Chapter Text
OLIVER
Before Oxford— before Felix— Oliver had always been hiding. Farleigh had it spot-on when he'd told Ollie to go back to whatever creepy little doll factory he came from; Oliver had made a toy of himself, hollowed himself out. He had always been disconnected from the world. His parents loved him, but as a concept. They had an imaginary Oliver, and he lied to them to keep them happy because it was easier that way.
Other kids— including his own sisters— could see right through him. They knew something was off. Oliver could remember his first day of primary school, standing on the playground and watching the whirl of other children, unable to work out where to go or what to do. It seemed so easy; run up to someone, ask to play, but there were so many games and he didn't know the rules.
Then a bigger kid had pushed him over. He had sprawled onto warm September tarmac, too shocked to even consider crying, hearing laughter as his first proper bully fled. Blood had trickled down his legs to stain his new school socks, his neatly ironed shorts were dusty, and the palms of his hands were prickly and grazed. He'd told his mother that he'd tripped.
It had always been like that. Maybe not as physical, but he'd learned to make himself as unobtrusive as possible. Oliver didn't understand how popularity worked at his school; there was no reasoning behind it. It felt like a missing step in the dark. He could have copied what people did, but they knew he wasn't authentic. So he hid and studied frantically, because he had been laboring under the impression that if he got to Oxford, he would find people like him. Nobody would whisper poof as he walked past, head down, wondering how they knew. Nobody would accidentally-on-purpose spill coke on him in the rush to get on the bus, or refuse to work in a group with him... Or demand to be, so he'd do all the work for them. At Oxford he'd meet interesting people and have intelligent conversations, he would be free of Mandatory Education and in a realm of pure learning. Oliver would finally be where people like him belonged.
Then, of course, he'd arrived and realized his new start was just more of the same, and he would be stuck with Michael Gavey. Michael, who silenced a room with his shouted demand to be asked a sum, and apparently didn't need to blink. Fucking Michael who would never call Oliver a gaylord, because Michael only cared about numbers and being pissy that being a human calculator didn't make you adored.
At least Michael was so busy with his numbers and ranting that he didn't realize that Oliver's glances at Felix weren't out of longing to be popular. Oliver had never really cared about popularity for popularity's sake; he mostly just didn't want to be a target.
Felix, though... Felix had made Oliver understand popularity for the first time, want it for the first time. Made Oliver want to be seen, to come out of hiding. It had started on the first day, when Felix had glanced up and seen Oliver staring at him through his window and smiled. Not a big one— just a fleeting expression, one fresher to another— but a kind acknowledgement was a rare thing for Oliver Quick, and hadn't been able to escape from that moment on. Felix had moved into his mind and decided to stay. Larger than life, graceful, moving through a world that Oliver could only imagine from inside his little loser bubble. Felix even showed up in his dreams. When Oliver locked the door to his room and tried to think about any of the women on the FHM Top 100 Hottest Celebrities list, Felix nudged them aside. Oliver'd seen more of Felix than Felix had of him; he'd look up from his textbooks to see Felix stumbling in after a night out, or tossing a rugby ball about, or pinning some lucky Drama Student up against a wall in that Santa outfit as if he owned the place. No actress in her underwear could compete with Felix fully clothed.
It was why Oliver'd punctured that bike tyre. He'd done it in a fit of desperation, wanting Felix to leave him alone... And then he'd cycled past him, frustratedly slapping at the wheel of his bike, and felt awful. Oliver had thought that if he lashed out in some small way it might give him power over Felix, enough to rid himself of the messy feelings that were threatening to overwhelm him. As if there had been any chance of that.
Oliver had even been terrified to speak to Felix; mumbling, trying to make it seem like no big deal the way Felix did with everything. The same way Felix had just assumed Oliver would wheel his bike back for him. It was simply how it would be, easy peasy, Felix had spoken and made it so. He had smelt of cigarettes and cologne, so much more subtle and interesting than the Lynx bodyspray Oliver used, a remnant of one of those gift sets his gran invariably gave him on his birthday. Oliver had finally resigned himself on the long walk back to Webbe, shoving the wobbly bike along in a daze; Felix kissing his cycling helmet and gabbling of I love you, I love you, I love you would be the peak of Oliver's entire pathetic existence.
There was no way he could even pretend to fancy Kiera Knightley after that, and he'd only settled on her as his celebrity crush— not that anyone had ever asked— because she reminded him of Felix.
Oliver would end up dying alone, dreaming about Felix. He was sure of it. It had hung in his mind the next night in the pub, distracting him from Michael's Monologue about How Girls Can't Do Maths. He'd been mustering up the courage to call it a night so he could go back to his room and dwell some more when Michael had demanded another pint. He'd known Felix was there; Oliver was attuned to his voice, had Pavlov'd himself to look up whenever it echoed outside his window, but he'd thought he'd gone back to being invisible.
Then Felix had seen him. Leaped up, yelling for him to come over, how Ollie had saved him. Even came to his rescue... And yes, Oliver did have money in his wallet, but it had been reserved for essentials, not buying shots for Felix and a group of rich strangers. He'd made sure to slip the cash under the ashtray in Felix's room a month or so later, hating the feeling of owing anything and Felix's insistence that Ollie had nothing to repay.
Felix had seen something in him, and Oliver found that he could be almost anything when Felix was there to guide him. He could look good. He could keep up with the drinks and the lines. He could dance. He could wear fancy dress and not feel silly; he could even get off with girls, if he thought resolutely about that I love you, I love you, I love you, or Felix's casual affection towards him. The more time they'd spent together, the more infatuated Ollie'd become; he was rotten with it, infested, his aching soul driving him to staring through Felix's window. Making him stack lies upon lies, all because Felix leaning forward in mingled interest and pity made Oliver's heart race.
Ollie had regretted the story as soon as it had fallen out of his mouth, but when it had been the only thing that had kept Felix within his line of sight… he couldn't come clean. He had wanted to tell Felix that he was... That he liked men... But he hadn't told anyone before. He'd been so worried Felix would shrink back, ask him why he'd gone off with so-and-so the other night... Stop hugging him, spending time alone with him, sharing drinks and talking with their heads pressed together when it was too loud to hear. Put up a wall between them.
If only he'd known... Seen Felix getting off with some guy or other, the way he'd spotted Farleigh once and turned away so quickly he'd almost spilled his drink. Oliver wouldn't have lied, if he'd known Felix wouldn't judge him. He'd have put his trust in Felix; told him the truth. That he avoided his parents because he couldn't face telling them that, no, he hadn't met any nice girls, that he wouldn't be bringing any girls home to meet them. He'd heard them talk about people like that before; the I don't mind, but not around kids talk. The looks at each other when something was brought up on the news, as if Oliver would be oblivious to their distaste.
He had assumed Felix would be the same; vaguely disgusted, dismissive. He should have trusted him.
That was why it was so, so good to go back. He had felt the spell that fell over the two of them as soon as he'd edged through the door and noticed how Felix's wet hair was slicked back, how he was hanging on the edge of the bath with his eyes heavy-lidded... The faint tap-tap-tap in time with his shrugging shoulder. Oliver hadn't been pretending, not really; he felt smaller, uncomfortable within his skin, verging on nauseous the way he often had around Felix back then. Felix moved like a mermaid, and Oliver was scared to look directly at him... But he couldn't not glance at Felix in the mirror, until their eyes met and Oliver panicked. He had forgotten the premise for a moment, that Felix had been practically humping his leg all day, because no matter how much Felix wanted him, Oliver was astounded by it. By him, all golden and bright, skin shiny under the warm yellow lights.
Felix presented himself to Oliver in the same way Oliver had offered him water when they'd gotten to his flat; so casual, as if it wasn't everything Oliver had always wanted. When he'd spied on Felix, he hadn't really seen him. Felix had been hidden by the angle of the bath or whoever he was with, and Oliver was too nervous about being caught to try to get closer. He had spent so long spying on Felix that it had become second nature, crouching motionless like a wildlife photographer as he stared until it hurt to blink.
Now, with Felix demanding his attention, it was actually hard to look directly at him. Oliver had always thought of Felix as statuesque; if you'd whitewashed him you could have had him pose in the Saltburn gardens and nobody would have been any the wiser. He was Achilles, Icarus, Apollo— Theseus, yes, and he made Oliver feel like the Minotaur. Hungry for flesh, bestial, but this was one of those modern retellings. He had come into Felix's maze of an estate once more, and had discovered that the hunter had eschewed his ball of thread and armor. Felix sprawled as a willing sacrifice, although Oliver could see a metaphorical sword, just below the surface of the water. Perhaps it was a trap, or he was moving from Greek Myth to Arthurian Legend.
He wasn't going to tell Felix that, though. Oliver knew he'd start referring to his cock as Excalibur, and he'd start laughing and break the spell.
That thought made it easier to hold himself steady, to really feel the empty intervening years drop from him and crumple on the tiles like Felix's discarded clothes. That wedding ring glinted from the countertop. Felix had shed it as if it were a fraying festival wristband, leaving it dangerously close to the edge. Oliver let it be. It was enough that Felix had removed it, been so haphazard with it; it was just metal, after all. Inanimate and devoid of all meaning, because… Well.
Oliver Quick took a deep breath, and felt Saltburn shimmer about him for a moment, like a heat haze.
When he let it out, he was nineteen, almost twenty. Felix wasn't married, wasn’t even close to considering it. It had been a long, hot day doing nothing; getting spooked by Duncan as he'd skulked about, needing a break from the Catton Cousins because he was so overwhelmed by them with their collective beauty, Farleigh's double-talk, Venetia's knowing little smile, Felix's… Well, all of Felix. Oliver was by no means comfortable yet, absolutely terrified to even think too hard about Felix the way he'd grown accustomed to doing in his Oxford dorm. As if the maids would analyze the contents of his waste paper bin or any stains on his bedsheets and provide Elspeth with a forensic breakdown of his private thoughts. Madam, I regret to inform you that Mr Quick has been… Indulging in self-abuse, and given the evidence provided, we believe that your son is the object of his affections.
So Ollie was going to bow out, have an early one, and lie flat on his back with his hands clawing into his pillow and try to think very hard about the summer reading list that he hadn't so much as started on...
That was, until he'd heard Felix. He had followed the sound like a spider follows vibrations, inching to the gap in the door. He'd stood there, holding his breath, and in another, long-lost world he had lost the internal debate with himself to just knock.
The night when he'd tried to taste what remained of Felix in the bottom of the bath was repeating, and Oliver was going to take the other path.
He’d made it to the counter, pressing his hips to it in an attempt to hide what was rising unsubtly between his legs. It was encouraged by the water-feature sound of Felix's perfectly natural occupation, so it was all Oliver could do to agree with everything he said. He'd lost his Professor vocabulary, his poise; he'd nodded and scrabbled for something to hold on to. The task he'd come here to do, not standing and clinging to the sink like a weirdo.
Oliver narrowed his focus, trying to deafen himself to that gentle splashsplashsplash as he brought his hands together. Brushing his teeth. The most basic coordination was beyond him; he'd need to wear velcro shoes for the rest of his life, get those bright plastic grips so he could hold a pencil. His breath wasn't filling his lungs, and he was panicking. He wouldn't be able to leave the room— leave this exact spot— because otherwise Felix would see...
Felix made a sound that made Oliver's stomach tighten. He didn't even notice how he'd used half a tube of toothpaste for a moment between his dry mouth and sweaty hands, but when he did he just… Let it go. Dropped the lot into the sink. He'd given himself away, surely, and Oliver waited for the guillotine to fall.
“Oops! So sorry, Ollie. Really.”
Oliver forgot that he was so hard it hurt, forgot that he was trying to be Felix's friend and not a creep, turned instinctively towards that warm voice and instantly regretted it. Felix's laughing eyes drifted down and stuck, Oliver's embarrassment at both his cheap underwear and the fucking state of him finding a wobbly balance with the gratification of Felix's wolfish grin. He saw Felix's fingers tighten around his cock... Or was it just the refraction on the water?
“Oliver Quick. You dark horse, you.”
Felix sounded like he'd just uncovered the juiciest gossip of the century and it set Oliver into motion, trying to shield himself. It didn't work; he didn't want to even risk touching himself, worried about what Felix would think. Stupid, as Felix was determined to look, the metronome rhythm of his arm clicking up a notch or two as he skirted Oliver's attempts to hide. But Felix could do that, he had the right to, and Oliver was his guest. He lowered his hands.
“Don't be shy,” but it wasn't that easy, was it, “I'm honestly in awe, mate. How the fuck do you find jeans that fit?”
Oliver's hands clenched, suppressing the butterflies that battered at his ribcage. There was still the lingering dread that Felix was just very dedicated to humiliating him, but it didn't feel like a prank. “Christ alive, if I had a monster like that I'd sack off the degree and go into adult entertainment.”
That would have been funny if Felix had said it in the field. Oliver could have shrugged or struck a stupid pose, because in the field it hadn't felt like being naked. He had been safe behind his sunglasses, too focused on not stepping on a thistle or sitting on some stinging nettles to be self-conscious.
Oliver was, maybe, a little proud of his body— a healthy body houses a healthy mind, after all— and he supposed it was justifiable. He'd managed to get out of Team Sports in secondary by using the little room his school had called a “gym”. He'd kept it up through college, a way to avoid going home as well as to clear his mind for a little while, and then he'd used it to avoid Michael. All that effort had meant he could take off his swimming trunks in front of that glowing trio without feeling physically deformed; here, in front of Felix alone, he felt small and stupid, disproportionate, and he couldn't have done porn because he was sure that not even viagra could get him as hard as Felix did. He stared down at himself, feeling miserable. “I can't help it, Felix, I…”
He was cut off by a waving hand in his peripheral vision, Felix's breathing filling the room and his head. He was panting; Oliver tried to tell himself it was just the heat of the water, or the steam in the air, not the sight of him. Felix had started before Oliver came in, it was perfectly natural. He gulped, ached, wanted Felix’s casual confidence, but he couldn't reach it because, “it, uh, doesn't do this round anyone else. Not like this.”
“Really.” Felix squirmed, purring the word, and Oliver's toes curled on the tile. Looking at Felix took effort; not just because of his body, or what he was doing, but because Felix had to work to look at Oliver's face. His sleepy eyes drifted down, the tip of his tongue tracing his top lip, before he gathered his attention once more to meet Oliver's eyes. If Felix couldn't stop looking at him then surely he could look at Felix, but it still felt like an imposition.
The rippling surface of the water distorted the view, and the effort Oliver was putting in to untangle the image made his words clumsy. “Felix, you... I should go… this isn't…”
He wanted more confirmation. He wanted Felix to actually ask. Oliver didn't want to be like India or Annabel, just there as soon as Felix eenie-meenied them. He was desperate, but not in that way. Oliver wouldn't be swayed by a nod and a slap on the arse... Or, rather, he completely would have been, but he didn't want Felix to know that.
“Don't be a wet blanket, Ollie. I'm not going to bite, am I?” Oliver shivered. Felix had tattoos. Oliver didn't, and he wondered if he'd never got one because he only wanted to be marked by Felix. He was clenching his fists so hard that he could feel his arms trembling, nails carving tiny half-moons into his palms. Something to focus on, to ground himself. Stop Oliver from throwing himself into the bath, onto Felix.
Felix was being persuasive, rambling about the housekeeper as if Oliver's worry about the nebulous entity called The Help had been a matter of discussion. Of course, it wasn't: Felix was just Being Felix, talking his way into what he wanted while pretending that this wasn't at all about what he wanted. He didn't want to see Oliver naked and hard and mentally short-circuiting, no, he just wanted to save on the laundry.
It was so obvious, and Oliver's heart rose into his throat. He hadn't been lying when he’d said he loved every part of Felix— although he hadn't said that, had he, they had gone back in time, shh— and Felix’s stupid attempts at subtlety had Ollie shocked at how much he adored him. The kind of affection that had hit him when they revised together, and Felix would just give up, huffing and going all boneless, so then Oliver would help him. He always did, because he couldn't say no when Felix made his eyes go all huge and stuck out his bottom lip.
Felix really had been flirting with him, hadn't he?
Oliver nodded, seeing the glee that Felix tried to hide, smiling back at it before he focused on taking off his boxers without tripping or looking stupid. He wasn't trying to hide, exactly, but he didn't want to reveal himself like a magic trick; pull down his waistband and boing, Abracadabra!
Felix's nakedness wasn't funny, and Oliver didn't want to be the comic relief. He bent over, remembering when they'd all watched Legally Blonde. Elspeth commenting about how pink everything was, and James questioning Farleigh about whether American Sororities really were that gauche. Bend and snap... Except Oliver wasn't going to snap. Even as careful as he was, there was still a soft thwack of hard flesh against his stomach as he peeled his boxers down, and Felix whistled the way he did when he'd spotted an especially hot girl in the pub or a flashy car. A little note of appreciation, not to draw attention to him; Felix Catton was too well-bred to wolf-whistle.
Felix had gone still, the water sloshing to silence. He watched Oliver like Oliver had watched him, although he was only seeing things he'd already seen, other than Oliver's waistband sliding down his thighs til it reached his knees and could drop to the floor. Oliver kept his eyes down, straightening up slowly. His cock may as well have been glued to his stomach; nothing so remarkable, he figured, except Felix certainly seemed to think so. It startled Oliver, that shift from lazy repose to intensity, his bark of fucking hell, Oliver. He shuffled away, somehow sure that Felix was going to... What, say it was bad manners to actually undress? That it was poor form to actually have a hard-on, Ollie, I thought it was a joke—
Except Felix had gone from cajoling to demanding, a spoilt kid in a toy shop. “No, no, Olls, come the fuck over here.”
It was another chance for approval, and Oliver seized it. Felix’s fingers were white-knuckling on the edge of the bath, and he was poised as if awaiting one of Venetia's wobbly tennis serves. “Are you sure, Felix?”
It was worth it for the way Felix exhaled impatiently, shifting towards him as he spoke. “Of course I'm sure.”
Oliver stepped closer. As soon as he was within arm's reach Felix was grasping towards him, the movement so obviously telegraphed that Oliver was able to avoid his greedy fingers easily. It was worth it just to see the frustration in Felix's eyes, the way he frowned for just a moment before remembering that Oliver was a person, not just a floating prick for Felix to grab. Oliver would have been that, but he knew Felix had never really experienced delayed gratification in his life. Oliver would introduce it to him; make it his best friend, the thing he dreamed about at night. Felix was built for yearning. He should have been playing Byron or plastered on the cover of romance novels.
“Sorry, Ollie, just trying to be a good host.”
Oliver was sure that there was nothing in the manners Felix had been taught about this... What would you call it? Etiquette for Homoerotic Bathroom Encounters? But it was a fine way to assuage Felix's pathological avoidance of sincerity, to slow him down a little. Oliver was sure that if Felix had touched him then it would all have been over; the culmination of so many years of wanting this turning him into a twitching heap, and leaving Felix unsatisfied. That wasn’t what Oliver wanted, to bow out early because he was on a hair-trigger. His heart pounded, the air about him seeming to heat up as he once again approached the bath. He was sure his body was pulling all available blood from his limbs to divide it between his heart and his dick, leaving him chilly and lightheaded.
Felix's hand settled on Oliver's side, thumb resting on the jut of his hip. Drops of warm water ran down his leg, tickling the back of his knee, and Felix looked up at him and met his eyes. Actually saw him again, the same as that first second of eye contact through that ancient, warped window pane. “You're icy, Olls. How about you get in here with me— warm you up, and I’ll… Help you out a little?”
Felix... Well. Oliver's spying had revealed little inclination for Felix to help out in his previous encounters; he was always in a rush to get his, any foreplay the bare minimum unless it was focused on him. Even then, he was mostly there to fuck. He hadn't had complaints, but Oliver knew that was more because of who Felix was, not any particular technique. “Are you… You're not, y'know, making fun of me, Felix, or—”
Because this meant he was different. Oliver had known he was, but he had still been worried that he'd be reduced to part of Felix's harem. That he'd change from one type of disposable to another, that his days would become numbered. His value to Felix would decrease until he was trying not to cry outside his bedroom door.
“Christ, no, Ollie. I just never thought you'd be so… up for it.” Felix's hand stroked his leg, reassuring, still raring to get at him but also a little worried, off-balance for once in his life. The look alone had persuaded Oliver that he meant it, but Felix was answering before he could lift his leg to climb into the tub. Words that Oliver couldn't have imagined as perfectly as this. “Can't say I wasn't hopeful... I did try to give you a few signals, here or there. Or did you think I was kissing your cheek and grabbing at you for shits and giggles? I know I'm cuddly, but I didn't think I was that bad.”
Oliver's face felt scalding hot, a riot of memories tipping through his head. Felix's arm around him at the pub. Felix feeding him shots and cheering him on. Felix's clumsy kisses on his cheek, how he would fix Oliver's hair for him, adjust his clothes then step back and frame him in his fingers. Reckon you'll do, Ollie. Wingmanning tonight? Felix in a nightclub bathroom, button-down shirt tied into a Britney crop top, tugging Oliver's old school tie loose and pulling it up so Ollie was wearing it as a headband. The constant demand for selfies... Ollie, get in, one for MySpace, yeah?
Felix's hand found Oliver's, guiding him into the water as easily as only Felix could make things. It was so hot that he had to curl up as he lowered himself in. Oliver often ended up like this around Felix, as if he needed to protect his vital organs. He supposed there was a risk his heart might just explode, but if he died now he would die happy. “What, uh... What do you want me to do, Felix?”
There was no more resistance in him. Felix could have told him to get under the water and not surface until he'd gotten Felix off, and Oliver would have sprouted gills. Yet that soft look hadn't left Felix; he shifted, making space so Oliver could sit, waiting until they were slotted in like they were about to go rowing before he touched Oliver again. Even then, it was just his shoulders, pulling him down to be held. Felix was quiet, reassuring, talking to Oliver the way he spoke to strange cats he wanted to stroke. “Lean back on me, like I'm a pillow, yeah? I've got you, Olls, you won't slip.”
Ollie was safe. Felix hugged him the way he had on his living room floor, and Oliver felt himself relax into it. His heart slowed a little, no longer the cumulative race of twenty years, because he was finally, truly home. Even Felix trying to subtly grind against Oliver's back was right; Oliver closed his eyes, trying to focus on the place just to the left of his spine where Felix was pressed, hard, between them. “You're poking me a bit, Felix.”
A little levity. Felix's breath tickled his cheek. “That might be on purpose, Oliver—"
Felix's lips on his cheek were unfamiliar in that they stayed for longer than a couple of seconds, Felix's body shifting against his as Oliver melted against him. It was all so warm and dreamlike; the kisses on his neck, Felix untangling him so easily, whispering reassurances.
“If I go too fast, let me know, okay? You're safe with me, Ollie, I promise.”
He knew that. Felix was his safety, his lucky charm, the star at the center of his solar system. Without him, Oliver lived in a gray world, the same darkness that had inspired Mary Shelley to write Frankenstein. The year without a summer... Oliver's summers had ended on the day of his twentieth birthday, the moment Felix had rung that doorbell.
He could barely feel Felix's hands on him, then. Oliver hung in a place between the present and the past, even when Felix’s fingers made him wriggle and suppress a laugh. “M'ticklish, Felix, don’—”
He knew this wasn't then. They weren't young, clumsy and drunk on their newfound adulthood. He and Felix were approaching forty; they had lost so much time, and you could never truly bring it back. Every second he spent with Felix needed to count twice as much because he had been too selfish and scared to lose Felix, and because of that, he had.
They had only talked about his lies as something which had been revealed. Oliver never took the chance to do the right thing; if he could have gone back to that lunchtime in the pub with all he knew now, he would never have said it. He had plenty he could have said anyway; the boys who hid his clothes after P.E. The way his mother hid her wince with a smile when she asked if he might want to invite a friend over for his birthday and he said no. His dad's increasingly desperate attempts to connect via fishing, going all nudge-nudge-wink-wink about any woman on TV who was under the age of 30 and offering to go and watch Liverpool play. He just hadn't wanted Felix to know what he'd been before. That he'd been Not Fucking Invited.
Felix's hand slid down his stomach.
Oliver felt sick. He closed his eyes in the hope they'd stop prickling, and tried to lose himself again. He didn't want to ruin the first time Felix touched him like this. He had wanted…
Felix's hand wrapped around him, and he flinched. Twitched away like he'd been hurt, feeling tears start to spill. I ruined it. I fucking ruined it. He expected Felix to be as angry with him as Oliver was with himself. To get out of the bath, call him a tease, ask why did you even come here, Oliver, really? To reprimand Oliver for not being appreciative enough of Felix's attention. To punish Oliver for the lies he'd told and the faith he'd lacked.
“Ollie, are you really… okay with this?”
Oliver leaned back, wanting Felix to make it okay again. Needing Felix to say he forgave him, but Felix wouldn't know if Oliver didn't ask. His words were a stammer, clawing at his throat as they came out. “S'all I've ever... I don't deserve this, Felix, I..."
It’s all I've ever wanted. I don't deserve this, Felix, I lied to you. I tried to kill you. I couldn’t love you the way you should be loved. You were right to get rid of me. Without you, there's nothing left for me. Please don't leave me.
“What's wrong, Olls?”
Oliver barely registered Felix moving him. He was caught within a cage of his own guilt, so ashamed and achey with it that it took a moment for his wet eyes to focus on Felix. Those heavy brows knit together in concern, that barely-there smile that could have made anyone want to be Felix's best friend. To confide in him. To trust him implicitly.
Oliver closed his eyes, tried to turn, but Felix wouldn't let him, and he could still see that look. Words that had been trapped inside him for decades found purchase within him, and the emotional purge was worse than puking. “I've been—"
He caught a breath, unable to stop. A speech he had repeated over and over since he first comitted to the deceit, but had never managed to get right. The right words didn't matter, anyway; Oliver now knew that it was about any words, as long as they got the message across. “I've lied to you, Felix. About my parents, I'm sorry, I can leave, I didn't want it to get out of hand, I just wanted you to... To...”
He was going to cry the way he had after Felix had banished him. Ugly, wrenching sobs that belonged being screamed into a pillow, not naked in this giant bath, with Felix staring at him in confusion. Oliver should have known this would happen, that it was too dangerous for him to even pretend to go back to then. Felix had been having a great time that year, but Oliver had been slowly eating himself alive with the glory and the guilt of being there.
“You wanted me to like you.”
Felix then would have never been so graceful, so forgiving, but it didn't matter. It was still Felix now, with the tact to lower his head as if he had anything to feel guilty for. Felix had listened to him. Not only that, but he seemed to have genuinely considered it, not just waved Oliver's words away as a fresh start. “It's fine, Ollie. Really, I didn't properly believe it. You only started the whole thing because I was gagging for a sob story. Christ, I'm a ghoul— I was practically creaming myself about it when you told me.”
“You're not..." His objection was stopped by Felix's finger. His skin was all crinkled; they'd be like raisins when they got out. Oliver let himself be silenced. He didn't deserve to interrupt.
“Ollie, if that was all it took to get in here there wouldn't be enough room to swing a cat. I invited you because I like you, and I mean… there's a reason you didn't want to go back. Just... Not one as simple as druggie parents?”
That was new. Oliver was sure that he hadn't said anything about that in the short time since their reunion. He had thought about it a lot, of course, and Felix didn't have to be particularly perceptive to see that he lived alone, and that he hadn't had any plans to cancel for Christmas. He had been to Oliver's Parent’s house, seen how he was there and heard the lies he'd told them.
“They don't know me, Felix.” They were still strangers to him, even now. He felt the weight of their Imaginary Oliver around his neck like a millstone, because even though he was an Oxford Professor he was still single and quiet and odd. “They want me to… To…”
“Fuck girls, graduate, get a job, buy a house, get married... Assimilate, yeah?” Felix was still touching him, a gentle hand on his face, and Oliver felt himself leaning into it. “But you don't want that. You want this.”
Oliver did. He wasn't sure if Felix meant himself, or to be sitting like this, or Saltburn in general, but he wanted all of it. Another confession had been made; he had the weirdest suspicion that he might be able to get everything he had ever wanted, if he kept on being honest.
“I want you, Felix, but...” His fingers had found Felix's cheek, a patch of prickly stubble he'd missed in his slapdash pre-dinner shave. Those big, dark eyes closed, Felix leaning closer. It would be so easy to just kiss him— get the last of it out later— but he still had more to say. Felix didn't even pretend to be grumpy this time; they were jaw to jaw. It was easier to say it this way, to really, truly put everything he felt in it. “But I think I'm in... In love with you, Felix. I can't just be another Annabel. It'd fucking kill me.”
Really, what he meant was if we keep at this, it's going to be forever. That if Felix accepted him, Oliver would be his until the end of time; an Ollie is for life, not just for Christmas. All sales final, no exchanges or returns.
“Ollie, who did I go to the summer ball with?”
Talk about changing the mood. Felix said it as if it should assuage every concern Oliver had ever had. He had to lean back, to squint at Felix, because Oliver wasn't sure where he was going with this. He thought of a rental with too-long sleeves, and a heavy stone in his hand. DAD written on it in tippex. “You… you didn't. We sat on that bridge and drank all that champagne. You invited me here, but that was because—"
“I had more fun moping on a wall with you about your fake dead dad all night than I would with any of the Oxford lot.” Felix butted in, enthusiastic again, because he got to join in on this honesty business even if it was just hindsight. “I always have more fun with you. Who gets lunchtime pints with me when my tutor's been a beast, hm? Goes exploring with me, up on the roof, you remember? And who can absolutely piss me off by pointing out that I live like a pig, and I'm a spoiled little rich boy? Not fucking Annabel, Ollie. Not any of them. It's you.”
Who held him while he cried about his sister? Stopped him thundering head-on into a messy divorce? Kept him on the straight and narrow until they were truly alone? Oliver wanted to record this, to get Felix's little speec tattooed on him or branded into his skin. He wanted to have them filmed from multiple angles, a drone shot, close-ups.
“I fucking love you, Ollie. If I didn't, I... well. I wouldn't have been such a baby about you cleaning my room that time. I definitely wouldn't have told you about the rock throwing thing. Or my dog, or my aunt, or any of the stuff we've talked about. I brought you home, Oliver, and we've got so many guest rooms but look where you're sleeping. Next door to me, sharing my fucking bathroom.”
His room hadn't changed, either. Felix had kept it, had preserved it for him. If Felix's arms hadn't been around him, Oliver was sure he would have just floated off and popped like a soap bubble.
“So can you please kiss me, before I go completely feral and do something stupid like... I dunno, hire a skywriter to spell it out over Saltburn? Tattoo your face on my chest? Get my dad to pay your school fees?”
Oliver Quick was nineteen again, and he was in love, and he was truly happy. He couldn't not laugh; he couldn't even take the time to change the stupid way he was sitting before he needed to cling to Felix, his knees coming between them as they tried to kiss. Felix came to the rescue, taking control as easily as he always had to line them up just right despite their awkward position. He supposed Felix was used to that; he was so tall, he'd always had to duck and crouch and bend around others.
He was slowly tilting backwards, letting Felix overwhelm him, before Oliver realised that there was nothing much there except water. He caught himself before he went sprawling, chest heaving with the sudden jerk backwards and the equally sudden absence of Felix. Oliver had thought to get his legs under him, kneel maybe, be able to climb onto Felix the way they had earlier, except there was a look on Felix Catton's face that Oliver knew. It was the look that had them up on the college roof together, the look that had come before the suggestion of formal tennis after dinner or themed night out— slutty schoolgirls? Anyone want to lend me a skirt?
When Felix had an idea like that, Oliver couldn't say no, even if it meant freezing his balls off on the walk home because slutty schoolgirls don't wear trousers, Ollie, c'mon, you'll look cute in this.
“You went to a state school, didn't you? Thought you might like a bit of the public school experience.” Oliver inched backwards as far as Felix wanted him to, wondering what on earth this was going to turn out to be. His time teaching had taught him that public schools were weird, but he was a tutor, not a student, and as such he wasn't truly in the know. He was just aware that a lot of the really rich kids seemed to have come from Mars.
“Thought you said they didn't teach you much except Latin and child abuse?”
“Well, yeah, there was some other stuff... Can you sort of… hook your legs over mine if I budge up?”
He could. Felix helped, guiding Oliver's feet between his waist and the bath. Oliver had expected Felix to pull him closer. Instead they both sat, facing each other. “Right. So, by the time I was there, they'd decided to get rid of the communal showers, so it was mostly sneaking off to a dark corner if you fancied a grope, but I heard from this… so it was a chap in my dorm, who was told by his older cousin, and apparently he got it from his dad's old diary, so take it with a pinch of salt— especially 'cause if you lob twenty horny sixteen year olds into one big bedroom, they're bound to talk absolute bollocks— but … They used to call it the Epsom Derby.”
Felix had leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Which is a stupid name especially as we were nowhere near Epsom, but basically the game was to sit— like this— in the showers and… Uh… Race.”
The meaning had been obvious before Felix's silly little pantomime. Although Oliver was definitely up for it, it seemed like a step back from whatever they'd been leading up to. Oliver would have been happy for the both of them to be posted up on either side of the great hall as long as he got to look at Felix, but he hadn't thought Felix would be so easy to please... Although Oliver had gone to state school, so he hadn't learned the rules of these weird masturbation games. “So they'd just… What, stare at each other?”
“Nah. Can't go with a home team advantage, Ollie, that's not in the spirit of the thing.” Oh. That made more sense. Oliver thought of Felix reaching towards him, so eager, and tried not to smile. The air had been cleared, and Felix had started on his heart-throb routine again. “We… swap horses? Christ, they ought to have hired some PR firm or something, it's awful using horse metaphors.”
Oliver didn't care. He'd have given even Harry's awful essays top marks, if Felix had asked him with that little side-to-side sway, raising his eyebrows and biting his lip. “So, how about it?”
As if he was asking Oliver if he fancied a game of tag rugby, or to get off with the friend of the girl he'd been flirting with. Oliver chuckled, sighed, and straightened up a little. “You're fucking ridiculous, Felix, you know that?”
“I'm not hearing no. Just let me...” Another old exchange. Felix's legs tightened around Oliver for a second, his face tensing in concentration before the plughole began gurgling. He'd caught the chain with his foot and tugged it free. Oliver frowned, confused, a prompt for Felix to elaborate. “Oh, yeah. Firstly, I've learned— from much experience— that if you cum in hot water it gets a bit… sticky. Googled it once, something about the protein, it's just rather grim. It's why I try to float about a bit... Not to ruin the mood, though, I know how you felt about runny eggs... Tell me to shut up if I'm cockblocking myself, yeah?”
It was so essentially Felix that Oliver couldn't hold it against him. He put a hand on Felix's leg, trying to be deadly serious and not doing a good job of it. “Felix, if you were capable of putting me off, it probably would've happened the first day I was here, when you told me you accidentally fingered your cousin.”
“Oh shit, I told you that?” Felix grimaced, shaking his head at himself. “Jesus, sorry, honestly, you must have thought—”
“If we're being honest, Felix, I was mostly wishing I was your cousin.” Felix mouthed an ooh, looking pleasantly scandalized, and Oliver shrugged. “So...”
“I think that might be the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me.” The water had dropped to waist-level. Felix suddenly became aware of it, glancing down before giving Oliver a wicked grin. “My second point, Olls, is that I want to be able to actually eye you up a bit. Great fun being all wet and all, but… Well, it sort of distorts things.”
“You've seen me naked before, Felix."
“Not like this.” Felix heaved a sigh, reaching out to brush his knuckles against Oliver's ribs, shaking his head. “You're fucking gorgeous... The shoulders on you, and those fucking eyes, Oliver. Who the fuck let you have eyes like that?”
He could have turned it into a joke, but it was too good to bask in Felix's words. People rarely complimented Oliver; he didn't really prompt it, too adept at hiding in plain sight. He leaned back a little, bracing himself on his hands, giving Felix a shy smile. It had the intended effect. Felix surveyed him with an intensity that should have been reserved for a great work of art, methodically working his way down from Oliver's throat. The plughole made a familiar gurgle as the last of the water drained, and Felix licked his lips, almost whispering. “God, Ollie, I want to touch you.”
“What are the rules, then?" Felix looked up at him, confused. “The Epsom Derby. You suggested it, Felix. Teach me how to play."