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The light when he returns is off, room plunged into cool silvery darkness, shapeless shadows from the moon in the window. Connor is considerate in that way. He sleeps early — often and anywhere, lazy asshole — at least compared to Oliver's hectic schedule.
Living in the same house takes some adjustments. Connor is different from his childhood memory, removed from the golden nostalgia in his mind of their immature, boyish behavior, mud-slinging and burp contests. Connor is now a sexy, dark, fierce presence, built out of some remnant of his own fantasy, and that’s the worst part of it.
That’s the worst part, getting used to Connor, because he’s a real in-the-flesh manifestation of Oliver’s earliest, wettest dreams. Like some hellish reckoning, his eyes are on Connor’s body all the time lately. He watches Connor’s lean body, carving powerful lines — he watches his jaw line clench, his biceps tense, solid and flexible. He’s stronger than when they were kids, no longer the lanky skinny boy at his side.
Oliver closes the door shut, then steps further into the room. He squints trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness of the room and avoid the possibility of tripping over something — he has to step over Connor’s running sneakers that were discarded on the floor.
He drops his jacket on a chair. Turning towards the bunk bed in exhaustion, Oliver stops.
There’s a dark shape stretched out horizontally on his bed.
"Hey," Oliver chews out. He sinks his knees onto the mattress. "Idiot. Get up. Whose bed do you think this is?”
Connor doesn’t budge facing the wall, either feigning it or truly asleep.
Oliver crawls closer and yanks on one of those muscular shoulders with the intent to roll Connor off the side. “What do you think you’re doing? Did you get confused trying to find your way up the bunk ladder? Or were you just too lazy?”
Connor grunts.
“Get up or I’m going to kick your ass off my bed!”
"Make me," comes Connor’s half-smothered sound.
He sees red, gnashing his teeth and pulling on both shoulders, heaving Connor over like a large dead animal. He’s already exhausted and he just wants to sleep, what kind of asshole takes someone else’s bunk like it’s his own?
"I won it, fair and square, it’s mine. Get up," Oliver says, childishness leaking in.
"I let you have it."
"What the hell, no you didn’t." Oliver keeps pushing until he gets his best friend halfway onto his back, then climbs on top like he’s conquered a stubborn mountain. One of his knees is planted on the bed while his leg slings across Connor's hips, hands finding the front of his shirt to tug him the rest of the way. "I can’t sleep with you taking up the whole bed—"
Connor stirs and surges his weight up, using Oliver’s precarious balance to drive him down flat. They’re kids again, wrestling for victory at a stupid sleepover, shoving hands and digging their knees on each other's bodies. Connor wins, because he’s a fucking powerhouse now, it’s not even a fair fight.
"We used to share all the time, what’s the difference?" he says.
"Yeah, but you were twelve, that’s the difference. You were half the size you are now—”
"What’s wrong with my size?" Connor’s voice drops, a low vibration too near his face. "I thought you liked it."
Reality washes over Oliver in a sudden hot blast, his cheeks burning with color. They’ve done this a few times before, pushing boundaries, Oliver doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if he wants to know why it’s so simple and natural, whenever Connor is hovering close enough that his hot breath hits his jaw line.
"Oh shut up," Oliver says. It’s a weak comeback. He feels dizzy under Connor's intense stare "Get off…you’re too heavy."
"I don't think so, I’m pretty comfortable."
Connor pins him down with superior weight and muscle, his knees on the bed and his ass sitting on Oliver’s lap. Connor radiates heat like the sun — from sleeping in sweatpants and a hoodie, no doubt — and sweat tickles the back of Oliver’s neck. He swallows, losing his ability to speak.
"You're blushing."
"No, I'm not—”
In an attempt of shutting him up Connor bends down to kiss Oliver’s mouth. He lays down a hot, scalding line of kisses across his chin, underneath his ear, then his temple, eyelids, the tip of his nose...all in a slow torturous pace. Oliver holds his breath and squirms because he’s trapped, unable to get enough strength to escape Connor's hold on him. Not that he’s trying anyway.
Connor finds his mouth again, engaging in a lazy, sleepy kiss, their lips meeting in warm easy contact, over and over again.
"You're so pretty." Connor lets the words slip out of his mouth in his sleep comatose state. He's well aware of the effect he has on Oliver.
Oliver gets lightheaded, his heart pulsing quick, stumbling into the violent undertow of lust.
He’s just getting hard when Connor pulls back and tips over onto his side, their arms and legs tangled. His eyes open — a flash of dark green in the night — and he grunts, pressing his face into Oliver's chest tracing his fingers along his torso “I'm tired and I don't wanna fight about who sleeps where... So goodnight.”
Oliver chokes, arousal gone, his legs kicking out, remembering where all this started, "Get off my bed!"
It's a shame Connor is fast asleep again. Eventually, Oliver gives up the fight and ends up holding Connor tightly in his arms, forgetting they're just friends for the night.