything. She just picks up her stuff and heads towards the far corner of the room, away from the rest of them. Wes doesn’t even so much as glance upwards from his books, his head still bobbing. Michaela gives Asher her darkest glare.

Connor sits up and decides, what the hell. “I won it,” he says. He doesn’t trip over the words at all, and he doesn’t think about Oliver slamming a car door in his face. It’s a small victory.

“Oh, you spent last weekend nailing that Asian ass?” Asher asks. He pauses for a moment, and in a display of what may or may not be considered thoughtfulness for him, continues, “Or was it him nailing you? I don’t know how all this gay stuff works.”

“Asher,” Michaela says. “Will you please shut the fuck up?”

There’s bile in Connor’s throat. He presses his fingers against the hard edges of his desk. He needs all of this stop right now or he’s going to end up doing something drastic. He doesn’t know what that is, but it’s going to be-- drastic.

“Hey,” Asher says, “it looks like someone here is a sore loser.”

“No, really,” Connor says. “Shut the fuck up, Asher.” He and Michaela share a look. This might be the first time they’ve ever agreed on something before. It’s an odd feeling. Connor has no idea what to do with it.

He turns to stare at his book again, and he doesn’t think about what Oliver is doing right now.

---

Connor’s working on his calculus problem set Thursday night when he hears a knock on his bedroom door. He’s sitting on his bed with his back pressed against the headboard, papers spread out in front of him. He’s usually neater than this, but he can’t really be bothered to put in that level of effort in tonight.

“Come in,” he shouts. He flips his textbook shut. It makes a satisfying thudding noise.

It’s his mom, and something on her face tells him that it’s not the usual lecture about turning his his clothes the right way out before tossing them into the laundry hamper or about putting the toilet seat down in the bathrooms after he uses them. This is going to be a Mom Talk, probably something about his college applications or his life goals or something like that. After Gemma left for college, his parents have become attentive towards him in a way they never did while she was still around, doting on him as the only kid left in the house. To be honest, Connor could do without the extra attention.

She clears her throat. “We’ve -- your dad and I -- noticed that you’ve been-- moody, since Monday.”

“Yeah,” he says with a shrug. “I guess.” He’s been avoiding most people, keeping his head down and focusing on his work. He figured his parents wouldn’t have noticed anything different. Maybe he was wrong about that.

She sits down at the edge of his bed, hands folded into her lap. It reminds Connor of when she would take care of him while he was sick, reading him his favorite bedtime stories over and over again. She’s even wearing that same overly-concerned Mom Face that she’d wear when Connor would curl up and sulk over his misery. “Is it… a boy?” she asks. “I know you’re under a lot of stress because of your senior year and all of that, but you’ve always been so self-possessed when it comes to your school work that I don’t think that’s it.”

Connor thinks about lying, about inventing a convenient excuse. He’s gotten good at that when it comes to his parents. The friends he doesn’t have, the clubs he’s not a part of, the men he doesn’t know the addresses and phone numbers of. It would be so easy to open his mouth and let another lie fall out. “Yeah,” he says instead. He finds himself curling up, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on the floor. “We were kind of dating for a bit, but then I messed things up.”

“Oh, honey.” His mom shuffles over so that she can pat his right knee, giving it a warm, comforting rub. The bed dips underneath her weight, and some of the papers start sliding in her direction. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Connor says. His chest hurts. It’s the worst feeling in the entire world. “I just-- I just want to fix things so that they stop sucking so much.”

“Have you tried to fix things yet?” his mom asks. She tugs him away from the headboard by his arm and pulls him against her side, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. It doesn’t work as well as it did when Connor was eight. Now he’s taller and broader than her and he has to bend over in order to fit. But she’s still soft and comfortable and wearing that floral perfume that will always remind Connor of her.

Connor shakes his head, an awkward motion when his head is bent and pressed against her shoulder. “I tried to talk to him on Monday, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”

She hums, thoughtful, and ruffles his hair, “He probably needed some time to cool down. I always do when I get into fights with your father.”

“So what do I do now?” he mumbles into her sweater. It’s soft and warm, a Mom Sweater through and through.

She laughs, soft and gentle. “Every person is different,” she says. “Find something he likes. Show that you’re willing to make that extra step for him. You’re a smart boy. I know you’ll figure something out.”

Connor doesn’t say anything to that, just letting the advice sit there, in the back of his mind. He thinks about everything he knows about Oliver, the things that make him miserable and distracted and the things that make him giggle like a lunatic and the the things that hold his attention for so long that he seems to forget anything else is around.

His mom continues, “And if things don’t work out with him, that’s okay, too. There are plenty of other men out there, you know.”

Connor snorts at that, an undignified sound. His mom rubs his back and doesn’t comment, even though Connor can tell that she wants to.

And it’s--- it’s okay. Things are okay right now, and he can figure out how to make things more okay in the future. He can fix this. He can. He lets his weight sag, lets his eyes close, and lets himself breathe and breathe and breathe.

Chapter 8

Chapter Summary

Chapter Notes

Thanks for all the lovely feedback, guys! We’re in the home stretch, so I’m going to post a little more frequently until we get to the end.

On Saturday, Connor holds his breath as he rings the doorbell to Oliver’s house. He shifts the flowers into the crook of his left arm. The DVD is wedged in his right armpit.

Oliver’s father is the one to answer the door this time. He’s a tall white man, skinny, wearing large, chunky glasses that look a lot like Oliver’s. On his face, though, they fit, matching the severity of his features. “Can I help you?” he asks, his voice stiff and polite.

“Uh, hi,” Connor says. “Is Oliver home?” He tries to look as nice and non-threatening as possible. He has about a 50-50 success rate when it comes to dealing with parents, but maybe he’s just lucky Oliver’s dad doesn’t have a shotgun. He swallows around the lump in his throat.

“Hey, Dad, who is it?” a voice calls from inside the house. There are footsteps, and then Oliver appears at his father’s shoulder. He stops for a moment and stares at Connor. His expression is stony and otherwise unreadable.

“Hi, Oliver,” Connor says. He tries to smile.

Oliver sighs, nudging his father out of the way. “It’s fine, Dad. I’ve got this.”

Mr. Hampton shrugs and steps back into the house, leaving the two of them alone on the doorstep.

“These are for you,” Connor says, holding out the flowers. White calla lilies, the man at the florist shop said, perfect for apologizing to that special lady in your life. Connor hadn’t bothered correcting him, but he did buy the flowers.

Oliver takes the flowers, holding them up to his nose so that he can smell them. “So this is a pity thing, I take it? ‘Thanks for being so pathetic and desperate that I managed to win a bet over how easy it is to sleep with you.’”

“No,” Connor says. He can feel his forehead furrowing. “This is an apology. I’m sorry. It’s-- I still want to be boyfriends again.”

Oliver shakes his head, his lips pulled into a tight, straight line. “You don’t need to keep lying to me,” he says, and Connor can’t get a read on any of his feelings past the coldness in his eyes.

“Look, I’m not lying, Oliver. You have to believe me.” Connor knows his voice has gone weird. His throat hurts.

Something explodes out of Oliver at that. “Oh, this is just a thing where someone found out that you didn’t actually sleep with me the night of the party, so now you need to actually finish the job.” A stormy expression crosses his face. He lets his arm drop, the flowers dangling at his side. “Fine, what do you need? Would a hand job count? Or a blow job? Your car is right out there isn’t it? We can make this quick.”

Connor jerks back. He feels sick again. Who knew a blow job could sound so deeply unappealing? “Jesus, no. That’s not why I’m here.” He takes a deep breath. “Yeah, there was a bet, and that’s why-- that’s why I was at computer club that day. But it’s not the reason why I kept coming back. I know you don’t have any reason to believe me, but I really like you, okay?” He holds out the DVD. “I got you a copy of Safe Haven and I thought that maybe we could watch it together.”

Oliver looks down at the cover, which like every other Nicholas Sparks movie is a photograph of a man and a woman in a passionate, PG-rated embrace. “You hated The Best of Me.”

“I did, but I watched it because you wanted to watch it,” Connor says. He needs Oliver to understand that he will sit through two long hours of boring overwrought romance just to spend time with him. He’s already done it once, and he’s willing to do it again.

Oliver studies him for a long moment before he steps back, into the house, his face falling into shadow. “Okay,” he says. “You can come in.”

---

Oliver makes Connor sit at the other end of the couch in the Hampton’s living room after he pops the DVD into his PS3. The flowers, thankfully, have been placed on the kitchen counter and not tossed unceremoniously into the garbage.

It’s not like they’ve ever been particularly touchy-feely before, but the distance feels forced, artificial. Oliver hasn’t forgiven him yet, and he hasn’t said that they could be boyfriends, but Connor’s not in a rush or anything. The truth is out in the open. Charles is no longer in the picture. Oliver hasn’t kicked Connor out of his house. Connor’s got plenty of time.

The movie is as boring and as stupid as Connor thought it would be, so he spends his time watching Oliver instead. The way Oliver chews popcorn, in his left cheek, after he reaches his hands into the microwaved bag in his lap. The way his face scrunches up when he’s getting particularly distraught over an emotional scene (at least from what Connor can tell from the music swelling). The way he tears up and wipes at his eyes during the flashbacks about the female character’s terrible, abusive husband.

After the movie ends, Oliver gets called into the kitchen to help clean the dishes from lunch, and Connor follows him. He rests his hip against the counter, leaning against it while he watches Oliver work, the twist and flex of Oliver’s biceps underneath the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt, the curve of his ass in his sweatpants.

“So, uh, I definitely didn’t expect that chick from the Avengers to be a ghost,” Connor says, “and of the guy’s dead wife, even.”

“Yeah,” Oliver says. “So now we’ve watched it.” His head is bent as his eyes focus on the dishes in front of him, and Connor ends up staring at the curl of his neck underneath his hairline. He wants to touch it and knows he’s not allowed to.

“Yeah,” Connor says. He’s calmer than he has been in weeks. This is where he wants to be. If Oliver’s going to let him, he’s going to stick around.

“What next?” Oliver turns to look at Connor. He’s taken off his glasses and without the extra layer of armor, he looks tired, worn around the edges, like maybe he hasn’t been sleeping well either.

“I think that’s your call,” Connor says.

Oliver turns away again, staring at the soap-covered bowl in his hands. “I’m not sure-- I don’t know if I’m ready.”

Connor says, “I’ll wait.” He waits for the uncertainty, the terror to creep back up into his throat, but it doesn’t. He knows what he wants now. There’s no heaviness to this feeling, just a solidness, the earth underneath his feet.

Oliver says, “I can’t ask you to--”

“You don’t have to,” Connor says. He takes a risk and leans forward to peck Oliver’s cheek. “I’ll see you on Tuesday, okay?”

---

Tuesday morning, Connor shows up at Michaela’s locker and holds an assignment out to her. She looks at it like she’s worried that he might have laced it with anthrax. It’s early enough in the day that the hallways are mostly clear, just a few other students milling around, but Connor feels exposed anyway.

“What’s this?” she asks. She raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow at him.

“This week’s assignment for Professor Keating,” he says. “I owe you for last week.” They had Monday off for Columbus Day, and so Connor had some extra time on his hands. It’s not like he wants to do Michaela’s work for her, but he does owe her one.

She narrows her eyes, clearly not buying it. “You won the bet, though. Fair and square.”

“I’m calling it off, okay?” Connor snaps. “It was a stupid bet anyway.” He shoves it into her face, just to see if she’ll flinch back from it.

Something about the way he says that must tip her off, because she snatches the essay out of his hand and smirks. “You like him for real.” She doesn’t have to clarify any further than that. One of the most annoying things about her is the fact that she almost is as smart as she thinks she is.

Connor rolls his eyes. Just because he’s comfortable with liking Oliver doesn’t mean he has to be comfortable with his arch-nemesis knowing about it. “Whatever,” he says.

“Aw, you might turn into a real boy after all,” she says, and her smile becomes just a fraction kinder.

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Connor says.

---

After school, Oliver is quiet. Connor refrains from flirting as best he can and sticks to being as helpful as he can with Oliver’s Roomba project. Oliver’s brought his GSR sensor with him, and he seems both shy and excited to show Connor the work he’s done with it since their non-breakup and real-breakup. Connor watches as the stupid Roomba jerkily rolls across the computer lab floor while Oliver thinks at it, and if he hadn’t realized how far gone he was already, he’d know by the way he finds the whole display cute instead of pathetic.

As they’re packing up for the day, Oliver smiles at him, unguarded and easy. He squeezes Connor’s arm, the least complicated touch they’ve had in a while, and Connor feels his heart flip over in his chest.

---

Thursday, they don’t get any work done because they end up talking about colleges and applications and dreams for the future. Connor spins in his rolling desk chair as Oliver slings his arm over the back of his own. The rest of the club, as usual, is content to ignore them.

“Yeah, I’d love to go to MIT, are you kidding me?” Oliver says. His expression turns wistful. “I mean, I know that everyone there is crazy competitive and I’d burn out in like three weeks, but it sounds like an amazing place.”

“I don’t want to do some pre-law program,” Connor says. “I figure if I end up going to a good enough undergrad program, I can do whatever I want for four years before I apply to law school.”

“Good enough like Harvard?” Oliver asks. He raises his eyebrows, like he knows the answer already.

“Yeah,” Connor says. His mouth feels dry. “Something like that.”

“Like you’ll be at Harvard and I’ll be at MIT?” Oliver says. He pauses to pick at a loose thread on his chair. “Well, if MIT wants me.”

Connor says, “They’ll want you.” He afraid to imagine just yet what it would be like, to end up in the same city. College, for Connor, has always meant a chance for him to find a whole new pool of people he can fuck, but if Oliver is going to be there, right in the same city, then that changes everything.

“It’s scary, you know?” Oliver says. “Going away for college.” He takes a deep breath. “But I think I’m ready for it. I’m ready for the next step.”

“Well, the next step isn’t going to happen for at least another ten months, so maybe you can enjoy being a high school student just a little bit longer,” Connor says. He nudges Oliver’s knee with his own, crossing the invisible boundaries between them, and much to his surprise, Oliver lets him.

Chapter 9

Chapter Summary

Chapter Notes

Only one more chapter left after this! Whew. Ugh, sorry. Technical difficulties.

Now that it’s properly November, the leaves get browner, and their jackets get heavier, and their workload starts piling up.

On their next Thursday together, Oliver asks Connor to the movies again. Apparently there’s something coming out about Alan Turing that Oliver wants to see.

“Less painful for you than Nicholas Sparks, I promise,” Oliver says. He has his feet kicked up onto a desk, like the rebel he is, his laptop resting in his lap. Connor is perched on the desk next to his feet, careful not to touch him.

“Sure,” Connor says. “As long as you can promise me that you’re not going to invite your ex-boyfriend at the last moment.” He puts down the copy of Catcher in the Rye he’s reading for English class and stretches out his legs.

“Are you angling for a date?” Oliver asks. His eyes are bright. His voice is teasing now, tinged with a warmth that makes Connor’s toes tingle.

“Definitely,” Connor says, without even pausing for a moment.

Oliver shakes his head with a laugh that makes the corner of his mouth curl up, and Connor thinks about kissing it smooth.

---

They meet half an hour before the movie starts. Connor buys Oliver’s popcorn and sno-caps and Oliver buys Connor’s ticket. Oliver tries to explain to him what a Turing machine is, much to Connor’s complete bafflement, and Connor does his best to wheedle out of Oliver whether or not he’s ever had a crush on Benedict Cumberbatch. That gets a real laugh out of Oliver, the first Connor’s heard in a while.

This movie itself is… fine. Overwrought in an Oscar-bait sort of way instead of a chick-lit sort of way, and Connor has never really been a big fan of movies about tragic queers without at least one filthy-hot sex scene. But yes, it is better than Nicholas Sparks.

While they’re leaving the theater, Oliver lists towards him, letting their shoulders brush together as they walk out into the cold night air. He looks thoughtful and serious. The parking lot is humming with people, chatting and laughing and talking about what they just saw. Oliver’s car is closer to the entrance, so that’s where they stop.

Connor lingers just because he can, because he isn’t quite ready to go yet. Oliver doesn’t seem like he’s in a hurry to take off either. He’s rambling again, caught up in the rush of his thoughts. They stand like that, in the middle of a busy parking lot, bathed in the orange glow of the street lights, as Oliver talks with his hands.

“It’s just so easy to forget, you know? That there was a time when they would have-- where they would have done that sort of thing to us. The man was a genius, you know? His theories underlie every single programming language out there, and they just let him--”

“Oliver,” Connor says, interrupting him. “Was this a date?” He steps in closer, tilting his head up so that he can look Oliver in the eye. “I really want this to be a date.”

Oliver goes quiet, ducking his head and drawing back into himself. Connor deflates a little. Maybe he’s pushing too hard, but he needs to know where he stands. “I want this to be a date, too,” Oliver admits. “I just--” He looks up and leans over, bringing their lips together for a moment before drawing back. “-- I just like you too much for this to get all fucked up again, okay?”

Connor can feels every thud of his heart in his chest. “That’s fine. We can take it at your speed,” he says. “I told you I’d wait. I’m still waiting.”

Oliver closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he says. “We can-- okay.”

---

The week after that is Thanksgiving.

They have too many family obligations to have time to see each other, but Oliver texts Connor updates on the awkward family dynamics, like that one fuckup of an uncle who always tries to sell everyone on his latest get-rich scheme and this other great-aunt who is under the assumption that no one on Oliver’s mother’s side of the family speaks English. Oliver’s brother is back in town, and Oliver is a little apprehensive about being stuck in his brother’s shadow, dwarfed by his brother’s shiny new internship offer in London next summer.

Oliver texts cold sweat emoji to him Thursday morning, right before the rest of his family is due to arrive.

You’ll be fine, Connor texts back. He’s so focused on his phone, he almost runs into his sister as she’s coming down the hallway from the other direction. They haven’t had much time to talk, what with their parents and her newest boyfriend (who has followed her back here to celebrate the holiday because his parents are in California and plane tickets are expensive) monopolizing her time.

“Oooh, is that your newest man?” Gemma asks. She leans over his shoulder and makes a half-hearted attempt to grab the phone out of his hands. “Mom may have mentioned something about that earlier.” His mom hasn’t asked about what’s happened with Oliver, but he’s seen her wearing some knowing looks when he gets new texts over dinner.

Connor ducks out of the way, elbowing her lightly in the ribs. “Yes,” he says. He drops his voice so that no one else can overhear. “We’re kind of dating right now.” It’s always been a defining part of their relationship that he and Gemma are brutally honest with one another. For all that she’s jokingly called him a manslut, she’s never judged him for it, and he has never shied away from telling her when he thinks her current boyfriend is an irredeemable asshole.

“Oh?” she says, waggling her eyebrows. “Is this a fuckbuddy kind of thing?”

Connor shakes his head. He bites his bottom lip. If he can’t talk to his sister about this, he doesn’t know who he can talk to about it, but it still feels weird to say any of it out loud. “I-- I actually haven’t slept with him yet.”

Her eyes go wide and round. “No fucking shit. You? Please tell me this guy is not saving himself for marriage.”

Connor rubs the back of his neck, shuffling his feet. He leans against the nearest wall. “No, it’s just that he just got out of another relationship and I messed some things up, so we’re taking it slow.”

Gemma lets out a low whistle and leans against the wall next to him. Her eyes are softer now, kinder. “Wow,” she says. “Just how much do you like this guy?”

Connor takes a deep breath and thinks about Oliver’s dorky smile, the way he gets worked up about robots and computers and Alan Turing and the solid breadth of his chest underneath Connor’s hands. “A lot,” he says.

“Awwww,” she says, reaching over and pinching Connor’s cheek. “Look at you, being all smitten. You should fall in love more often.”

Connor’s stomach drops out. He bats her hand away. “I don’t think we’re at that point yet.”

“But it could be?” Her smile is rueful, understanding. The guy, Steven, that Gemma’s brought home has been her boyfriend for two years now. She’s still only twenty-one and Connor knows that she’s not ready for marriage, but she’s thinking about it. It’s a real possibility in her future.

“I don’t know,” Connor says. It feels more honest to put it that way, but he still feels something, and he knows it could be more than that.

“Well, I’m still happy for you, little brother,” she says, shaking her head. “A real relationship. I never thought I’d see the day.”

She gives him a big, squishy hug. He rolls his eyes.

---

The weekend after Thanksgiving weekend, they go to dinner dinner at the one decent Japanese place in town on Friday night. Oliver teaches Connor how to use chopsticks so that Connor doesn’t feel quite so painfully white trying to eat his sushi with his fingers or a fork. That night after dinner, right up against Oliver’s Camry, Oliver kisses him for real, cupping Connor’s jaw in his hands while he licks his way into Connor’s mouth.

“We should be boyfriends again,” Oliver blurts out afterwards.

“Uh,” Connor says, trying to sound casual about it as he rests his weight against the car behind him. “Boyfriends?” Oliver’s hands have switched to gripping his biceps. Connor’s lips are still tingling a little from the kiss.

“Yes,” Oliver says. The words spill out of him in one long rush. “I don’t want this to be just a casual thing anymore.”

“That’s good, because I don’t want this to be a casual thing anymore either,” Connor says. He can feel the smile spread across his own face of its own volition. And he really wanted to play this cool, too.

He reaches out to grab a handful of Oliver’s jacket. Now that they’re boyfriends, he figures he’s allowed to pull Oliver into another kiss.

---

On Sunday morning, Connor’s dad insists on going out into the mall so that they can buy new suits for Christmas. He does that thing where he claps his hands and acts like Connor’s still twelve and excited by the prospect of wearing adult clothes. Connor does his best to feign genuine interest in the prospect of being stuck at the mall with his parents.

When they get to the mall, Connor manages to shake his dad off, both of them going their own separate ways, with a promise to meet again for lunch. Once he’s free from adult supervision, it’s actually kind of fun. Connor likes getting new clothes, and it’s true that he’s been getting taller and filling out more, and his old stuff doesn’t fit as well as he hoped it would. The shoulders are too tight. The sleeves are too short.

He’s ends up wandering through the belt section of Macy’s, texting with Oliver every time something interesting catches his eye.

What do you think of this one? He sends Oliver a picture of an ugly belt with a huge buckle that must have escaped from Texas somehow.

“Oh, hey, Connor,” a voice says, interrupting his conversation.

Connor spins around. It’s Jeff. The guy from Banana Republic. “Hi, Jeff,” he says.

Jeff hasn’t called him since that one time they hooked up. Connor hasn’t called Jeff either. That’s been perfectly fine with Connor, and it’s probably perfectly fine with Jeff, too. “Funny running into you again,” Jeff says. He pokes at a rack of belts that are all the exact same shade of brown.

Connor shrugs. “Not that funny.”

Jeff smirks and says, “I guess it’s funnier because I was just thinking the other day about your fantastic ass and also how much I’d love to see it riding my dick again.”

It’s a tempting suggestion, and Connor feels that same, low, familiar tug he’d always get when a guy showed interest, the giddy potential of a hook up. Jeff was pretty fantastic in bed, and he’d been easy, uncomplicated. All Connor would have to do is show up at his place ready and willing to get fucked. It would be so simple. Connor wouldn’t have to put in any effort at all.

Connor’s phone buzzes. It’s a new text from Oliver that only contains two emoji: a disgusted face and a thumbs down.

“Sorry,” Connor says. “I’m kind of seeing someone right now.”

Jeff holds up his hands. “Hey, no problem. But if you’re ever interested in round two…”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Connor says, and he tries not to be obvious about how he’s deleting Jeff’s number from his phone.

---

They make it Facebook official on Monday.

Michaela likes the status. Wes posts a thumbs up in reply. Asher gives Connor a high five in real life. Gemma sends him a long, rambling e-mail about how proud she is of him and his growing emotional maturity.

Oliver just grins at him, lacing their bare, ungloved fingers together in the parking lot before school. Their breaths make little clouds in the air.

Chapter 10

Chapter Summary

Chapter Notes

On Thursday, Connor drags Oliver out of computer club early so that they have half an hour to make out in the backseat of Connor’s SUV before they’re expected back home. Even with the extra space, it’s not really big enough for two full grown men, but it’s not like Connor has a problem with that. Connor doesn’t care about the awkward bend in his knees, the strain in his shoulders and back, not with Oliver’s weight on top of his own, with Oliver’s mouth pressing kisses along the line of Connor’s neck.

“My parents are going away this weekend,” Oliver says, his voice thin and breathless in a way that Connor really likes. “Business conference.”

“Are you inviting me over?” Connor asks. He nips at Oliver’s chin, earning him a chuckle. His fingers itch to crawl underneath the hem of Oliver’s shirt, but he doesn’t want to start anything here that he won’t be able to finish. Over the past month or so, he’s gotten very comfortable with his right hand and much better acquainted with the vagaries of online porn. He meant it when he said he’d go at Oliver’s pace, but that doesn’t mean he’s not interested in the idea of having sex with his hot boyfriend if the opportunity presents itself.

Oliver pulls back far enough for Connor to see his face. “Yeah, duh,” he says. “Do I need to send you an engraved invitation or something?” His expression is giddy and warm, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. Connor pulled his glasses off ten minutes ago, and Connor likes this, being able to see all of Oliver’s face.

“Hey,” Connor says. He shifts his hips, so that his erection is pressed up against Oliver’s thigh. He’s not all that interested in coming in his pants, but he does grind a little against Oliver’s body, just for some friction. “I’m a little distracted, okay?”

Oliver lets out a pleased little hum. “I can tell,” he says. He kisses Connor’s lips before pulling up and off of him, shoving his glasses back on. “I’ll see you Saturday. They’re leaving at noon, so any time after that should be okay.”

Connor does not let out a pathetic whimper at the loss of Oliver’s body heat, but it’s a close thing. “Saturday,” Connor says. He sits up and tries to will his erection away. Hard to do with Oliver’s hair all disheveled and his glasses put back on all crooked and the beginnings of a hickey low on his neck.

“I really need to go,” Oliver says, backing away from Connor, eyes still fixed on Connor’s face. He misjudges his weight while opening the door behind him and spills out onto the pavement, landing haphazardly onto his feet. His smile doesn’t fade in the slightest. The bulge in his jeans is bigger than it usually is. (Connor’s looked. Of course, Connor’s looked.)

“Saturday,” Connor repeats, and even the thought of waiting another two days does nothing to dim the warmth in his chest.

---

He shows up at one on Saturday. Oliver answers the door in sweats and a t-shirt, not even wearing his glasses. Connor can appreciate his dedication to easy-access clothing. He did his own best to dress down for the occasion.

“Come on,” Oliver says. He leads them upstairs to his bedroom. Connor knows the way by heart now.

As soon as they cross the threshold, Oliver strips off his t-shirt, and Connor can only gawk at the line of Oliver’s spine, the curve of his shoulder blades. He freezes in place, his mouth going dry.

Oliver turns. “Hey,” he says. Connor gets an eyeful of Oliver’s chest. He’s not as built or as toned as some of the guys Connor’s hooked up with, but there’s something about this, the fact that it’s Oliver who’s stripping in front of him that makes it different, that makes Connor’s heart thud, heavy in his chest. Oliver says, “Is everything okay? I mean, I know I shouldn’t listen to rumors, but I know I’m probably not the hottest guy you’ve seen naked.” He starts to curl into himself, and that’s enough to spur Connor into action.

“Shut up,” he says. He rushes forward, grabbing Oliver by the neck and pulling him down into a fierce, wet kiss. Oliver makes a soft gasp into Connor’s mouth, and Connor likes that, knowing that it’s the first sound of many more to come.

Connor runs his hands over Oliver’s chest, and Oliver shivers when his fingers brush over Oliver’s nipples. Connor’s own arousal is low-key right now, ready and waiting to spark into something more.

After he pulls back, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a handful condoms, tossing them onto Oliver’s bed.

Oliver bursts out laughing. “You were really looking forward to getting lucky tonight.”

“I just think the Boy Scouts got it right with that whole ‘be prepared’ thing,” Connor says.

Oliver’s smile doesn’t fade, but he does kiss Connor again, and this time it’s warmer, sweeter.

Connor sheds his jacket, his shirt. Oliver watches him with heavy, hot eyes, and Connor understands a little bit of why Oliver wanted to cover up. Connor’s never been shy about his body, and he’s never been all that worried about being good in bed. Generally, the guys he slept with were either so gay virginal that they didn’t even know what was on the menu or so experienced they would tell Connor exactly what they wanted and how they wanted it as soon as he stepped into their bedrooms.

Now, he’s keenly aware of how much he wants Oliver to like him, to want him as much as he wants Oliver right now.

After he’s down to his underwear, Oliver says, “Jesus, you’re so fucking hot.” His mouth is hanging open, and he’s still wearing too many clothes. Connor reaches for the waistband of Oliver’s sweats, sliding it down and grabbing himself a palmful of Oliver’s ass along the way. He kisses his way along the curve of Oliver’s shoulder, the hard lines of his collar bones.

Oliver makes small, pleased noises, and Connor’s chest feels tight, and maybe this is why people make a big deal out of waiting for sex, over waiting for the ‘right’ person. Every move, every reaction feels weightier, more significant, all of it pooling in the center of his chest.

“What do you want to do?” Connor asks. He kisses Oliver’s neck next, sliding his fingers up the planes of Oliver’s back. His brain is moving too fast to make decisions right now. He wants to put his mouth on Oliver’s cock or on his ass or slide his fingers in and feel Oliver clench around them and moan and curse, and then maybe Oliver would let him push right in, would let Connor fuck him into his mattress or over the desk or on the floor if they can’t make it anywhere else, or maybe Oliver will want to fuck him, will want to hold him down and press messy kisses across Connor’s back or sit with his back against the headboard as Connor rides his dick and his long fingers twisting--

“I--” Oliver says, and his smile is shy and so fucking adorable Connor kisses him on the lips once, twice, three times just because he’s there and he can. “I--” Oliver continues, more obviously out of breath now. “--it doesn’t matter really. Just, you know, that it’s with you.”

“You sap,” Connor says, but he can’t deny the way he feels at the way Oliver says it, leaving his heart as soft and as mushy as putty. “Come on. Pick something.” He puts his hand down the back of Oliver’s boxers, feels the way Oliver jerks underneath his touch, his hard cock brushing against Connor’s stomach.

“I think it might end up being a non-issue soon,” Oliver says, huffing out a laugh.

Connor pushes Oliver’s boxers the rest of the way down and gets his own off as quickly as he can, trying not to trip over them as he steps out of them. It’s apparently a lot more difficult when your mind is on other things.

And then it’s just the two of them, naked. Oliver’s cock is lovely, not the biggest Connor’s had or the smallest, but it looks heavy and thick, and it makes Connor’s mouth water. He hasn’t had a dick in his mouth for months. “Let me blow you,” he says.

“Jesus, like I’m going to turn that down,” Oliver says.

Connor grabs a condom from the bed before he slides to his knees, leaning forward to press a tentative kiss to the head. Oliver shudders, his mouth hanging open. Connor wraps one hand around the shaft and licks the underside of Oliver’s cock. It tastes like sweat and skin and something darker, muskier that Connor always associates with sex.

He tears open the condom wrapper and slides the condom down the shaft. The practiced, mechanical motion of it calms him down, focuses him. Even with everything else, this is just sex, and Connor knows how to have sex. He takes the head of Oliver’s cock into his mouth, letting it stretch his lips wide. The familiar taste of latex hits Connor’s tongue, and that just makes him harder, reminds him of all the things they have left to do, to try.

“Oh, fuck,” Oliver says. “Your mouth--” His hand flails, catching in Connor’s hair, and Connor pushes down farther, shielding his teeth as Oliver fills him up.

He bobs his head a few times, letting himself imagine what it would be like if he were to let Oliver fuck his face, if Oliver were to force Connor’s mouth open, make him take it. But Oliver’s just holding still, shaking with each drag of Connor’s lips, and that in itself, the way he’s struggling to tamp down on his instincts, is so hot that Connor feels a little dizzy with it.

“I’m really close,“Oliver says, his voice wobbling a little. He tugs on Connor’s hair, pulling him away, and Connor makes an annoyed noise at the back of his throat. “Can I-- I want to kiss you.”

Connor stands up, leaning in close, his own hard cock pressed against Oliver’s hip as Oliver’s hard, saliva-slick cock slides against Connor’s stomach. “Fuck,” Connor says. “I love your cock already.”

Oliver’s hips jerk forward as Connor brings their mouths together, kissing as filthy and wet as he knows how. Connor wraps a hand around Oliver’s cock, and it only takes one pull and a squeeze before Oliver comes with a deep groan and a full-body shudder, his eyes squeezed shut as he empties into the condom.

“Good?” Connor asks, watching the rise and fall of Oliver’s chest, the way his head falls back, his mouth hanging open. He strips off the condom and tosses it in the general direction of Oliver’s wastebasket. They’ll take care of it later. Usually, he gets annoyed when the other guy comes this quickly, but now it just makes something dark and possessive flair up in his chest. He’s the one who made Oliver feel this way. This orgasm belongs to him and no one else.

Oliver nods as he catches his breath, his eyes clearing, and he surges forward, pushing Connor back onto the bed. Connor lands on the pile of condoms, the wrappers sticking to his sweaty back. He laughs. It doesn’t matter how turned on he is; this is ridiculous. Oliver crawls on top of him, his knees bracketing Connor’s hips, and presses an open-mouthed kiss to his chest, just over his heart.

“What do you want?” Oliver asks. He’s smiling again, eyes shining, and when Connor made that bet all those months ago, he didn’t realize the sex would be like this, so full of feeling that he’s bursting with it.

“Anything,” Connor says. He grabs at Oliver’s shoulders, pulling him closer. Oliver’s elbows rest next to Connor’s ears a he presses a kiss against the tip of Connor’s nose.

“Anything, huh?” Oliver says, he tilts his head and nips at Connor’s earlobe.

“Stop being a tease,” Connor says. The urgency has faded a little, but he’s still hard, and every brush of Oliver’s skin against his own sends sparks through his body.

“Want to fuck you later,” Oliver murmurs. “Your ass--” He grinds his hips down, and there’s friction, sweet friction, and Connor lets an embarrassingly loud moan.

“Want to fuck you later, too,” Connor gasps out. “Want to hear the noises you’ll make for me.” He tilts his head back, gets his feet underneath him as he thrusts up. Oliver is hot, sweaty, and it feels so good, Connor’s eyes fall closed, his mouth hanging open.

“But not now,” Oliver says.

Connor would say something, but he just moans instead. Oliver moves again, and Connor can feel the hard press of Oliver’s thigh between his legs. Connor thrusts up, cock sliding over the muscle there.

“Just like this,” Oliver says, grinding down, and all Connor feels is pressure and friction and everything.

Connor stares at Oliver’s face while he comes, his back arching, the sweetness of his pleasure being pulled from him as he watches Oliver watching him. Oliver’s so intent, his eyes darker than usual, and several expressions that Connor can’t name flick over his face.

“Hey,” Connor says when he manages to unstick his tongue from the bottom of his mouth. Oliver’s still there, hovering, and he’s looking so sad. Connor cups his face, runs his thumb along the curve of Oliver’s cheekbones.

“So that’s that , huh?” Oliver says. “After all the guys you’ve--”

“Oliver,” Connor says, slowly, because he needs to get this through Oliver’s slick skull. “Don’t-- That was perfect.”

Oliver smiles, tentative and small. “Really?” he asks.

“Really,” Connor says. He rolls them over, and the plastic wrappers of the remaining condoms crackle with the movement. He kisses Oliver again and feels Oliver’s smile against his lips.

---

Connor has lost count of the number of rounds it’s been, but it’s dark outside the windows, and they’re sprawled out all over the bed, used condom wrappers strewn across the bed and the floor. There’s an open bottle of lube lying around here somewhere. Classy. Connor doesn’t know if his legs work anymore, and if he tries really hard, he thinks he might be able to lift a pinky. He’s pretty sure every single one of his muscles will be sore tomorrow. Worth it.

“So,” Oliver says. He gets mumbly when he’s sleepy and fucked out. Connor loves that he knows this now.

“Yeah,” Connor says.

“Do you regret it?” Oliver asks. “Taking that stupid bet?”

That’s an easy question to answer. Connor turns to face him, twisting his neck in Oliver’s direction. “No,” he says. It’s sucked and it’s hurt and very infrequently, it’s also been humiliating. But it’s been worth all of that, because it got him to where he is right here, right now.

Oliver’s brow furrows, crinkling his forehead in a way that Connor would have liked to kiss if he were capable of moving right now. “Oh?” he says.

“Because of you, you idiot,” Connor says. “Because it means I got to have you.”

“Oh,” Oliver says again, and this time it’s not a question.

Connor somehow gets the energy to roll onto his side and manages to throw a heavy arm over Oliver’s hip. “One day, I’m going to say something like that, and you’re going to believe me.”

“I’m starting to,” Oliver admits, shifting in closer, close enough that their legs and feet brush. His eyes drift closed. Connor watches the flutter of his eyelashes, the soft curl of Oliver’s lips.

“Good,” Connor says.

FIN.