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What’s the verdict? the text from Ryan reads.
Oliver glances up, flitting between the receptionist and the hotel manager, both wearing barely-composed masks of professional panic. One’s on the computer, clicking and clacking in frantic bursts, eyes darting across the screen, while the manager speaks into his phone after placating promises of arranging ‘alternate accommodations for you, Mr. Stark.’
No luck, he types out a response. Every tourist in nashville had the foresight of cancelled flights and booking a room in advance
Lol, Ryan replies instantly, like it’d been typed out and ready to shoot, and Oliver can just picture the shit eating grin, should have extended your booking yesterday when I did
Oliver doesn’t bother acknowledging the smug I told you so threaded in there—he’ll be sure to hear it in person anyway with the aforementioned grin attached; he has a feeling that’s why Ryan didn’t say it outright either—and glances up just as the manager exhales in visible relief, murmuring an “thank you, we’ll let him know,” into the receiver.
Think they’re moving me to another hotel, Oliver fires off quickly.
Before he can pocket his phone, the manager turns to him, practiced smile and all. “We’re terribly sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Stark. We’ve secured an en-suite room at one of our partner properties. It’s only a twenty-minute drive. We can have you transferred first thing in the morning. Your journey and stay will, of course, be fully compensated.”
Money’s not an issue, is what he nearly says, seeing as it’s own fucking fault he didn’t extend the dates on the lovely hotel room under his name before it got snatched away by a well-prepared tourist, but he swallows it. Flaunting his wealth at half-four in the morning would make him sound like the exact kind of entitled knob he tries very hard not to be. So he settles for a polite, “perfect, thank you.”
Then realises that by the time he showers and does his much needed calf exercises and podcasts himself to bed, he’ll be lucky to scrape together two hours of sleep before it’s time to checkout. He’d rather just get there now and get the uninterrupted stretch of sleep.
“Actually,” he says, catching both pairs of eyes. He offers the small, sheepish half-smile that usually buys him a little grace. “If the room’s ready now and it’s no trouble, I’d rather go straight over. Get it done.”
The manager blinks once—clearly wondering who’d want to switch hotels at stupid o’clock—but professionalism snaps back into place with a smile. “Not a problem at all, sir. We’ll call a car and send someone up to collect your luggage.”
“Oh, brilliant,” Oliver says, and he means it; his leg’s been flaring up all day, and even though it’s now dulled to a low, persistent ache, hauling luggage would just be asking for trouble. “Thank you. I really appreciate that.”
He turns away, already unlocking his phone to text his PA. Poor woman’s been running on fumes for forty-eight hours straight, fielding calls, wrangling schedules, and will probably wrack herself with guilt over thinking she’s not good enough at the job that Oliver had to sort this whole thing himself. She’s also, he’s fairly certain, fighting some kind of lurgy that’s turning her voice into gravel. Best to let her sleep.
Before he can open her chat, though, there’s three new messages from Ryan waiting for him.
Wait what? Another hotel?
No chance in hell. Just bunk with me I have a king size anyway
I’m serious
Oliver’s thumb hovers. He glances back at the manager, who was, weirdly enough, watching him go with the same plastered smile. Oliver raises his phone, gives a little salute with it.
“Sorry. Slight change of plan.”
“Welcome to Casa Guzman,” Ryan announces, opening the door and extending his arm with theatrical flair—his chin tucked for a little bow, hand now pressed to his torso like a courtier greeting royalty.
Oliver huffs a laugh, adjusting his shoulder strap as he steps past Ryan. His suitcase is already by the dresser, brought over by one of the bellboys while Oliver did a final sweep of his room. “Five-star service, who would’ve thought?”
He hasn’t once stepped inside Ryan’s room during their two-day stay here, just met each other at either of their doors before they headed off to set. Now that he’s surrounded by it on all four sides, the room is thick with Ryan’s smell—his woody cologne he spritzed on nearly twenty hours ago still overpowers the room, layered over the citrus drifting from the open bathroom, and finally, just the general musk of walking into a man’s room. Warm light spills from the bedside lamp and the ceiling cove; it’s the same as Oliver’s room, but feels cozier somehow. Wonders why that is.
Ryan comes up beside him and gestures grandly toward the bed. “King size, as promised. Couch has been tried and tested for comfort if you’re feeling virtuous.”
His eyes flick over Oliver—a quick inventory check that he’s come to expect after eight years of knowing Ryan. Oliver knows what he sees: the white t-shirt and trousers he’s been wearing, that Buck’s been wearing, all day, the one he never got a chance to change out of what with the whole room fiasco downstairs, curls that have gone feral from too many hand-rakes, traces of makeup smudged over his face that he never quite got around to taking off.
Ryan, meanwhile, looks infuriatingly put-together—clearly showered going by the shower gel citrus invading Oliver’s nose almost pleasantly, a black t-shirt paired with grey shorts that clings just enough to remind Oliver why certain corners of the internet continue to lose their collective minds to him.
“But,” Ryan adds, tilting his head as he scans Oliver for the hundredth time, probably. It sure feels like it, the way his skin burns, “you kinda look like you’ve been through hell. Bed’s all yours if you want it.”
Oliver drops his bag by the dresser, slanting his cane against it, and glances over his shoulder. “What, you don’t fancy sharing?”
“Trust me, sharing isn’t the problem,” Ryan says. “Remember that trailer we shared in Austin? You were snorin’ like a tractor, man.”
“Remember? How could I forget?” Oliver fires back without missing a beat. “You kicked me all night. I was bruised for days. Days.”
Ryan’s mouth quirks, corner of his lips lifting to show off a perfectly sharp canine. “Yeah, well. No bruises tonight. Promise.”
Oliver looks up to Ryan’s eyes, witty retort at the tip of his tongue about not making promises he can’t keep, but falters when their eyes catch. Just like that, he’s caught in the same pull he’s grown accustomed to over the years; it’s natural, he reckons, having chemistry with your on-screen best friend of eight years. Why wouldn’t the Buck and Eddie tension translate over to their real life counterparts? All the scenes they’ve shared, unscripted touches, improvised glances that linger, saying more than their dialogues ever have. Easy to write off as good acting. It’s all fiction. Well— meant to be fiction, anyway. Sometimes Oliver’s cock has a hard time separating the fact.
He wonders—not for the first time—if Ryan can read it on him. If he’s got feelers out for Oliver’s synapses, honing into his mind when his eyes drift to the curve of Ryan’s jaw, the taper of his waist, the way some jeans flaunt his ass, the way some shorts tease it. Evidence of the latter is right in front of him, matter of fact.
Ryan chuckles softly at the sudden silence, like he’s heard every traitorous thought, and takes a step back, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.
“Bathroom’s free, by the way,” he says, voice too light for the grin it pulls, “If you want to… y’know.”
Now, a normal person would’ve finished the sentence. Shower. But Ryan leaves the sentence hanging just long enough to let implication bloom, as if a shower isn’t the only thing Oliver will get up to in there.
Not that that’s any of Ryan’s business anyway, Oliver thinks haughtily ten minutes later, fist furiously working his cock under the rush of the water.
When Oliver steps back out, already changed into his sleepwear, Ryan’s claimed the middle of the bed, leaving Oliver the choice of his preferred side. Ryan’s propped against the headboard, legs stretched out under the duvet, phone lighting up his face. He glances up as Oliver emerges, eyes tracking the damp strands of hair curling at his temples, the tell-tale flush still riding high on his cheeks. Something flickers in his expression—amusement? Recognition? He doesn’t give voice to it. Probably best if he doesn’t.
“They think we’re on a date,” Ryan says, apropos of nothing, and Oliver nearly drops the towel he was about to drape over the chair to dry.
“What?” He asks, throat catching on the first word since his shower, larynx probably clogged up from all the steam. At least, he’s going to pretend it’s steam. “Who?”
Ryan waves his phone vaguely, screen still lit. “Oliver Stark and Ryan Guzman shooting in Nashville.” He says the names in that order: always Oliver first, like some odd mirror of how the internet insists on Buck-and-Eddie. “And like forty comments in a row sayin’ we’re on a date.”
“Ah,” Oliver says, heading toward the bed, calmer now that he knows it’s not about them—not that there’s anything romantic or the likes between them anyway, he thinks, maybe, he’s not sure—but about their on-screen characters. A smile tugs at his mouth despite himself. “Can you blame them?”
Ryan makes a that’s true face, shimmying to the left of the bed to make room as Oliver approaches the right. “We do give them plenty of material.”
We. Oliver’s stomach does a slow flip, and he resits the urge to ask: we as in Buck and Eddie, the characters they’ve poured eight years into? Or we as in Oliver and Ryan—the late-night talks after wrap, the way they gravitate towards each other at events, the glances and shoulder clasps that linger long after someone’s called cut? He knows the answer. It’s both. It’s always been both, bleeding across the tiles until he can’t tell where fiction ends and reality begins.
“Well, we’re professionals,” he says after an obvious silence, “Chemistry’s part of the job.”
Ryan stares, then huffs. “Okay, Oli,” he says, soft, fond, as if humouring a child’s blind belief in Father Christmas.
Which doesn’t make sense, unless Ryan thinks Oliver’s completely oblivious to whatever this is crackling between them. Which he isn’t. If anything, Oliver feels like the only one hyper-tuned to it: the way the room shrinks when they’re alone, their flirty innuendoes even in normal conversation, the way Ryan’s gaze sometimes sticks a second too long before he looks away.
Ryan’s blush is legendary—Ryan calls it cursed; on the contrary, Oliver thinks anyone would be quite blessed to see that colour on Ryan’s cheek—blooming scarlet when Oliver compliments him on set, when Aisha drags him into a live and the comments explode, when he’s the center of attention or even just running a bit warm after a take. He flushes, laughs it off, stays nonchalant—or at least does a better job of faking it than Oliver ever has. Oliver envies it sometimes.
Right now, though, that same nonchalance is infuriating. This conversation felt like it was finally tipping toward… something and Ryan’s just shrugged it away like it was, well, nothing.
“What?” Oliver asks, only slightly bristling, more confusion than annoyance. He’s still standing, hands braced on his hips, looming just enough that Ryan has to tilt his head.
Ryan looks up, big doe eyes blinking in perfect innocence, but the corner of his mouth twitches—betraying him, the little shit. “What?”
Oliver stares for a beat, holding eye contact, narrowed icy slits versus wide, shiny browns, then sighs. He won’t rise to the bait tonight; the day’s already wrung him out enough.
“You keep doing this,” he says instead, slipping under the duvet as he settles on his back, one arm folded behind his head. It’s not an argument—they don’t really argue, never have; they’ve always seen eye to eye on the important things and he’d like to keep it that way.
Ryan doesn’t respond right away. He just watches Oliver, that soft almost-smile still playing at the corner of his mouth.
“How’s your calf?” he asks eventually, and it’s genuine. Even in the middle of their non-fight, Ryan cares. It’s pathetic as a distraction tactic, but it works anyway.
“Better,” Oliver says. “Shower helped.”
“Want a massage?”
Oliver risks a sideways glance, trying to gauge whether it’s a joke or an olive branch. He knows though, that if he says yes, Ryan will follow through, even if right now it feels like a tactical move to sidestep the conversation they were skirting.
“You any good?”
“Haven’t had any complaints,” Ryan answers, already shifting, pulling the duvet off so he can move closer to Oliver’s left leg. His gaze drops to the joggers. “You wanna roll these up, or take ’em off?”
Oliver hesitates, literally only for a bloody second, but it’s enough for Ryan, who snorts, “Oh, now you’re being modest?”
“If you’d given me a second— I’m taking them off,” Oliver says quickly, before Ryan can get another jab in, sitting up just enough to hook his thumbs into his waistband and pull his sweats down. “But I’m keeping the blanket on. You’re not getting a free show.”
Ryan laughs, low and amused. “But it’s fine that you’re gettin’ a free massage?”
“Well.” Oliver decides against the too-thick duvet at the last minute and grabs a pillow instead. He peels the pillowcase off and tosses the pillow away, laying the rectangular fabric over his lap. “I’m hurt. So.”
“Aight, soldier,” Ryan says, amused. “On your stomach then.”
Oliver obliges, rolling carefully onto his front, sure to keep the pillowcase draped just so across his arse and thighs. He hears the soft snort behind him and ignores it.
Ryan’s hands settle on his calf; he works slowly, methodically, thumbs pressing into the tight muscle, working out the torn calf with careful circles. Oliver lets out a long, involuntary breath when the pressure hits exactly right.
“Too hard?” Ryan asks, already easing off a fraction.
“No. S’perfect.” Oliver’s voice comes out muffled against the pillow. He closes his eyes, trying, failing, not to think about how good it feels—those big fucking hands and long fucking fingers that know exactly where to dig in for pain to cease and pleasure to spike.
Ten, maybe fifteen minutes later, even after he’s turned back over to sit propped up against the headboard—citing a crick in his neck but really, he just wanted to watch Ryan—even with the ache muted, Ryan still hasn’t stopped. Oliver doesn’t give him a reason to stop either: he keeps his mouth shut, bites down the soft, uninvited moans that slip out anyway, and avoids eye contact altogether. If those dark, perceptive eyes catch him, he’s all but done for.
Ryan’s palms glide higher now, the full length of Oliver's leg. Slow up his shin, over the knob of his knee, firmer along the quadriceps, fingertips tracing the seam of his boxer briefs before sliding back down. The pillowcase has slipped a little with the movements; Oliver’s been watching his thighs reveal itself inch by inch, but he just can’t be arsed to reach and fix it.
Ryan’s touch lingers on each upward pass, fingers grazing the soft inner thigh, retreating just shy of anything too sensitive.
“Thought you’d have taken care of that in the shower,” Ryan murmurs, almost casual, eyes still cast down, but there’s something simmering beneath his tone.
Oliver glances down; he’s been aware of the slow, traitorous rush of blood for a while now, had been quietly hoping the pillowcase might buy him some mercy. It doesn’t. The bulge is unmistakable.
“Fuck,” he mutters, then lets out a sheepish laugh, head knocking back against the headrest. “I did, actually.”
Ryan hums, fingers grazing the underside of Oliver’s cock through the blanket before retreating just as quick.
“You can tell me to stop,” Ryan says then, eyes tracking his own hand as he massages one long stroke down the length of Oliver’s leg.
Oliver swallows, staring at Ryan, even if Ryan’s not looking at him, and says, “you know I’m not going to do that.”
“Yeah,” Ryan breathes. This time when his fingers graze, he doesn’t pull away. Rather, he completes the movement; he wraps his hand around the clothed shape of Oliver’s cock, palm warm and firm through the cotton, and squeezes.
Oliver’s hips jerk up involuntarily, a low groan slipping out before he can stop it. The pressure is perfect—Ryan’s grip steady as he strokes, thumb dragging along the head where the fabric is slowly dampening.
“Jesus,” Oliver manages, voice cracking.
Ryan shifts for a better angle, knees pressing into the mattress on either side of Oliver’s legs until he’s straddling his thighs. One hand pulls the pillowcase off his lap while the other keeps stroking him with firm, twisting moves. The friction through cotton is maddening; Oliver’s hips chase it without thought, shameless.
“Been thinking about this,” Ryan admits, voice low, the vibrations tingling through Oliver’s body, “too damn long.”
“Ryan—” Oliver’s hand darts forward on instinct, palm cupping the thick, hard line of Ryan’s cock through his shorts, and the way it feels, the way heat thrums through the cotton, God, he’s going commando, the absolute bastard—bare and heavy under the fabric like he’d been waiting for this. Fuck. Oliver squeezes, feeling Ryan twitch against his grip. “Come on.”
It’s a testament to their eight years of friendship—on set, off set, in trailers and green rooms and quiet late-night texts—that Ryan doesn’t need it spelled out. His hand leaves Oliver’s cock for the barest second, just long enough to hook his thumbs into the waistband of his own shorts and shove them down, tucking the elastic under his balls. Then he reaches across, does the same to Oliver’s.
It’s not nearly enough. He needs to see, he needs to— somehow his hands work better than his brain, catching the hem of Ryan’s shirt and yanking it right off of him. Ryan follows suit to return the favour to Oliver until they’re both fully shirtless and panting. Oliver just stares at the potrait before him. Smooth, tanned skin; a soft tuft of hair at the center of Ryan’s chest, nipples dark and pebbled, and a long, long stretch of torso, traced by a happy trail that leads to to the prettiest fucking cock he’s ever seen.
Oliver bites off a curse at the sight, hands reaching to grab warm handfuls of Ryan’s ass, flesh yielding as fingers dig in, pulling Ryan closer with a rough yank. Ryan shifts forward on a low groan, then it’s skin on skin—their hot cocks sliding together, trapped in the loose circle of Ryan’s fist as he wraps them both, stroking in tandem. He’s slow and thorough at first, slicking them with shared precome and allowing friction to build like a live wire.
Oliver’s watching their cocks, their heads kissing wetly on every upstroke, veins standing out, slick shining in the low light, but he can feel Ryan watching him—eyes fixed on Oliver’s face, probably on the way his mouth stays open, on the colour that’s surely spread down his chest and stomach, on the way his eyes must flutter when the pressure trills through him.
“Look at you,” Ryan murmurs. “All because of a massage?”
Oliver laughs, a breathless sound, and looks up at Ryan, dark, dark eyes and cheeks flushed like he’s never seen them before. “Because of you, you prick.”
“Feelin’ the prick, alright,” Ryan teases, and Oliver retaliates by squeezing his hands harder into Ryan’s ass, almost punishing. It makes Ryan’s rhythm falter for half a second—hips jerking forward involuntarily, a moan slipping out of him—but he picks up again, faster, slicker, fist twisting on every other stroke. His forehead drops to Oliver’s shoulder and a low groan vibrates against the skin there.
“Fuck, Oli,” he breathes, hot over Oliver’s neck, “you feel so good.”
Oliver’s hands roam—one stopping to squeeze Ryan’s waist, the other trailing up his sweat-slick back, into his hair, tugging just enough to pull a moan from Ryan’s throat. Ryan bites down on the side of Oliver’s neck in response; a bright sting that shoots straight to Oliver’s cock. It only amps the pressure that’s building, makes his balls draw up, pleasure coiling vicious and low in his gut.
“Ryan— G’nna— ” Oliver’s voice breaks off into a moan, head tipping back into the headboard, throat bared.
“Yeah, yeah,” Ryan says, dragging wet, open-mouthed kisses along Oliver’s jaw, teeth grazing the stubble. “Come on, Ol. With me.”
The edge rushes up too fast, shaken free by mere words, and Oliver’s hands clamp down on Ryan’s ass, fingers digging hard enough to bruise as the first pulse rips through him. He spills hot over Ryan’s fist and cock in thick streaks, body tensing and trembling around a choked curse. The slick mess makes Ryan’s strokes wetter, louder, faster, and Ryan chases it until he follows within seconds. His groan rumbles into Oliver’s neck, cock twitching where they’re pressed, spilling in sticky ropes that mix with Oliver’s, dripping warm and pooling between them in the cradle of their bodies.
Ryan’s hand slows to lazy drags over their limp cocks, mouth absently sucking its second or third mark over Oliver’s neck. Oliver tips his chin down, nose nudging Ryan’s temple, until Ryan tilts up. Oliver’s eyes fall to dark pink lips, spit slick and parted, and without a single coherent thought, just fucking shoves his tongue into Ryan’s mouth.
Ryan moans into it, their mouths moving sloppy and hungry with too much tongue and not nearly enough coordination. Ryan’s hand comes up, wet and tacky with come, and digs his thumb into the hinge of Oliver’s jaw, coaxing it wider. He holds him there, open and pliant, while he kisses back just as hard—sucking on Oliver’s tongue, biting gently at his lower lip, licking deep into his mouth
Oliver hooks an arm around Ryan’s back, pulling him closer until their torsos press flush, come squelching softly between them, hearts slamming against each other through skin. Ryan parts just far enough to look down between them, eyes tracing the drying come smeared across both their stomachs, and huffs, awed.
“Fuck, you really emptied the tank, didn’t ya?”
Oliver tucks his chin, peering over the rise of his own chest at the mess they’ve made: come pooled in their navel and dips of muscle, streaked across skin, glistening faintly where it’s still wet. He lets his head drop back to the headboard with a quiet thud, a breathy laugh escaping him as he peers at Ryan through his lashes.
“Half of that’s you, mate,” Oliver says. “Don’t pin it all on me.”
Ryan snorts. “Now I know half is an exaggeration.”
“Would’ve measured it if I knew you’d start comparing me to Old Faithful,” Oliver mumbles, one hand sliding lazily up Ryan’s spine to rest at the nape of his neck. He pulls gently, just enough to bring Ryan’s forehead back down to his own.
“Ha,” Ryan says, amused. He closes the last inch to press his lips against Oliver’s, speaking against his mouth when he says, “next time, then.”
It’s said with such certainty that it lands like a stone in still water—warm ripples spreading outward, affirming what Oliver had been hoping for in the back of his mind but hadn’t wanted to voice yet. A conversation he’d been bracing for, dreading even: the one with feelings he’d planned to put on the back burner and lick his wounds in silence come morning and the adrenaline fades.
Ryan nuzzles into the crook of Oliver’s neck then, nose brushing a tender spot that Oliver doesn’t need a mirror to know is blooming stark red against his pale skin.
“Thought you promised no bruises,” Oliver says, only half accusing.
“Yeah, well,” Ryan murmurs; there’s a press of teeth before he continues, “you know what they say about promises.”